Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart
Page 59
“You think you are the most important man in all of England,” she continued, her voice a thread of sound in the darkness, punctuated by little catches in her words as his fingers trailed along the line of her jaw. “You think you’re right all the time. You think you know everything . . .”
Her skin was so soft.
He should leave the room. It was wrong for him to be here with her. If they were caught, she would be ruined, and he would have no choice but to leave her in ruin. He had been engaged mere hours.
This was all wrong.
He should go.
A gentleman would go.
“You covered all that with ‘arrogant.’ ” He traced the column of her neck.
“I—” She gasped as he pressed a soft kiss to the base of her throat. “I thought you might need further explanation.”
“Mmm,” he spoke against the skin of her shoulder. “An excellent point. Go on.”
She took a deep breath as his lips and tongue played up the side of her neck. “What were we discussing?”
He smiled at her ear before he took the soft, velvety lobe between his teeth. “You were telling me all the reasons that you should not like me.”
“Oh . . .” The word turned into a little moan as he tongued the sensitive skin of her ear. She clutched his forearms at the sensation. “Yes. Well. Those are the major reasons.”
“And yet, you like me anyway.” He moved, pressing soft kisses along the edge of her gown, easing down the smooth expanse of skin there, her chest rising and falling as she gasped for breath. She did not reply for a long while, and he slid a finger beneath the silk, stroking, seeking, until he found what he was looking for, hard and ready for him. “Juliana?”
“Yes, damn you, I like you.”
He rewarded her by pulling the gown down and baring the rose-tipped breast to the moonlight. “There’s something you should know,” he whispered, the words coming from far away.
“Yes?”
He blew a long stream of cool air across her puckered nipple, loving the way it tightened more, begging for his mouth.
He would taste her tonight.
Once, before he went back to his staid, respectable existence.
Just once.
A rush of pleasure coursed through him, and he grew hard and heavy at the thought.
“Simon”—she sighed—“you torture me.”
He palmed one of her perfect br**sts, rolling his thumb across its tip, reveling in the way she gave herself up to sensation.
“What is it?” she asked, the words broken around her pleasure.
“What is it?” he repeated.
“What should I know?”
He smiled at the question, dragging his gaze up to meet hers—heavy-lidded and gorgeous.
One more taste of her. One last taste.
“I like you, too.”
Chapter Twelve
Music is the sound of the gods.
The delicate lady plays the pianoforte to perfection.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
We are assured that there is still time for the wedding of the season . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
He lifted her in his arms, turned, and carried her back to the piano bench. Setting her down on the hard wooden seat, he came to his knees before her, cupping her face and tilting her to receive his kiss.
His hands came to her br**sts, lifted them, bared them, stroked across their peaks, pinching lightly until she gasped, and he rewarded the sound, giving her everything she had not known she wanted. She whispered his name as he suckled the pebbled tip of one breast, sending excitement coursing through her. She plunged her fingers into his lush golden curls, holding him to the spot where he wreaked havoc on her flesh and her emotions.
He groaned at the feel of her hands in his hair, and the sound rippled through her like pleasure.
She knew she should not allow it.
Knew she risked everything.
Did not care.
As long as he did not stop.
He clasped her to him, worshipping her with lips and tongue and the wicked hint of teeth as his hands stroked down the length of her, pressing her closer and closer to him, until she thought they might become one.
“Simon . . .” she whispered his name and he stopped, lifting his head, his eyes flashing with heat.
“God, Juliana,” he reached out one hand, stroking down one side of her cheek, and she turned her head impulsively, placing a warm, soft kiss on the pad of his thumb, tracing a circle there with her tongue before biting the flesh softly.
He growled at the sensation, pulling her to him for a kiss that was more claiming than caress. When he ended it, they were both breathing heavily, and her hands had found their way inside his topcoat to stroke his broad, firm chest.
“I want . . .” she started, the words breaking off as he returned his attention to her br**sts, taking a nipple between his lips, rolling the tight peak between tongue and teeth until she could not think.
When he released her, he flashed a wolfish grin, and she could not help but reach out for him, letting her fingers play across his lips—as though touching the elusive smile could burn it into her memory. He took the tip of one finger into his mouth, sucking on it until she gasped. “What do you want, love?”
The endearment curled between them, and she was struck by a pang of longing . . . she wanted him. For more than a stolen moment in this dark, private place . . . for more than two weeks . . .
I want you to want me.
To choose me.
“Come closer.” She spread her legs, knowing that she was being wanton. Knowing that if they were caught, she would be ruined, and he would walk away to be with his future bride. But she did not care. She wanted to feel him against her. She did not care that there were layers of fabric between them. Did not care that they would never be as close as she wanted.
Her skin was so soft.
He should leave the room. It was wrong for him to be here with her. If they were caught, she would be ruined, and he would have no choice but to leave her in ruin. He had been engaged mere hours.
This was all wrong.
He should go.
A gentleman would go.
“You covered all that with ‘arrogant.’ ” He traced the column of her neck.
“I—” She gasped as he pressed a soft kiss to the base of her throat. “I thought you might need further explanation.”
“Mmm,” he spoke against the skin of her shoulder. “An excellent point. Go on.”
She took a deep breath as his lips and tongue played up the side of her neck. “What were we discussing?”
He smiled at her ear before he took the soft, velvety lobe between his teeth. “You were telling me all the reasons that you should not like me.”
“Oh . . .” The word turned into a little moan as he tongued the sensitive skin of her ear. She clutched his forearms at the sensation. “Yes. Well. Those are the major reasons.”
“And yet, you like me anyway.” He moved, pressing soft kisses along the edge of her gown, easing down the smooth expanse of skin there, her chest rising and falling as she gasped for breath. She did not reply for a long while, and he slid a finger beneath the silk, stroking, seeking, until he found what he was looking for, hard and ready for him. “Juliana?”
“Yes, damn you, I like you.”
He rewarded her by pulling the gown down and baring the rose-tipped breast to the moonlight. “There’s something you should know,” he whispered, the words coming from far away.
“Yes?”
He blew a long stream of cool air across her puckered nipple, loving the way it tightened more, begging for his mouth.
He would taste her tonight.
Once, before he went back to his staid, respectable existence.
Just once.
A rush of pleasure coursed through him, and he grew hard and heavy at the thought.
“Simon”—she sighed—“you torture me.”
He palmed one of her perfect br**sts, rolling his thumb across its tip, reveling in the way she gave herself up to sensation.
“What is it?” she asked, the words broken around her pleasure.
“What is it?” he repeated.
“What should I know?”
He smiled at the question, dragging his gaze up to meet hers—heavy-lidded and gorgeous.
One more taste of her. One last taste.
“I like you, too.”
Chapter Twelve
Music is the sound of the gods.
The delicate lady plays the pianoforte to perfection.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
We are assured that there is still time for the wedding of the season . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
He lifted her in his arms, turned, and carried her back to the piano bench. Setting her down on the hard wooden seat, he came to his knees before her, cupping her face and tilting her to receive his kiss.
His hands came to her br**sts, lifted them, bared them, stroked across their peaks, pinching lightly until she gasped, and he rewarded the sound, giving her everything she had not known she wanted. She whispered his name as he suckled the pebbled tip of one breast, sending excitement coursing through her. She plunged her fingers into his lush golden curls, holding him to the spot where he wreaked havoc on her flesh and her emotions.
He groaned at the feel of her hands in his hair, and the sound rippled through her like pleasure.
She knew she should not allow it.
Knew she risked everything.
Did not care.
As long as he did not stop.
He clasped her to him, worshipping her with lips and tongue and the wicked hint of teeth as his hands stroked down the length of her, pressing her closer and closer to him, until she thought they might become one.
“Simon . . .” she whispered his name and he stopped, lifting his head, his eyes flashing with heat.
“God, Juliana,” he reached out one hand, stroking down one side of her cheek, and she turned her head impulsively, placing a warm, soft kiss on the pad of his thumb, tracing a circle there with her tongue before biting the flesh softly.
He growled at the sensation, pulling her to him for a kiss that was more claiming than caress. When he ended it, they were both breathing heavily, and her hands had found their way inside his topcoat to stroke his broad, firm chest.
“I want . . .” she started, the words breaking off as he returned his attention to her br**sts, taking a nipple between his lips, rolling the tight peak between tongue and teeth until she could not think.
When he released her, he flashed a wolfish grin, and she could not help but reach out for him, letting her fingers play across his lips—as though touching the elusive smile could burn it into her memory. He took the tip of one finger into his mouth, sucking on it until she gasped. “What do you want, love?”
The endearment curled between them, and she was struck by a pang of longing . . . she wanted him. For more than a stolen moment in this dark, private place . . . for more than two weeks . . .
I want you to want me.
To choose me.
“Come closer.” She spread her legs, knowing that she was being wanton. Knowing that if they were caught, she would be ruined, and he would walk away to be with his future bride. But she did not care. She wanted to feel him against her. She did not care that there were layers of fabric between them. Did not care that they would never be as close as she wanted.
