6

Nick tried to hold still. To resist the kiss.

Arabella's request was tempting, of course. Almost touching in its na?veté.

It reminded him of his late wife. Beatrice.

He had been so in love with her, from the moment they met at a ball, each of them twenty years old. She had, in their rare private moments, walking ahead of her chaperone in a garden, or alone in a carriage before her mother joined them, desired him openly, slyly letting him know how much she looked forward to their wedding night.

And when that night came, he had barely stopped himself in time, very nearly destroying their relationship.

The whores and actresses he'd lain with in his youth had matched his passion with bawdy good nature. And they'd been happy to indulge any proclivity that rose to mind. Treating them firmly. Fucking them with complete, filthy abandon. Tying them up, reddening their buttocks with a paddle or simply driving them mad with slow, relentless sensual torture. Inviting them to take the discipline to him.

There was the spiky physical bliss of it, of course. But there was also relief, after a lifetime of displaying impeccable manners in room after room of buttoned-up ladies and boring, small-minded lords. People who never said what they meant or admitted to what they truly wanted. Nick craved direct, frank connection. He knew honesty was too much to ask in life, but the bed was a simpler, bolder place. A place to do exactly what most lit one's imagination and lifted one's cock.

None of that was fit for a lady, as he'd realized the very first time he pinned the wrists of his new bride to the bed as he kissed her with passion.

She'd pulled away abruptly. And then she'd burst into tears and run out of the room.

He'd pled ignorance, over-enthusiasm—he hadn't meant anything by it. It wasn't what he wanted. He only wanted to love her.

That was true, actually. He was utterly besotted. She was lovely, and funny, and intelligent. She cared for friends and family and animals she took in. She kissed like she laughed—sweetly, lightly. And she loved him. She confessed that she'd been in love with him since they first met. That he was the only man she'd ever wanted.

After his single misstep, he was perfectly gentle with her, always. His touch only soothed and coaxed, never demanded.

He only grew to love her more as time went by. Their friendship was unmatched. He could not imagine being unfaithful—but he knew in the back of his mind that he'd locked a piece of himself away. That it stirred in him, restless. Perhaps he would have had to address it one way or another, had their marriage, with its companionship and intimacies and its dreadfully predictable intercourse, gone on long enough.

But then, abruptly, she was gone.

He would have given anything to have her back. He'd have given sexual gratification away forever, without a thought.

Instead, he was alone. And he was free to explore his basest fancies. With bored baronesses eager to cheat. With courtesans and widows and opera dancers.

As for his heart, it was dust in his chest. He could not make it whole again. And why would he? It would only invite another shattering. It took years to recover enough to simply face his duty, to embrace the fact that he would need to marry again. Find someone suitable to bear his heirs.

But now he knew two things.

First, that a fine lady must never be confronted with his true desires. He would relegate those to an hour or two with a whore now and again. With his wife, he would be gentle in the extreme. He would not seek to slake his thirst there. He would not frighten her with his need.

Second, that he would not offer even the slightest bit of his heart. Obliterated once was more than sufficient. And because he knew a tender coupling had the tendency to stoke tender feelings, he would not linger over lovemaking with his wife, ever. He would dispatch his duty in the quickest and most perfunctory way possible.

It was just as well. Love was for the young. The naive. The enthusiastic and foolish. As he had been, back when he had both his eyes and fewer scars and all the wide world at his feet.

Arabella Denton had been an ideal choice, for a number of reasons. She seemed shy, circumspect, a lady who eschewed the social whirl in favor of sketching under trees. And everything he observed about her person made him certain his plans for her were correct. She was a small woman—standing, her head came to the top of his shoulder. Slender, fair, with delicate features and a way of walking that made her seem to float slightly above the ground. As gentle as he'd been with Beatrice, he knew he'd need to be more so with this woman.

But now, in this moment, in his cottage, rain beating on the roof, Arabella Denton was shredding to ribbons his assumptions about her fragile constitution.

In fact, she was undoing him entirely with her mouth as she kissed him fiercely, licking her tongue across his lips to mimic what he'd done to her earlier.

Every part of him wanted to kiss her back.

No . Arabella could not know what she was asking. If he met her ardor with the true force of his own, he would frighten her. He needed to put a stop to it.

Dear God, but she was delicious. Pressing her body to him, her hand over his straining breeches, her tongue searching, a little clumsy as she worked the kiss deeper. She nipped his bottom lip with her teeth, and the pleasure of that pain surged directly to his cock.

When she felt his response, she did it again.

Quick study, he thought. Oh, the things he wanted to show her in that moment. To teach her. The things he wanted to do to her.

He pulled away. "Arabella. You do not know what you ask."

"You saw the sketches," she said. "I think I do know."

"I am not the right man for it. For you."

"But ..." she leaned in again, this time finding his ear. "But I want you. Whatever you are." Her tongue flicked out, traced his earlobe, and he felt himself shudder.

Enough . He grabbed her by the arms and held her away from him, grip too tight. To his consternation, the rough treatment did nothing to quell her enthusiasm. In fact, something new and delighted lit her eyes.

"Don't try to kiss me again," he said.

She nodded acquiescence, and he let her go.

She did not try to kiss him.

Instead, she pulled the shirt over her head and tossed it aside. Leaving herself completely naked before him. And inviting him to look.

He should not look.

And he could not stop looking. He consumed her with his eyes. Slim limbs, rose nipples, skin pink and lightest gold in the firelight.

Pure, hot desire filled him. Every complex thought was silenced. There was only what he needed.

He needed to see every part of her. Now .

Hand her the shirt and tell her to put it back on.

But that seemed a sure way to stoke further defiance.

A different tack, then.

"Lean back," he told her, his voice firm, cool. "And open your legs."

Her eyes widened.

Good , he thought. Realize I frighten you. Let's put an end to it before it starts.

Arabella leaned back on her arms. Her bare, pale legs crossed at the ankles. She looked at him, serious, expectant.

He did not repeat the request. The better part of him hoping she'd do it now—burst into tears, be done with this game.

She uncrossed her ankles and slid her feet apart.

She watched him, not breathing, as his gaze lowered to her sex.

It was petite, pink, with lush petals. The inner lips quivered under his gaze.

He wanted to pounce on her. Instead, he took a long, deep breath. Drinking in the sight.

"It looks sweet. Your little cunt."

The words sent a shiver through her. Her tongue unconsciously darted out, touched her lower lip.

Again the thought crossed his mind: she does not know what she asks. He'd crossed so many lines already, but some part of him was enough still a gentleman to demand that he warn her, while he still had sense in his head to do it.

"A lady like you needs care," he said. "Always, and more so when she is new to it. Look at you. Delicate. Small. You need a man who would love you gently," his eye flicked back to her sex, which mesmerized him in much the way a topographical map might mesmerize a general planning his attack. "I would not be gentle. I would devour you."

Now he met her gaze. "You witnessed fucking, in that studio. I would fuck you hard. I would show you no mercy. I would make you submit to me."

She swallowed.

"You look afraid," he said. "Which speaks to your good sense." He exhaled. Straightened. "Go to bed now, Arabella. While I let you."

She did not move.

"Now," he said, a warning.

"No," she replied, her voice firmer now. "You mistake me. I am not afraid of you." She let her legs fall open a little wider. "I want to be devoured."

He should get up and walk away. Now. Or he would not be able to do so.

He managed to rise to his feet. He stood over her.

Tell her this madness is finished, he thought, harsh. Say it.

But even as Nick had the thought, he knew he'd already made a different choice.

"On your knees," he said.

She blushed. But rose to her knees, luminously naked before him. He took her in, unsmiling. That soft skin brought the most depraved ideas to mind. It made him feel capable of anything.

"Do you mean to . . . humiliate me?" she asked.

Is that what his expression told her? Just as well. "Do you feel humiliated?"

She shook her head. "I feel curious." She gave a husky laugh.

His cock twitched. This woman. Good Christ.

In that moment, he knew he could not be the better man for much longer. He could not fight himself all night. Not when losing that fight meant having her.

She held his gaze. Expectant. She wasn't entirely truthful—he saw a hint of fear there, sparking friction against her arousal.

"I want you to take me into your mouth," he said. He heard her breath hitch. God, he could spend right now, viciously, without even touching her. "But not yet," he decided. If he was going to do this, he would not race. He would feast. "First ... lie down."

She did so, lowering herself onto her back among the pillows. She gazed up at him. He stood there for a moment, taking her in from head to toe.

"Touch yourself," he said.

She looked surprised. A shadow of embarrassment crossed her features. But it passed, and the desire stayed. She moved a hand to hover over her cunt, then cup it.

"Slide a finger between the lips," he said, voice cracking.

She did as he said. Gliding along her seam, opening herself, dipping inside, her eyes never leaving the duke.

He needed to be closer. He got on his knees, between her legs. "Now show me," he said.

She came up on her elbows, held her hand up to him. The middle finger was glistening. "Wet," he said silkily. "You are wanton. Aren't you?"

He took her hand, raised it to his mouth, and sucked the wet finger in. He moved his tongue over it. A moan escaped her. In response, he bit the finger. She gasped, and he let her finger go.

"The way you taste," he murmured, "is dangerous."

She simply lay back against the pillows, eyes glinting. Inviting him.

Some part of him still expected her to change her mind. To realize this was too much. Too demanding, too exposing. But in the meantime ...

"Do you know how to give yourself pleasure?" he asked.

Embarrassed, she nodded.

"Let me see it."

He moved down between her legs, now, on his stomach, leaning on his elbows, his face very near her most private places. His view was perfect as she slid her hand over her sex, gathering a bit of silky moisture and dragging it up to her clitoris. A breathless oh escaped her.

"Don't stop," he said on a low growl.

She circled again with her glossy finger, and again, and the pleasure began to build in her.

He watched her fingers move. Watched the muscles of her stomach contract. Her breath sped up, her lids grew heavy over her eyes.

"You liked to watch, at the art studio," he said. "It seems you also like to be watched. Don't you?"

She answered with a shred of a moan. Her finger moved faster.

Now, he moved his hand to touch her there. Christ , she was wet. He watched her face as, without warning, he slid a finger inside her.

She gasped, arched up. "Nick—"

She was so tight. The desire to climb onto her, to replace his finger with his cock, overwhelmed him, narrowed his vision, stole his breath.

Not yet.

He plunged a second finger into her. She stopped breathing, feeling the intensity, the tightness of it. Her moving finger skidded off course, paused.

"Too much?" He asked.

"Yes— no ." She was surrendering to the feeling now, pressing into his hand, inviting more.

She returned her finger to her clitoris, but he snatched it away with his other hand.

She made a frustrated noise. "Why—"

But he cut off her words when he put his tongue on her cunt and licked her, long, slow and full. She seemed to melt into him, her moan a rich, surprised, needy sound.

The taste of her . He felt a savageness boiling up. He ran his tongue over every part of her, teasing, sampling, as his fingers continued their slow, deep invasion. And then he pressed his mouth to her pearl and sucked greedily. She squealed.

So responsive. Abandoned to her own pleasure. Her head was thrown back now, eyes squeezed shut, entirely taken by the sensations he was causing inside her.

He lifted his mouth. Held his fingers still inside her. She made an impatient sound. "Tell me what you want," he said.

She hissed. "Don't stop ."

He fixed her with a coolly intent look. "Beg me." Her eyes widened. "If you wish me to continue, I will need to hear you beg me for it."

And here, she balks, he thought. Here, she wakes up to the madness of it, and tells me to stop.

"Please," she said breathlessly. " Please don't stop."

It went straight to his cock, those words. "Beg me to push you over the edge." He said, voice dipping lower. "Beg me to make you come with my tongue."

" Please," she said, voice breaking, as he slid his fingers out, then in. "I need you to—I beg you to–" he moved his fingers faster, knowing that it distracted her, made it hard for her to speak, to think. He flicked his tongue over her clitoris once, lightly. She groaned her exasperation. "Tormentor," she said, half a cry, half a laugh.

"Yes," he agreed. "Do you need release, pet? Do you need me to take you there?"

" Yes. Please. Nick. I'll—"

He licked her again, keeping her there, tightly wound, so close, yet never taking her all the way over the edge. "You'll what? What would you do for me?"

"Whatever you—give you—my mouth, or ..." He kissed her clitoris, sucked it again for just long enough to make her arch, to moan brokenly, "Or ..."

"Say it, little wanton. Will you give me this pretty cunt?"

"Yes. Please ."

"To fuck as hard as I need to, until I spill in you, deep?" She shuddered as he blew over her.

She was so wet . His fingers were drenched with her. God. She wanted this. Wanted it like he wanted it.

That made him wild. Made him want to push her further. Show her more of what he could give her.

He pressed into her with the two fingers till his palm was seated against her; and now, let his ring finger brush ever so lightly behind, to a place she had never been touched, never imagined a man might touch.

She stiffened, unsure.

"Ask me to stop and I'll stop," he said, low, arousal and a hint of a tease threaded through his voice. "Pleasure is a vast continent. I only want to satisfy that voracious curiosity of yours." He saw a glimmer of a smile at that, felt her body begin to give itself over to him. He curved the fingers inside her, eliciting a new, high, urgent moan. Her eyes fell shut, lost to the sensations running through her.

"Look at me, pet." She opened her eyes, looked down to him, his mouth hovering over her, lips wet with her essence. "There are so many ways I can wring bliss from your body," he said, and pressed inside, very gently, just an inch, with his ring finger. "No, don't look away. Look at me." She nodded once, kept her eyes locked on him. She was flushed, a desperate look in her eyes. "I want you to watch me. I'm going to make you come now."

And he dipped his mouth to her, licked her voluptuously, and now, finally, he drew her into his mouth, rolling her clitoris over his tongue as he sucked, steadily, firmly, harder now, causing her whole body to tense, to quiver uncontrollably as she neared her peak.

"Oh God," she breathed. "Oh please—please, Nick, please— please —"

And then her body went rigid, as unendurable pleasure exploded through her, shaking her, stealing her breath, and finally releasing her into honeyed limpness.

He licked her slow, full, gentle as she rode the waves, landing her very softly back on the earth.

And then he lay down on his back beside her, listening to her breathing as she came back to herself. His muscles felt tight, buzzing with energy. His cock was furiously hard. He could not recall the last time he'd been so aroused.

He shut his eye, considering the woman lying next to him. A woman he'd thought shy, boring, easy to overlook.

What an idiot you are.

He felt a hand skate over him. Two hands, unbuttoning his shirt, then finding the falls of his breeches and working the buttons free, one by one.

When he looked, she was kneeling over him. She smiled dreamily. And yanked his open breeches down his legs, springing his cock free.

"My turn," she said, and reached for his cock.