The Duke in Question, page 24
Valentine let out a gasp as he stroked over his hard flesh again. The first was hardly the word he’d used to describe a man’s cock, but he was glad she thought so, considering all of this was for her. The savage, hungry look in her eyes, coupled with the tight glove of his fist, made his body tighten.
“I’m close,” he grunted.
“Show me.”
And the sound of her husky voice was all it took before lightning crashed into the base of his spine and he was spilling in long ropes of seed onto his trousers. He worked himself through the release, milking every spurt and every pulse until the waves of pleasure ebbed, and all the while those blue eyes held fast in complete fascination.
“My word,” she breathed, a glowing stare rising to his.
“You’re next, never fear,” Valentine growled and squeezed his still-hard cock, ignoring the wetness that seeped into his pants. “Last chance to change your mind because I am going to ruin you, Bronwyn, for any lover you’ll ever know.”
Her throat worked at the dark promise, but she didn’t tell him no.
Twenty-one
Oh dear God, she was a sodden, sopping mess under her skirts! Just from watching him take himself in hand. It had been beyond erotic, beyond anything Bronwyn had imagined. His staff had been thick and turgid, almost angry in its appearance as he’d throttled the full, impressive length. Her own core had clenched on air with every wicked stroke…the memory of his thrusts deeply visceral, coded into her body like a special cipher made for her.
And when he’d found his release, the expression on his face—that moment of utter bliss softening those hard, rugged features—had been mesmerizing. Plush lips had parted on a moan, and she’d wanted to crash into them. Swallow those sounds for herself. Even now, his passion-glazed amber eyes sought hers, promising nothing but sweet, sinful retribution.
An overheated Bronwyn watched as he put himself to rights, fastening his soiled trousers—thank goodness they were dark—and scowling as his hands brushed the wet fabric.
She let out a wry laugh. “Seems fair that I’m not the only wet one in this carriage.”
Those golden eyes flared, lust gathering anew. “You are a tease, Lady Bronwyn.”
“If I’m not direct with you, Your Grace, you tend to miss much subtler cues,” she said with a coquettish flutter of her lashes. “And besides you like when I’m unspeakably blunt, don’t you?”
“I do.” The soft growl made her thighs quiver with anticipation.
The coach rolled to a stop and Bronwyn peered out the window, squinting into the darkness. They were not on a well-lit front street. Instead, they seemed to be in the mews behind the residence. That didn’t mean that eyes weren’t watching. In the last year, she’d learned that someone was always looking. She pulled her cloak over her head so that her face was hidden by the cowl. Thornbury descended and offered her his hand along the uneven cobblestones before ushering her inside the manse to a dark hallway.
She frowned. “Where are your servants?”
“Out or abed,” he said, discarding his hat, greatcoat, and gloves on a table before moving to take hers. “When there is a ball and I am in residence, I give them the rest of the night off, once they’ve finished their duties.”
“That’s generous of you,” she said.
“It would be an excruciatingly dreadful measure of a man if he could not open the door to his own home himself.”
“Isn’t that what they are paid for? I don’t mean that in a haughty way,” she said quickly. “Butlers are supposed to stand at the door and greet their master or guests.”
He winked. “Not my butler. At least not when I need him in another capacity.”
Bronwyn’s pink mouth fell open as his intent became clear. “Your servants are informants?”
“I know you are pretending to be shocked right now, Lady Kestrel. There is an extraordinary network of information and secrets out there. I would be a fool if I didn’t take advantage of it with loyal servants under my employ. In our world, information is gold bullion.”
Valentine didn’t blink at the fact that he’d said our world, but she heard it and a strange warmth filled her breast. The sooner he stopped treating her like a child who had wandered into her father’s cigar room, the better it would be for everyone. He peered down at her. “Would you like a tour or shall we get straight to the main event, considering the whole of Scotland Yard might come looking for you once you’re not discovered sick at home?”
It would be so like her mother to send the entire Metropolitan Police force after her. Bronwyn stifled a giggle and glanced around, eyes wide with interest at the muted but beautiful details of the foyer. “A tour, of course! I’ve always wondered where you lived, and now getting to see it is…like a glimpse into who you are.” The look on the duke’s face was priceless! She’d never seen someone look so dejected and try to shore it up with false energy. She snorted. “Good Lord, your face! The main event, you silly man. I don’t care about any of the rooms in your house unless it contains a very sturdy bed.”
With a laughing oath, Valentine scooped her up into his arms and tossed her over his shoulder, filling his palm with a handful of skirts, petticoats, and feminine charms. God, he was strong. “Put me down this instant, you overbearing ogre!”
He was already up the staircase and onto the landing by the time he replied. “Ogre? Ouch! That deserves retaliation.” Her sinful tormentor yanked up her skirts, baring her silk-covered posterior, turned her body slightly and took a bite.
“You brute!” she nearly screeched.
He smacked his lips. “Tastes like apples.”
“It’s my soap as you very well know,” she muttered inanely, her buttock on fire where he’d put his mouth and the rest of her aching to be licked, sucked, and bitten. Her sex was practically throbbing against his shoulder, until he kicked open a door to a very large bedchamber and deposited her next to an enormous bed. A fire danced in the grate, illuminating him in shades of flickering golden light.
For a moment, they just stared at each other. It was odd since they had coupled twice before, but this felt monumental. This felt more intimate than either of the other two incidents. Toeing off her slippers, Bronwyn spread her hand over the dark silk of the counterpane. The bed was massive, to accommodate his large frame, but the rest of the room was sparsely decorated. A mantel on one end and an armoire on the other, a pair of stuffed armchairs near the fireplace, and a potted plant. How many women did he bring back here? She forced that thought away. None of them were here now. She was. “I like your bed.”
“Bronwyn,” he began, and she held up a finger.
“I don’t want to talk, Valentine,” she whispered. “It ruins everything with us. We both know what we’re doing here and the consequences of our decisions. If you are in agreement, then let us pretend whatever we need to for the sake of it. I don’t wish to argue or defend my choices because I’m a lady and you’re a lord, and neither of us is married.”
He cleared his throat. “I was going to ask if you wanted a drink.”
“Oh,” she said, and then frowned when he ducked his head to hide a guilty smile and moved toward one of the armchairs to remove his boots and shuck off his coat. She studied him as he silently rolled each of his cuffs, and burst into laughter. “You cheeky liar. You were going to ply me with all the reasons this is wrong and we shouldn’t be doing this, weren’t you?”
A now barefooted duke stood to his full height and prowled toward the bed. She took a step back and bumped up against the mattress. “Am I so transparent when it comes to you?”
Bronwyn could barely breathe from the raw desire choking her when he bent over the edge of the bed, thick, bare forearms holding up his big frame and bracketing her in place. Clad in a midnight-blue waistcoat, a diamond stickpin winking from the folds of his cravat, tawny hair falling into his brow and cheeks, and eyes glinting with lust, he looked like a dissolute hedonist. Even his cheekbones were in firelit shadow, giving him an otherworldly look. A fairy-tale prince come to snatch her away from the world of mortals. Heavens, when had she become so fanciful?
“No, but you’re careful with me, and you want to make sure I am here in full possession of all my wits and not coerced in any way.”
Because he was a gentleman. A duke who had offered to wed her but for all the wrong reasons. Bronwyn didn’t want him to resent her for it one day, and he would.
“And?” he asked.
“To be clear, you’re what I want.” Her hot stare clashed with his, as she eased out a breath from her tightening throat. “I want you to pleasure me so well that I all can see and feel is you. Make me yours, Valentine.”
The growl that broke from his chest was so primal that all the hairs on her body stood on end. All of her nerve endings, every pulse point in her body, throbbed to violent life. Oh, she had no doubt this man would ruin her for any other man. Already her body craved his and only his. With a pained grunt, he tore off his waistcoat, buttons flying in his haste, and yanked off his cravat until he stood there in plain shirtsleeves.
The Duke of Thornbury was the most beautiful man she had ever beheld.
The most sinful. His shroud of ice had melted, leaving behind only fire and passion.
Bronwyn wanted to combust.
Holding his gaze, she reached up to the pins in her hair and removed them, letting her hair tumble loose, and climbed further back onto the bed. With one lazy hand, she walked her fingers down her bodice, slowing over the mounds of her breasts in a languid caress that had his jaw clenching before drawing up her skirts to bare her black knit silk hose.
He stared, mesmerized, nostrils flaring.
“Like what you see?” she whispered, suddenly unsure. Each of their past couplings had been hard and fast…with no slow seduction and heady perusals. The feel of those hungry eyes on her was as powerful as the stroke of his fingertips over her heated skin. One look and he could send her aching body to the precipice of release.
“I love what I see.”
She parted trembling thighs. “Then undress me, Your Grace.”
Her breath hitched when his knees hit the side of the mattress, and he stared down at her like a backlit god about to wreak havoc on the world. On her world. Her teeth sank into her lower lip with a moan, and his eyes dilated. “My word, you’re exquisite.”
With reverent fingers, he unrolled each of her stockings, warm lips caressing her skin all the way down. She wanted him all the way up…right to where it ached the most, but he took his time at her ankles, at the sensitive skin behind her knees, the delicate muscles along her thighs, and by the time he removed her drawers, she was a writhing, disconsolate mess.
He stared, eyes memorizing every curve. Reality intruded, and Bronwyn felt a flicker of uncertainly. No man had ever stared at her naked body or her exposed sex with such blazing intensity. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, you’re fucking perfection.”
Need contorted his face, making those golden eyes half-wild as he bent and Bronwyn braced. Lick me, she wanted to scream. As he’d done on the ship. But all she felt was the barest kiss of his breath on her overheated flesh and his moan of pleasure as he inhaled.
“Turn over,” he commanded in a hoarse voice.
The horrid, heartless beast.
“I want to see you without a stitch on this perfect body, my lovely Kestrel,” he said. Bronwyn almost squirmed in pleasure. When had her handle become such a wickedly sinful moniker instead of a curse on his lips? “I want to touch every inch of you so that you never forget.”
Bronwyn obeyed, the friction of her wet thighs moving together almost impossible to bear, and then his hands were working the laces of her dress and corset. Every press of the fabric against her flesh made her skin prickle. She was so aroused that each second felt like she was about to shatter. The mattress shifted with his weight as Valentine eased the garments off her body. Air kissed her bare skin and then…nothing. With her face buried in the bedclothes as she was, she couldn’t see him, but she could feel him staring at her. It made her chest squeeze that she could bring him thus, to such a speechless state.
Bronwyn turned and propped herself on her elbow, glancing at him where he knelt on the bed, jaw slack and eyes so burningly bright they almost outshone the fire behind him. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Bronwyn. I admit I did you a gross injustice by not worshipping this body in the manner it deserved. Twice.” A fingertip chased down her spine, causing her to arch wantonly. It traced over the place on her arse where he’d bitten before dipping into the crease between her legs and making her gasp.
“Then do it now,” she urged. “Hold nothing back. Not here, not with me. It will be our gift to each other.” A gift before parting. Bronwyn closed her eyes, refusing to think of the end before they’d even started. “Your turn. I wish to see you as well.”
He pulled the shirt over his head as she pushed up to her knees to unfasten his trousers. He kicked them loose. When they knelt facing each other in the altogether, bare of everything but skin and burning passion, in the middle of his bed, Bronwyn felt an odd sense of accord. That this was right where she was supposed to be in this moment. Here with him, her body making a forever pledge that only his could hear.
I am yours.
She reached up to touch his tight jaw. “Make love to me, Valentine.”
***
The choice of words did not escape him. Strangely, they did not scare him either. This would not be like either of their previous encounters—he knew that for sure. Valentine had never brought a woman back to this chamber. Even when he’d been “married” to Lisbeth, any consensual relations took place in her room or when they were on assignment.
Kneeling toward each other as he and Bronwyn were now with no clothing or barriers between them, he felt a deep sense of vulnerability, as if every part of him, including his pounding heart, were laid bare before her. And for once in his life, Valentine didn’t want to hide. He wanted to give her everything…all his flaws, his scars, his darkness.
Her fingertips traced over his smooth jaw, then traced over the parted contours of his mouth. First the upper lip and then the lower. Valentine resisted the urge to lick the pad of her finger. His eyes met her brilliant blue ones, almost glowing in the muted firelight. He could get lost in those eyes. It was as though she wanted him to see into her, too.
When her hand moved to cup the back of his neck and draw him close to her, Valentine didn’t resist. Her lips brushed softly over his once, then twice, the achingly gentle strokes making his heart flutter quite unnecessarily. Hinging nearer so that her pert breasts grazed his chest, she kissed his nose, his cheeks, then his brow, the soft pulses bursting across his skin like the most treasured of touches. The tenderness of them sank deep into his marrow.
He let her, because he wanted it, too.
Valentine knew it was dangerous, this game they were playing with each other as if they had a future beyond this moment and this room…as if they were a duke and his duchess retiring for the evening in languorous familiarity. For one night, he could pretend that she was his. That they were each other’s.
He slid his arm around her waist and drew her flush to him, making a gasp fly from her lips when her breasts flattened against him and his cock found a home in the juncture between her thighs. He chased it with his tongue, capturing her next heated breath. He couldn’t get enough of her mouth, her scent, her taste. Valentine wanted to memorize it all. He almost wanted to force himself to slow down, but the passion was already beyond him, sweeping him up into the storm that was her.
“Bronwyn,” he groaned when her fingers tangled into his hair and tugged, angling his neck to one side so that she could slant their mouths together more deeply, as if she, too, could not be sated with a few shallow nips and licks. Valentine wanted to bury himself in her heat, climb inside her skin and live there for all eternity. His thoughts were nonsensical, of course, but his brain was functioning at half capacity, if that. He’d never thought himself capable of such foolish, impulsive thoughts. Climb into someone? It was absurd.
But still, a part of him yearned… What would life be like with her, if circumstances were different? If he’d courted her properly. If she wasn’t Ashvale’s sister. If they hadn’t collided the way they had. Before the ocean liner, Bronwyn Chase had always been a girl, the forbidden younger sister of his best friend, an option he could never entertain. But now, he couldn’t imagine how on earth he’d ever managed to stay away.
A small voice tried to argue that it was nothing but lust, but Valentine knew it was far beyond that.
Bronwyn Chase was…life changing.
“Valentine,” she moaned over his lips, dragging her taut nipples across his mat of chest hair and making them both gasp at the friction. He was so on edge, his skin felt like it was going to split apart at the seams, and yet, he couldn’t stop touching her, mapping every velvet inch of her curves. He never wanted to forget what she felt like.
How responsive she was. How fucking beautiful.
His hands roved her back, from her slender nape along the deep sultry channel of her spine to the sweet rise of her buttocks, drawing her closer until there wasn’t a sliver of space between them. Then he took her lips again in a drugging kiss before lying back on the bed and pulling her to straddle him. He groaned as the new position notched him right in the wet, warm haven between her thighs. “Take your pleasure, Bronwyn,” he said huskily.
Those blue eyes went wide as she rocked against him, the slow, slick glide making them both shudder at the sensation. God, he couldn’t wait to be inside her, but this was all for her. Valentine wanted every second of this interlude to be directed at her whims.
“I’ve read about this position,” she whispered as he settled his palms over her hips.
