How to Tame Your Duke, page 16
“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.
“Mr. Brown!” She jumped beneath him.
“Steady,” he muttered, gripping himself. God, it had been so long. He was fumbling like a boy, trying to lodge himself somewhere in that impossible tightness. “Almost . . . ah God . . . there!”
He dropped his elbow back to the mattress, braced above her, and shoved hard, all in the same instant.
* * *
Thirteen years ago, in the mountains of southeastern Afghanistan, Ashland had been captured by three tribesmen as he rode his frantic horse back toward the British lines. What he remembered most about the exact moment of his ambush was the slowness of time, the elastic way in which the seconds had stretched out, so that the near-simultaneous sequence of details—the horse throwing up his head in the air, the cloud of dust obscuring his vision, the flash of white from his attackers’ turbans through that dust, the exotic high-pitched hallooing that shook his eardrums, the blue-flame slice of pain as his jaw shattered under the impact of a lead bullet at close range—each occurred in its own separate eternity.
The instant in which he invaded Emily elongated in exactly the same fashion.
He knew, in the fraction during which his hips swiveled for the thrust, that he had miscalculated her. Emily’s flinch of shock, the stiffness of her body, the resistance where he pressed into her entrance rocketed across his senses; but by then he was committed. He was already in motion; the white light of animal need was already blinding his brain. There was no halting the juggernaut force of his journey up her stunned cleft. But he knew the truth, even before a slight stretching pressure wrapped around the head of his cock and then broke free. He heard the truth as Emily made a sharp cry and he surged without further impediment to bury himself to his stones in her slick body.
He arched there for a moment, his chest heaving, his belly just touching hers, his locked arms trembling with the force of his emotion. He dipped his head down and inhaled the warm scent of her neck. “Forgive me. I didn’t know.”
Emily said nothing. Her breath shuddered in her chest.
He lifted his head. “Are you hurt?”
Her head made a little shake. He wanted to lift the blindfold, to look in her eyes and read the truth. His balls were tightening under the waves of mind-spinning pleasure radiating from his prick, from the guilty primeval thrill that he was the first, he had breached her, she was untouched, she was his. God help him. “Forgive me.”
Emily’s fingers grazed his back. “Shh. I know.” Her skin slid against his as she raised her knees. “I know.”
Her breath was steadier now.
“Shall I stop?” he whispered, dreading the answer. Good God, what if she said Stop? Could he do it?
“No, don’t stop.”
Praise God. He swiveled his hips, and she flinched. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
He could tell that it did. A curse escaped his clenched mouth. Stupid, blundering beast. He kissed her lips, as gently as he could. “I’m sorry.” He kissed her again. “I’m sorry.”
Again, that tender brush of her fingers. She wiggled beneath him, adjusting herself to his intrusion, making his breath saw sharply. “No. I wanted this.”
Emily, a virgin. His brain rocked with the knowledge, with the consequences. He’d known she wasn’t experienced, but he’d never imagined this. What had a virgin been doing in these rooms? She had been so knowing, so . . . informed. So eager. The whole world shifted on its axis around him.
He pushed it all back. He would think about that later.
He hovered above her, not certain whether to move, desperately afraid of hurting her further. His mind cast wildly back to his wedding night, the details of which lay confused and dim in his memory. Had Isabelle enjoyed the act at all? What had he done? He didn’t remember noticing. He’d been so young, so mad for it, knowing nothing about the business, thinking mostly of himself and his own need and the novelty of it all. He’d probably spent the instant he was inside her.
He was close to spending now, like the green and self-absorbed boy he’d once been. He fought back his release, fought back the sensation of clean, bright pleasure in his groin, fought back the overwhelming instinct to fill this tight little virgin quim with seed this instant.
Because this was Emily, his Emily, lying with a man for the first time in her life. She had chosen him to do this. She deserved everything he had to give her.
His breathing calmed; his heart calmed. He swiveled his hips again, and this time Emily didn’t flinch. “Hurt?” he gasped out.
“No.” She made a little urging movement of her own hips.
He pulled himself out a cautious fraction, and pushed back in.
“Oh!”
“Good?” he asked.
“Yeeeessss.” She drew out the word, as if she weren’t quite certain.
He pulled out a little more, and pushed back in. Emily moaned: a moan he recognized distantly. The good sort of moan.
A gust of a sigh emptied his lungs. Thank God.
He pulled out halfway, and pushed. And again, a little farther now, an inch more.
Again.
Soft, slick, snug female flesh. How had he lived without this? He was going to die of it, the sweetness of shoving his rigid tool into all that lovely heat, into that greedy silken sheath.
Into Emily.
She was meeting him now, her breath coming in delicious little pants. He bent to kiss her, more confident. “Good?”
“Don’t stop!”
He began to thrust in a regular rhythm, not too fast, not too hard, mindful of the damage he had already inflicted on her. His mind could hardly recall the technique, but his body remembered. His body knew what to do, knew how to fall into that ancient pattern of shove and release, shove and release, matching his movements to hers, finding his approach, finding her perfect place of friction.
She was so sweet and eager, so yielding and yet firm.
He’d thought, in the beginning, that he would be tormented by Isabelle’s ghost, but all memory of his wife had long since fled his mind: There was only Emily and the little animal sounds she made, the dig of her heels into his trousers, the way her tight little slit gripped him in a wholly new way, like a handprint all her own. A surge of long-forgotten emotion began to reclaim his brain: joy and urgency and exultation, the headlong drive toward consummation.
His release was rearing up again, enormous, tightening his balls, intense to the point of pain. It refused his control. He ground into Emily with increasing speed, struggling between gentleness and desperation, his skin hot and humid beneath his shirt and his breath coming in tortured gasps.
“Emily, I’m about to spend, ah God, so hard, I can’t . . .” He raised himself a little higher, hoping to hold it off a moment longer, but at that instant she clenched around him, she gasped his name, and the lightning burst of his own climax blinded him without warning.
He had meant to pull out of her, as a considerate gentleman should do, but he hadn’t the strength to deny himself this last selfish act in an evening of selfish acts. With a last mighty stroke he came inside Emily’s flawless young body, and came and came, long, luxurious spurts of pleasure, giving her everything he had.
And then it was over. Empty, shocked, he sank into Emily and buried his head into the loosened strands of her hair.
I am damned, he thought.
FOURTEEN
She was blessed.
Ashland lay atop her, inside her, joined with her at last. Ashland. He had taken his pleasure with her; he had given her pleasure in return. He had made her body sting and hurt, and sing and come alive at his command.
He had been everything she had ever dreamed of in a lover, except perhaps for all that excess of clothing.
He was also every ounce as heavy as she’d feared.
Oddly enough, she didn’t mind. His breathless bulk felt . . . rather lovely. A precious burden. In her black sightlessness, Ashland’s enormous body was all there was in the universe.
She could not hear the clock in the other room, but she imagined that if she could, the ticks would arrive with a preternatural slowness, the way her heart beat now. As if held back by the hand of God.
Atop her, Ashland didn’t move. His endless weight pressed her into the mattress, warm and delicious; his breath stirred her hair. The beat of his heart shattered through her, an even slower rhythm than her own: How was that possible?
How was it possible, that of all the manifold pleasures he had wreaked upon her unsuspecting body tonight, the greatest pleasure of all was lying with him afterward? Like this, as his breath and his heart mingled with hers, as his organ remained stiff and snug inside her? She flexed herself around him, just for the echo of sensation, and a little groan stirred in his throat.
Emilie drew a delicate line along his back with her finger. His shirt was stuck to his skin, damp with exertion. How heavenly, to touch him like this. Her thoughts meandered pleasantly through the mist in her brain. An image flashed and was gone: Ashland’s nimble fingers moving a single chess piece in the candlelight. A knight. Those same nimble fingers that had just now parted her flesh, that had caressed her into ecstasy.
She could not believe her own memory.
But there was no denying the blissful lassitude in her muscles, the faint shimmer of aftermath. The stretching ache between her legs, where Ashland still laid claim.
It had happened. She had given herself to him. She had seized ownership of that invaluable and irreplaceable commodity—a princess’s virginity—and awarded it according to her own choice. She had triumphed over her fate. There would be consequences, there would be endless complications, but she wouldn’t think about that yet. She would only savor this simple and clear-edged moment.
Ashland stirred. She ran her hand down his arm, his right arm, and found the edge of his empty cuff. “How did you lose it?” she asked softly. “Did your enemies cut it off?”
He made as if to draw it away, but she held firm.
“No,” he said. “A British army surgeon performed that service, after I returned to camp.”
“How was it injured?”
He sighed and turned his head away from her. His hair prickled against her face. “The human hand contains an abundance of nerve endings, making it eminently suitable as an object of torture.”
Emilie ran her fingers over the rounded end. It felt surprisingly smooth and unscarred, like an elbow. “Does it still hurt?”
“Not of any consequence.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He sighed again, his only movement. Even the stump—oh, what an awful name for a part of him she loved, as she loved every part of him—even the stump lay like a weight in her hand. “There is a phantom effect,” he said. “Well documented in medical literature. The hand feels as if it’s still there.”
“How extraordinary.” She went on caressing him, exploring him.
He went on, in a distant voice. “In Eastern countries, the left hand is considered profane, because it’s used for cleaning oneself after evacuation. That was why they maimed the right one. A rather subtle touch.”
She lifted the stump to her lips and kissed it.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I ought to have realized, or at least to have asked. I ought to have stopped, when I knew.”
“I wouldn’t have let you stop.”
He raised himself suddenly, eased his organ from her body, and rolled away. “The fault was mine.”
“Don’t go!”
The cool air engulfed her skin in his absence. She felt the mattress dip and sway as he left. She pulled her eviscerated body up on her elbows. “Where are you going?”
“One moment,” he said.
She heard his footsteps on the carpet, the creak of a door, the hiss of the faucet. A rush of wetness trickled between her legs. Panic seized her. She reached down and was shocked by the copiousness of it, by the abundant physical evidence of what had just occurred. Ashland’s warm seed: She was brimming with it.
What had she done?
He returned, with a hand to her shoulder. “Lie back,” he said gently, and she was too stunned to do anything but obey. Of course his semen was inside her. That was the point of everything, wasn’t it? The transcendent pleasures of carnal union were no more than nature’s method of ensuring that animals reproduced themselves.
Something warm and damp touched the soreness between her legs. Ashland was cleaning her silently, in tender movements, wiping her with a cloth of some kind. A wave of acute embarrassment washed over her. A moment ago, they were impossibly intimate, joined together, sharing breath; now, a kind of clinical detachment separated them as he washed away the remnants of their private act.
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“I . . . No. Not of any consequence.” She tried to smile, to reestablish the closeness. “It was rather wonderful, if you must know.”
The mattress released him once more, and he went away, presumably back to the bathroom to return the cloth. Emilie sat up. The blood rushed away from her head, leaving her slightly dizzy. She put her hand to her head and found her false chignon nearly hanging from its pins. In hasty movements she repaired the damage, adjusted the blindfold to cover the untidiness. Her chemise must be on the floor somewhere. She slid off the bed onto shaky legs.
“Careful!” Ashland’s hand came down on her arm.
“I was looking for my chemise.”
“Right here.” The hand went away, and then the material was sliding over her head and Ashland was helping her arms into the sleeves.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Of course.” A pause. “You’re quite all right?”
“Yes.”
Oh God, the awkwardness! She was flushing again. What was he thinking? Did she disgust him now? In her abandonment, had she passed the bounds of respectable behavior? Had she done it all wrong?
He had not moved away. Though he wasn’t touching her, his warmth irradiated her. His voice, however, was cold and matter-of-fact. “I’m afraid you’ve missed your train. The room is yours, of course. I shall send Mrs. Scruton with everything you need.”
“I don’t require anything.”
“Don’t be a martyr,” he said sharply.
