Eloisa James - Desperate Duchesses - 6 (31 page)

"We can't do this! Oyster is watching," she said, pulling the hem of her chemise back down.

Villiers had been alive a few years more than thirty. He knew perfectly well when a woman was truly protesting and when she was offering excuses for the mere sake of it.

The pug was sprawled out on a sunny rock, paws in the air, snoring. In his estimation, Oyster was a pathetic excuse for a dog, so he didn't even bother answering that protest, just wrestled the fabric out of her hand and swept the whole garment up and over her hair.

And then, there they were. Naked.

Her hair had started to fall from its pins, locks sliding over her breasts. Her stomach was gently rounded and curved into a beautiful shadow, dusted with hair the color of brandy.

He was never at a loss for words. Never. Until now. "You're so—" He stopped. He'd been wanting to explore her with his mouth for hours, days. And she wanted a man to kneel before her.

So he did, pushing her legs apart slightly so he could run his tongue up a beautiful slender thigh.

"Oh—" she cried, her voice far away and thin.

Her skin was sweet and smooth, and he painted designs on her with his tongue, sliding higher and higher, as if she too were a smooth rock in the sunshine. Her fingers were playing with his hair, twisting, caressing.

"You're not going to—" Her breathing was growing ragged.

"I am."

"You can't do that!" She sounded truly shocked, so he stood up and let his fingers drift over the rounded curve of her inner thigh that he had just kissed.

She had a flush high in her cheeks that made his whole body thrum with pleasure, so much so that he didn't even realize for a moment how odd it was that her pleasure would be causing
his.
He didn't think of that until they were kissing again and he was sipping the sweet darkness of her mouth, one arm around her back to protect her from the hard stone, the other still caressing her thigh, sliding closer, farther away, closer again.

"You aren't going to touch me
there,
are you?" she whispered tremulously.

He pulled back and frowned at her. "He didn't even touch you?"

"I—No. Is that always part of lovemaking?"

The struggle with his conscience took a split second, and his conscience lost, as always.

"Absolutely," he said firmly. "One wouldn't want to criticize a former lover, but..." He had her trembling, so he slid his fingers just to the edge of the soft curls between her legs. "A man always touches a woman here. Because—" He pulled her closer so he could feel her soft breasts against his chest."—because that is where a woman is most luscious and most delicate, which in itself sets a man on fire." He let a finger drop deep, stroke and glide.

Her head dropped back against his arm, so he bent to kiss her throat. "He touches her like this," he said, licking her shoulder and letting his fingers wander. "That's—lovely," Eleanor said, the break in her voice sending another jolt down to Villiers's groin.

"Surely he kissed you here?" He kissed his way down the slope of her breast, ran his teeth gently over her nipple.

"Of—Of course," she said, her back arching toward him. "That feels so good!" He didn't think she was talking only about the fact he was suckling her, so he increased the pressure of his fingers a little bit.

Her little cries were an aphrodisiac like no other, so he knelt again before she had a chance to protest and pulled her legs apart even farther.

She was so exquisite that he was shaking like a lad experiencing his first woman.

"I'm not sure," she cried. "Oh Leo, you can't—"

"Of course I can."

"It's not proper," Eleanor cried desperately. "I can't think that it is. I've never heard of such a thing."

She looked around wildly, apparently remembering again that they were outside. "And we're—"

Her voice broke off because he had dipped his fingers into the chilly water and stroked them over the hottest part of her body. Her mouth fell open and she made a choked noise. He smiled against her leg and let his fingers dance.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he said, when he had her trembling.

She managed to say "Leo," but it was a weak protest and he knew it. He put his mouth on her, delicately, in the sweetest kiss of all. It took only a moment. Her hands twisted in his hair, her hips arched, and she broke in a cry, a quaking, muffled cry that was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.

He straightened slowly, knowing he was just barely in control. "You look like a virgin sacrifice, waiting on the rock for a dragon to sweep by," he said, hearing the growling tone in his own voice.

She opened her eyes. "I'm no virgin," she whispered, pulling him closer.

"And I'm so grateful for that," he whispered back. "I just need to find my breeches."

"Now," she cried, pulling him to her. "Oh God, Leo, please, please... I want you."

"Not as much as I want you," he growled. He couldn't even let his body touch hers. If he allowed himself even a touch, he would lose control, plunge into her sweetness, take her right there under God's sky and with no shame.

Eleanor couldn't think lucidly. She was leaning against a rock in the sunshine. She was naked. She was about to make love with a man to whom she had no formal attachment. She was...

All the considerations that should have made her run shrieking into the woods seemed inconsequential, when she could instead watch Leopold's beautiful haunch as he leaned over and pulled a French letter from the pocket of his breeches, throwing them toward the riverbank.

"Do you carry those with you at all times?" she asked.

He straightened and turned around. His body almost took her breath away: it was so powerful, muscled and beautiful... so very different from hers. She wasn't prone to feeling dainty and feminine, though she felt just that as she stood there in the sunshine, waiting. But she didn't move, afraid that she would break the spell if she moved. That one of them would regain some common sense and reach for clothing.

"Are we going to make love standing up?" she asked shyly a few moments later. "Oh!" Because they clearly were going to do just that. His big hands cupped her bottom and he pulled her up a bit and then...

And then she opened her thighs and he was sliding in, and it was different—so different—than she remembered. His hands were curled around her bottom but her entire being was focused somewhere else. He was slow and she needed it. She could feel every inch.

It was enthralling—a bit painful—exquisite. Her nails dug into his shoulders. "Too much?" he whispered, his voice a growl. "You're so tight, Eleanor." "Just go slow," she said in a gasp. He took another inch and the pleasure of it streaked like fire down her legs. She bit his lip. He growled at her and took another inch.

She meant to tell him something else, but what she said was, "Don't stop, don't stop, please don't stop."

"I'm not planning to," he said, and nipped her ear. Stole another inch. Waited, let her feel him, adjust to the invasion, his thickness, his possession. "I'm sorry," she said, gasping again.

"Princess, you have nothing to apologize for." There was a kind of raw truth in his voice that made her feel so ecstatic that she arched, and he came home. All the way. His groan ripped from his lungs, and she would have done the same but she couldn't breathe; it felt that good.

And then he was sliding back, and it was like silk, easier the second time, better the third, dizzying the fourth... she lost track. He was braced against the rock on either side of her, kissing her deep and sweet, and all the time his hips were pumping back and forth.

Little thoughts floated through her mind and then were lost in a sea of pleasure. This was what it was like making love to a man, rather than a boy. It was all different: the heat, the strength, the—

She couldn't even count the ways it was different.

They were both sweaty now, and flames were licking at her legs, her stomach. She was arching against him, feeling every time he pushed back, but it wasn't quite happening.

Not quite.

And yet she couldn't—she didn't want to say anything. To direct him. To be—to be what Gideon thought she was.

But then he said, "Eleanor," and his voice was harsh and pleading at once, and she suddenly realized how ridiculous she was being.

"Here," she said in a gasp, and hooked one leg around his hip so she was just a bit higher, so that when he pumped it wasn't just pleasurable but pure, unadulterated paradise. "This way," she said, flinching because she was doing what she swore to herself she would never do again.

But it was Leopold, and he didn't look scandalized, or insulted; he just thrust. She actually cried out.

She heard him grunt with satisfaction but she couldn't think, couldn't speak, because he was hard and fast now, and a tidal wave of pleasure curled her toes and swept up her legs and threw her back onto the rock.

Her cries floated into the high blue sky and disappeared. His growl probably frightened some sleeping forest animal.

And then...

And then she found herself standing in his arms, her knees weak, her breath harsh in the quiet air.

"God damn," he said quietly. He had his arms around her but his forehead against the rock.

After she and Gideon had made love, all ten times, they had both been riddled by guilt afterwards.

He would swear that they would never do it again, not until he was of age and they were married.

And she would know that she had lured him to it, and feel guilty and slightly sick.

With Leopold there was none of that.

He finally lifted his head off the rock, and the look on his face had to approximate the grin on hers.

"We're good," he said. Then,
"You're
good."

She felt the smile fall from her face. "No," she said, "I'm not good at this. It's not a skill that I've developed. I just—"

"Hush," he said, putting his lips against hers. "I wasn't implying you were the Whore of Babylon. I was just saying that it was the best sex I ever had in my life."

It was a flat statement.

"Really?" she asked, hearing the incredulity in her voice. "Isn't this what—" She waved her hand.

"What I have all the time?" It was his turn to grin at her. Had she ever thought his eyes cold? They were full of laughter now, laughter and something else, the echo of desire. No, the presence of desire. He wanted her. Still.

It was something to think about. Gideon had always panicked after they made love, growing snappy and anxious.

Of course, he'd been just a boy, and it was years ago.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" He bit her ear, and not nicely either.

"It was so different," she said.

The nip turned into a kiss. "Yes."

She remembered suddenly. "Oyster?"

He didn't need to look so he must have already checked. "He's still asleep. How much does that dog sleep?"

"Most of the day. Every moment that he's not running in circles."

They should return to the house. People might be wondering whether they were. Lisette might notice...No, Lisette wouldn't notice. But someone else might.

"We should move," she whispered. His cheek was just beside hers, and he smelled potent and male, so she ran her tongue carefully over his skin. He tasted wonderful.

"You're right," Leopold said.

Some tiny part of her heart registered disappointment. Of course he was right. Gideon had always been right, too.

But standing straight just meant that she was in full contact with his body. And at least part of him was interested in...

"Moving is my favorite activity," Leopold said, low and easy. "Are you going to look at me anytime soon, princess?"

She had barely met his eyes since they made love. It was too embarrassing. And too frightening, if she admitted it to herself. She didn't want to see awe in his eyes, didn't want to see acknowledgment that she was some sort of amazing courtesanlike woman.

Even though somehow she was. Apparently.

She was starting to feel a little sick. Who knew it would be so depressing to make men happy?

"Hey." There was a soft growl in her ear and a strong hand pulled her face around. Leopold was frowning down at her. "What are you thinking about?" "Nothing," she said quickly. He kissed her, quick and fierce. "Tell me."

"No." She couldn't tell him. He would think she was mad. He might even laugh at her.

"Stubborn wench." With one swift movement he swung her into his arms and started walking over the rocks.

"Where are you going?" she gasped, holding onto his arm. "I'd prefer to walk. I'd like to put my clothes back on now. My clothes!" She looked back. "We left my chemise on the rock."

"We don't need it," he said, climbing out of the river.

"I need it!" she said indignantly. "Will you please put me down now? I must collect my clothing."

He laid her flat on her back in the soft grass, and followed her down so quickly that she could hardly twitch before his body was covering hers.

"You said we should move," he reminded her. It was now clear what kind of moving he had in mind.

"No, thank you," Eleanor said, smiling but determined. She'd had enough of being everybody's favorite doxy for the moment.

He almost let her up, but then suddenly pushed her down again. "No." "No?"

"You're going to have to tell me what went wrong in that head of yours, or I'll never let you go back to the house. I'll have to keep you here." She giggled. "Keep me here? On the riverbank?"

"Exactly." He wasn't the sort of man who changed his mind. And it didn't really matter, after all.

So she just blurted it out. "I know that I'm different from other ladies. And in some ways I'm grateful, but in other ways it all seems rather tiresome."

"Different in what way?" He let her go and rolled to the side, grabbing his breeches off a rock. His gray eyes weren't even sympathetic. He wasn't a sympathetic sort of man.

"You said I wasn't the Whore of Babylon, but sometimes I feel as if I am."

"Really?" That interested him. But she could see amusement too, in the gleam of his eyes under his eyelashes. It wasn't fair that a man should have such thick, dark lashes when she had to put black stuff on hers.