How to Tame Your Duke (14 page)

“I wanted you to. I wanted
you
.”

“Why, Emilie?” His footsteps shuffled once, twice. His voice came clear again. “If you’re a woman of gentle birth. Why do you come here every week, if not for my fifty pounds?”

Emilie stared at the wall before her, where dozens of intricate green vines trailed upward in perfect symmetry against a base of pure cream, ending abruptly in the carved molding. To her right, a thin line of golden light shone from the crack in the door to the bedroom.

“God help me,” she whispered, “because I want
you
. Because I cannot stay away.”

He whispered back, “Ah, God, Emilie.”

Emilie couldn’t move. The wind wailed upward a note, shaking the windows, and descended again. She unfolded her hand, finger by finger, and settled it into her lap with the other.

She felt his approach as she felt her own heartbeat slamming into her ribs.

“Emilie.” He was right behind her now, looking down at the top of her head. The heat of his body enveloped her. Her breath stopped in her chest.

His finger touched the top of her ear, as light as air, and lingered along the curve to the little nook behind her earlobe. “Beautiful,” he said.

“Sir.”

“Hush.” His finger sloped around her neck, drawing a slow circle at her nape, dipping down to trace the lace-trimmed edge of her chemise. “Don’t say anything, Emilie.”

His hand went under her arm, urging her upward. She rose to her feet. The leg of the chair rushed softly against the carpet.

Ashland’s body touched her back. Her every sense was alight; she could feel each individual button of his jacket nestle against her spine. He walked his finger down her left arm, making the tiny hairs stand up. When he reached her fingertips, his hand ran over her palm and back up the tender underside, from wrist to elbow, settling in the hollow of her arm.

“
Sir
,” she breathed out.

He drew down the sleeve of her chemise and kissed her bare shoulder.

She gasped and took a step, unable to support herself. His arm caught her just in time, wrapping around her ribs. His head was bent; his hair, thick and soft, brushed her temple.

“Shall I touch you, Emilie? Would you like that?”

His voice was low and gentle, that rich timbre she loved so much. Inch by inch, she let herself relax against him. He shuddered as she leaned back, and then he held firm. His lips touched her ear, her neck, impossibly soft.

His hand, spread across her belly, drew upward. His thumb found the underside of her breast through the fine linen of her shift, and warmth radiated across her skin. In silence he explored her, with bare movements of his thumb and fingertips, measuring the seam between breast and ribs as if he had no further ambition in the world.

She wanted to speak. She wanted to tell him that her breasts were full and aching for more of him, that her every nerve was concentrated under his fingertips, that she was going to burst with heat and sensation. But how could she say these things aloud? Her dry mouth opened and closed.

Gradually the little circular movements of Ashland’s thumb grew bolder, singeing her skin through the tissue-thin layer of fabric between them. He slid upward around the curve, just grazing the tip, until he found the lace at her neckline and tugged it downward and her breast burst free into the open air.

Emilie could not breathe. She cast her eyes down to the impossible sight: Ashland’s large hand at her breast, dark and weathered against her pale skin, his fingers curled in a perfect echo of the curve of her flesh. How was it possible that a hand so powerful could touch her so delicately? Something hard pressed into the base of her spine, and a thrill shivered her body. It must be him. Must be that male organ she had seen in books and pictures and statues, but never in person; that part of him designed by nature to be joined with her.

“Sir,” she whispered. “Mr. Brown . . .”

“Don’t speak, Emilie.” His voice was hoarse, almost harsh.

While she watched in wonder, his fingers traced a circle around her nipple. His hand cupped around her breast, lifting it, and his thumb found the nipple at last and grazed the extreme tip. She gasped and flung up her hand to grip his wrist.

He said, into her ear, “Tell me what to do, Emilie. One word. Tell me what you want.”

His breath was hot. He took her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and idled about the hardened nub. She watched the play of bone beneath the skin of his hands, the tiny movement of muscle and sinew that created the extraordinary sensations streaking through her body. She couldn’t think. Who was she, this throbbing scrap of Emilie, standing here in this dim and wind-battered room while the Duke of Ashland’s all-powerful hand cradled her naked breast?

Tell me what to do, Emilie.

Anything. Everything. But she could not manage the words. She watched his hand, his beautiful hand, as it caressed her body. His lips touched her ear in a whisper of a kiss.

If she asked, he would take her to bed. He had put the decision to her; he had taken his honor and placed it in her hands. Because she would not take his money, because she came to him without condition, because she had stripped herself bare before him, he had given her the only thing he could: himself. He would take her to bed if she asked it, he would become her lover, and he would bear the guilt on his own shoulders.

Would she let him?

She should not let him. His body wanted her passionately, but he would suffer afterward. The burden of guilt—however unjust—would lie on his conscience like an anvil. And she! An even greater madness, this physical surrender. She would entangle herself irrevocably, she would endanger every plan for the future. To part with him afterward would be like cutting out her own heart.

Oh, but to lie with him. To feel his skin upon hers, to know at last the eternal mystery. To show him what she felt and couldn’t say. To comfort him; to bring him joy, however fleeting.

To be united with Ashland, for a precious instant.

“Sir. Mr. Brown.”

He went on stroking her breast with his gentle fingers. He, too, was watching this union of their flesh, of Ashland and Emilie; she could feel his gaze like another caress on her skin.

“Please,” she said.

His hand left her breast and went to her blindfold. He tugged it down from her forehead and ran his fingers along its length, making sure it lay flat and snug across her eyes. Every movement slid against her body with tantalizing energy.

She didn’t wait for him to turn her around. She rotated between his arms and tilted her face upward.

She meant to say,
We must stop. For your sake, and for mine.

What she said was: “I want you to kiss me.”

I
want you to kiss me.

The words fell from her lips in the softest whisper, but they ignited like a spark in Ashland’s brain. She held her face up to him, waiting, her blindfold dark against her pale skin, her mouth red and unbearably inviting.

If you kiss her, there is no going back.

It was his last logical thought.

He bent his head. He kissed her forehead and the rounded tip of her nose. Her breath was warm and damp on his chin; her body stood vibrant between his arms. It was like holding a living coal.

He lifted his hand and touched her hair, her ear, her cheek.
You are so soft
, he wanted to say.
So soft and utterly perfect, and I am a brute, a sinful and mutilated brute.

Emily’s lips beckoned, round and flushed and irresistible. He had no right to them.

He brushed the corner of her mouth with his thumb and laid his lips atop hers.

For a long second, he didn’t move, and neither did she. They simply stood there, breathing each other in, lips held together in the lightest of bonds. Emily’s breath was sweet from the tea, scented with orange, unsteady. Her chest moved rapidly, touching his ribs as she inhaled.

She lifted her hands, and he caught one the instant before it touched him. “No,” he said, into her mouth.

“How can I not touch you?” she asked, in a pained whisper.

“You cannot.” He led her hand back down to her side and released it. “Let me touch
you
, Emily. Just let me. You don’t need to do anything.”

He settled his mouth again on hers, and this time he nudged at her lips, he brought her body closer, and the spark in his brain fanned into flame and spread in a stunning draft through his body. He was already aroused, his prick iron stiff and heavy against the snug wool of his trousers, but this was something else. This was urgency, this was over a decade of suppressed sexual need roaring back into life; this was Emily in his arms, kissing him back with unskilled lips, meeting his every questioning movement with an ardent counter-movement.

If she could see you, she wouldn’t kiss you like that.

He wrapped his arms around her, gathered her up, and kissed her in earnest. She made a surprised sound, a little mewling cry, right at the back of her throat, and he parted her lips and swallowed it up into his soul.

She
wanted
him. Her desire was a gift from God, unexpected and unlooked for.

She wasn’t used to kissing, and he was thankful for that. Her lack of practice made his own less evident. He had forgotten how to be tender, how to seduce. All he knew was that he wanted to taste her.

He ran the tip of his tongue along her mouth. A tremor moved her, as if she hadn’t been expecting it. He licked her again, a little more deeply, and this time her mouth opened to receive him, and her body, trapped within his, strained upward. He dipped his tongue inside to find the silken tip of Emily’s tongue, waiting for him, inquisitive and uncertain. He stroked it with care, testing her reaction, tasting the sweet tea-spiciness of her mouth.

Another sound came from her throat, a demanding sound. She tried a tentative stroke of his tongue, just finding him with the tip, and the sensation crackled along every pathway of his body. He lifted his head. “Emily, I . . .”

But she went on her toes and took his mouth back. She sucked his upper lip, she thrust her tongue against his and slid it up and down, as if she were savoring him, and all at once the wooing was over. He could not restrain himself. He bent down, keeping his mouth locked on hers, mingling and tangling in desperation, and he swung her into his arms and strode across the room. He kicked open the door to the bedroom, still kissing her, and set her on the edge of the bed.

Emily started at the softness of the bed under her bottom. She broke off the kiss and braced her hands against her legs, as if to steady herself. “Sir . . . Mr. Brown . . .”

Her chemise had rucked up her thighs. He grasped the edge with his hand and tugged it upward from beneath her bottom, swiftly and forcefully, before she could protest, before she could change her mind. If she changed her mind, he would die, he would explode, leaving only a single combusted heap of ash on the carpet to mark his demise.

Emily’s body unveiled before him, lit only by the dim light from the other room, full of shadows and faintly gleaming curves. Her hips swelled out from her small waist; her breasts were high and round, the nipples pointed slightly upward, puckered into hard little tips. He drew the chemise over her head and tossed it to the carpet.

She did not move to cover herself. Her hands remained at her sides, her body tilted to his gaze, as if daring him to find her wanting.

For a moment, Ashland stood perfectly still, unable to move. He had not seen a woman like this in years, had not had a woman’s nakedness tilted willingly toward him since the night before he’d left for India.

He dropped to his knees. “Beautiful,” he said, and with the tip of his tongue he licked her nipple.

She jolted in response. Her hands came up, reaching for him, and he snared her left wrist and pinned it to the bedspread, not relinquishing her breast for an instant. He ran his tongue over the tip and around, swirling almost in delirium, and then he drew the nub into his mouth and suckled greedily. She gasped and sighed; her body moved to the rhythm of his suckling, mimicking the act of union itself. He kissed his way to the other breast and did it all over again, the luxurious tasting of her, and then he released her wrist and rolled the abandoned nipple between his thumb and fingers, pulling gently at one while he suckled hard at the other, until her legs thrashed and sobs broke the air above his head. Her hand touched his hair and fell back again. “Sir . . . Mr. Brown . . . Oh, let me, let me
touch
you . . .”

His mouth left her nipple and kissed the underside of her breast, her ribs, the other breast, before nibbling upward to settle in the hollow of her throat. His cock was huge with need, throbbing with eager blood, but instead of reaching for the fastening of his trousers he drew his fingers down her body in lazy circles, ignoring the pain as he braced his weight on his stump. Down he went, around her breast and her ribs, finding her navel, exploring the soft skin at the side of her waist and the flawless curve of her hip. He inhaled the scent of her, her clean smell, devoid of flowers or powder or anything but Emily.

He’d be damned if he took her like a beast. If she fled afterward, he wanted no regrets. He wanted to have savored every inch of her, while he had the chance.

He wrapped his hand around her leg, just below the hip. His thumb dipped into the warmth of her inner thigh. “I’m going to touch you now, Emily,” he said. “Let me in. Let me touch your sweetness.”

“Great God,” she whispered. Her head fell back. He swirled his tongue around the fine bones of her clavicle and let his thumb slip lower. Damp heat rose from the notch hidden within. He felt the first springing hair, and another. “Great God,” she said again, and his thumb found the round promise of her mound, and he thought he might break.

So close, now. Almost there.

He lifted his head and kissed his way up the line of her throat. She was trembling, shaking visibly. “Steady. Hush. I’ll be gentle. I’ll be so gentle. Let me in. Ah, that’s it.”

His thumb slid at last through the crisp golden curls to her center, and he growled in shock. She was slick and hot, fully wet with desire for him, in the final luscious stages of arousal. For
him!
His fingers covered her mound, while he brushed his reverent thumb along the folds of delicate skin, familiarizing himself with the long-forgotten contours of a woman’s body, the sleek and intricate anatomy of her. He inserted the tip of his thumb just inside her. She was murmuring incoherently into his temple, clenching and unclenching against him.

By God, she’s going to spend
, he thought in awe.

He covered her lips with his mouth and moved his thumb upward to find the hard little nubbin at her apex. Her body jolted again, held in place only by his steadying hand, his arm against hers, his devouring kiss. “Oh God, oh God,” she moaned. He caressed her in tender and rhythmic circles, guiding her along, massaging the coil of energy beneath her skin.

“Let go. Spend for me, Emily,” he said, and he drew out her tongue and sucked on it.

She spent instantly, in hard and unrelenting pulses, sinking backward on the bed as if her bones had dissolved. He followed her, still sucking at her tongue, still milking her below, while her cries vibrated in his mouth. Her arms strained upward against the prison of his body.

“That’s it, darling. That’s it. Off you go.” He left her mouth and pressed his lips against the mad pulse at her throat. “That’s it, you lovely thing. Look at you.”

Gradually the quick heave of her chest began to slow. Her body sagged below him, giving itself up to the aftermath. He lifted his head and observed the flush of her skin, the tremble of her chin. The scent of climax filled the air. He brought his hand to his lips and tasted her.

“Mr. Brown.” Almost too soft to be heard.

“I’m here.” The smell of her, the taste of her, sent a mist through his brain. His skin was hot and covered by a film of dampness. He raised himself and shrugged off his coat, loosened his necktie.

“Sir?” Emily lifted herself on her elbows, gloriously nude, flushed and disordered. Ashland’s prick throbbed in his trousers.

“Shh. Lie back, now, darling.”

He dropped again to his knees and put his hand on her legs, widening her.

“What . . . ?”

“Let me.” He kissed her inner lips, and was rewarded with a sweet jump of her body. God, the response of her! “Hush, now. Let me taste you.”

Her breath hissed between her teeth. “You can’t . . . It’s not . . . My
God . . .”

“You’re going to spend for me again, Emily. I want to watch you do it again.”

Emily’s elbows gave way. Ashland touched her swollen nub with an experimental tongue, and she cried out. He swirled lower and dipped his tongue into her cleft, tasted her tanginess, smelled her rich musk. With his fingers he spread her farther and adored the perfect symmetry of her, the light curls and the crimson inner lips, gleaming with lubricity. He kissed her again; he drew his tongue along each precious fold, and then he began in earnest.

She was already excited, already fisting her hands into the bed. When he returned at last to her nub, she began to hum. He licked her in a delicate rhythm. “I can’t bear it,” she gasped. “I can’t bear it!”

But he wouldn’t relent. He couldn’t. She felt so
good
, so eager, her passion so unguarded and real, her limbs so open and trusting. No goddamned showy modesty, no artifice. Over and over he flicked his tongue, holding her twisting hips in place, relishing her spiraling tightness under his mouth. He used his tongue to control her, varying the speed and intensity, bringing her to the brink and down again, then starting his torture anew, until she was like a live wire of electricity, humming and twitching and taut—oh God!—so rosy and perfect.

He let her loose at last. Her feral cry rent the air, her body arched in ecstasy, and Ashland inserted the tip of his finger inside her just in time to feel the wet flesh clench in a violent spasm of release.

“Go on, go on. Ah, that’s good.” He gazed longingly at her pulsing body: the sweet evidence of Emily’s ready sensuality, her capability for abandonment. He had sensed that passionate nature, seething with promise beneath her calm skin, and now here it lay before him. No cool-blooded scholar, Emily. No perfectly bred society beauty, either, devoid of imagination and initiative. His Emily would meet him like a tigress; she would devour him as he devoured her.

Ashland rose, quivering with energy, with an unquiet and overpowering urge to mate. She had spent twice; she was slick and soft and ripe for his invasion. She murmured something; he thought for an instant that she said
Ashland
.

He watched her as he ripped off his waistcoat, as he pulled down his braces and fumbled with the fastening of his trousers. She was still panting, still flushed, drifting down from her second climax. The room was unlit, and her skin gleamed with perspiration in the faint light from the other room. His prick sprang out, huge with anticipation, nearly vertical. He’d never been so aroused, not even on his wedding night. He’d never seen such a sensual sight as Emily, sprawled invitingly before him, blindfolded and trusting, loose-limbed with sexual completion.

She was still lying at the edge of the bed, her legs spread apart. He put his hand beneath her arm, his stump beneath her bottom, and scooted her upward. Her hands scrabbled in surprise at the covers. “I . . . Sir?”

“I’m going to have you now, Emily.” He sank his elbows on either side and kissed her.

She made a sound in her throat and reached for his shoulders, and this time he couldn’t stop her touch. His need was too urgent. He gritted his teeth against the collision of her palms against his shirt and reached down to position himself. His cock slid against her opening, looking for purchase in the slippery abundance of her arousal.