The Duchess Takes a Husband, page 16
“I like your touch.” Even as he violated his oath, she could do nothing but trust him. “Have we officially begun?” she teased.
He leaned toward her a fraction, and she felt the hard press of his desire against her hip. A thrill leaped through her. “I take that as a yes,” she said.
He grinned and answered her with his mouth, gently nipping the meat of her palm with his teeth. He wore only a dressing gown of navy brocaded silk with gold trim. The buttons were unfastened, leaving a flimsy belt to hold it closed, exposing his calves, bare feet, and an expansive portion of his chest. His skin was that same lovely hue of golden brown everywhere, even where the sun never touched. His chest was covered in a sprinkling of dark hair. She wanted to feel it under her fingers. Usually by this point she didn’t want to savor things; she simply wanted them to be finished.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded even though she wasn’t sure that she was. Even thinking of how Hereford had made her feel had an echo of those feelings coming back. Jacob kept hold of her hand but leaned back, resting more on his side than his elbow. She couldn’t resist a peek down at his impressive cockstand hidden within the decadent folds of silk. Mrs. Godwin would have had him in hand by now, she knew. She hated that she could not match that enthusiasm. She hated that—
“Camille.” She hadn’t realized that her thoughts had made her gaze wander to the fireplace until he called her back. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
She opened her mouth to say nothing, which is exactly what she always did—she minimized herself to make things easier, but something else came out. It was a version of the truth. “I was thinking about the other times I’ve tried this with men.”
She didn’t know what she expected from him after that. Censure, perhaps? Disappointment? But this was Jacob and he didn’t expect anything of her. He didn’t want a particular version of herself other than the one she gave him. She didn’t have to be good, because he didn’t expect that. In a strange and twisted way she still couldn’t work out, it helped her to take a deep breath.
“Do you want to tell me about them?” he asked, his dark gaze holding hers with patience.
She hadn’t, but as soon as he asked, she was able to take another breath. “I don’t want to talk about my husband.” God no, even mentioning his name could ruin the entire night. She rushed forward instead. “There were two others. First there was Henry. Henry was a footman here at the duke’s townhome in London. He was young and handsome, and I could tell he had a fondness for me right from the start. I snuck out one night with August soon after she arrived from New York and took him with us because I knew he would keep the secret. It’s actually the first time I saw you. I didn’t know who you were, but I thought you were very handsome.”
He smiled and his brow rose with interest. “When was this?”
“In Whitechapel. The bare-knuckle brawling match where the man had spikes in his shoes and injured Evan.”
“Ah yes. The man was Wilkes. I remember that night well.”
“Somehow my husband found out about that adventure and that Henry had accompanied us. Henry was dismissed and I didn’t hear from him again . . . that is until the duke died and I sought him out.” She still didn’t know why she had gone looking for him, except that she had hoped—needed what he had felt for her to have been real.
“He had told me once that he was from a small town in Sussex and that his mother had called in a favor from an uncle to get him into service with Hereford. I found him in his village and . . . I am ashamed to admit that I was so happy to see him that I didn’t question anything. Not why he was sitting in a pub in the middle of the day or why he insisted we leave out the back entrance. He took me to his room and I thought we might . . .” She blushed and looked away. God, this was more difficult than she thought.
“You thought that you would make love?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I thought that we would spend the day together. Talking. Finding out that maybe what he felt for me was real and that I might return his feelings. I didn’t even know my feelings for him, only that it felt good to be admired and cared for. But when we got to his room, he was in such a hurry to sleep with me. In fact, I even thought that maybe . . . maybe being with him was what I needed, that it would make me feel better. But it didn’t . . .”
It had felt too similar to the way Hereford was with her. His touch had been tinged with desperation and a selfish need to possess. She had quickly begun to feel used.
“Someone knocked on the door before we got very far, and I was so relieved. It was Henry’s fiancée. Someone at the pub had seen us leave together and gone to find her.”
“Tell me that was the last you saw of Henry.”
The plea in his voice made her laugh and gave her the courage to meet his gaze. No censure toward her was present, only disgust at Henry’s actions. “That was the last I saw of him. I took the first train back to London.”
“And the other man?”
She didn’t miss the ardent curiosity in his tone. “No one important. He’s a man named Frederick from New York. At one time our families thought we might marry, but that was many years ago, before my parents met the duke and thought he would be the better choice. We met again when I returned to visit my parents after Hereford’s death. The experience was similar to Henry . . . the physical experience, that is.”
“In what way was it similar? What is it precisely?”
She shrugged and said out loud what she should have said earlier. “I feel as if I become an object to be used. As if I cease to be a person.” Her throat threatened to close in shame, so she sat up abruptly. This was too difficult. She didn’t expect him to understand, but she couldn’t stop talking. “I feel as if I am only there to submit.”
He didn’t move except to stroke a hand down her back. “What if we could make certain you do not feel used or forced to submit?”
She glanced over her shoulder, surprised to see him pensive and calm. “How?”
“You keep the control.”
The silk tie had loosened so that his robe opened even more to reveal his stomach all the way to his navel. She had felt the power contained there but seeing the contour of muscle and sinew was entirely something else. The plains and valleys were evidence of the time he spent in the club’s gymnasium. Each apparatus was designed to develop a different set of muscles, to help a man achieve his full potential and enhance performance. It had said so in the membership pamphlet. Apparently, the pamphlet hadn’t lied.
His hand dropped from her back, drawing her attention to it. Even that part of him was strong. His fingers were long and tapered, graceful in their strength, but broad across the palms. The club sometimes hosted exposition bare-knuckle brawling matches in the gymnasium. She had seen those hands turn to fists and punch men twice his size and knew the damage they wrought. There was even a small cut and redness along one knuckle. Had he been fighting tonight?
“What control could I possibly retain when you are so very powerful?” she asked.
“You are more powerful than you think.” His touch on her cheek was feather soft as he pushed back a strand of her hair. “More beautiful than you know. Stronger than you feel. You have all the control you want at your fingertips if you would only reach out and take it.”
So she did. Her fingers trembled as she reached toward the valley between his pectoral muscles. The sprinkling of crisp, dark hair felt foreign beneath her fingertips. She had never touched this part of a man before, not with intent. His skin was soft over the firm brawny strength beneath. She squeezed a little, delighting in the tautness of his strength. Her palm moved over the mound in a slow glide that pushed the robe further apart, revealing his nipple. It was brown and rigid and she couldn’t resist trailing her fingertip across the tight bud. His eyes seemed darker, dilated with a need that had become more potent in the last few seconds.
“Like this?” she asked.
“However you like.” A husky texture roughened his voice. This tangible proof of how she affected him was indeed powerful.
She turned to sit more comfortably on the edge of the bed, keeping one foot firmly on the floor to stabilize her. With both hands, she pushed his robe open until it fell off his shoulders. They were as broad and powerful as the rest of him. The few times she had attended the illegal warehouse fights, the men were usually shirtless. She assumed this prevented anyone from bringing weapons into the fray. She had only ever seen Jacob brawl in the exhibitions at the club where the fights were more civilized and the men wore shirtsleeves. The only skin revealed was their forearms, as they usually rolled up their sleeves.
“You’re beautiful, Jacob.”
The light played peekaboo with his physique. It highlighted the bulges and enticed her to feel where the sinew gave way to tendon and bone. She explored him with her fingers as if there was no light with which to see him. She delighted in the way his breath would hitch as he watched her. She traced the line of his shoulder down to his palm. On the way back up, she moved to his stomach. He flinched under the weightless touch of her fingers.
“You’re ticklish.” She didn’t know why the knowledge charmed her so, but it did.
He leaned back farther against the pillows to allow her better access. A smile tipped his lips as he said, “I bet you are, too.” His eyes left no mistake that he meant to find out one day. She was surprised that she very much wanted him to. His fingertips moved in a light touch against her hip, promising there could be more but demanding nothing.
“Perhaps,” was all she said, reluctant to be distracted from her exploration.
His belly was flat, and when she pressed, she could trace the ridged muscle beneath his skin. He was so warm that she wondered what it would be like to lie next to him with no clothes between them, flesh to flesh, and have his body warm hers. She wanted to feel his firmness melding with her softness. Dimly, she was aware of her growing arousal. The way her breath came faster, propelled by the speed of her heartbeat. The way her nipples drew tight and made her breasts feel heavier. That pleasant ache had returned between her thighs, wanting his touch. But she also knew that the anxiety and nausea would be fresh on the heels of those good feelings if she pushed things too far. The moment she gave way to that goodness, the bitterness would flood in, so she didn’t allow them to take her over. They stayed at the periphery of her mind, taunting her senses and leaving her nerves tingling with suspended anticipation.
“Do you want to touch more of me?” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
He was asking if she wanted to touch him even more intimately. She swallowed, caught in the very indecency of the question and her own desire to say yes. She had certainly never touched a man there before. He stood proud and ready behind the curtain of the robe that shielded him.
When she didn’t answer immediately, he moved. She stiffened as he reached for what she thought would be her wrist. She expected he would take charge now and show her how to touch him. He didn’t. He pulled the fabric tight so that the shape of his aroused length was clearly visible beneath it. She couldn’t breathe as she watched him trace a line from his bollocks to the tip, which was only just hidden behind the part of the fabric. He was long and broad even there. Powerful.
Her hand dropped from his chest to rest on his thigh, the fabric soft and cool beneath her. She couldn’t take her eyes from his fingertips lightly playing up and down his length. More than anything, she wanted to do that to him. She wanted to watch his face as he took pleasure in her touch.
Somehow, she found the nerve to ask him. “May I do that?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“You have the control tonight, Camille. You can do whatever you want to me.”
A thrill of exhilaration accompanied those words. She believed him. Following his lead, Camille touched the head of his erection with the tip of her index finger. He didn’t move; even his breathing stilled as his eyes fixed on that point of contact. Her fingertip slid down his length as she marveled at how rigid and solid he felt. “Does it hurt you when you’re hard like this?”
“It can, a bit.” His voice did have the hesitation of someone in pain, as if he had to measure his breath to allow for sentences. “Similar to the ache in your cunny, when you’re wanting to be touched . . . or filled.”
His crude words had her looking at him before she could control her reaction.
“Do you know that ache?” The sheer magnetism on his face fed that yearning. He looked at her as if no one else existed.
She nodded and jerked her gaze away from his, back to the very real proof of his desire between them. His hands closed into tight fists when she made a little cove with her hand, palming him while keeping the pressure gentle. He felt foreign but not scary. Her gaze kept moving from his hard length to his hard torso, tracing the ridges and valleys of his chest and stomach. Just looking at him made her body feel heavy and tingly. She wanted to lie on top of him and feel him as many places at once as she could. And she really wanted to know what he looked like beneath the fabric.
“Do you want something?” he whispered. He searched her face, looking for any hint of what she might desire.
She wanted to see him, but it seemed as if it could be considered vulgar to say as much. Would it? There was so much about this she didn’t know. It seemed there were rules to everything in life, so why would this be different? Instead of answering, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder. His skin was warm and soft beneath her lips. She inhaled smoky hints of sandalwood as she moved lower, trailing kisses until her chin brushed against his nipple. The urge to feel it under her tongue came over her. She licked him hesitantly, uncertain if he would like it. The moment her tongue touched him the heavy length of him jerked against her palm. That part of him could move on its own. A tiny spot of wetness appeared on the silk near the tip. She looked from the circle of darkened silk to his face only to find his eyes wide and fathomless as if he wanted to devour her with them.
“Did you . . . ?”
“No, a little can leak out.” He grinned, but then continued seriously. “It is why you should never allow a man inside you unsheathed or without a sponge, even if he claims to be able to withdraw.”
“A sponge?” She knew about sheaths. Violet had brought her one and they had giggled over its shape. Later, she had taken a tin with her when she had gone to see Henry, anticipating what might happen. Thank God they hadn’t had to use it. But she had never heard of a sponge in this context.
He leaned toward the table beside the bed, and she was forced to move her hand away, making her realize that she didn’t want to. She wanted to keep touching him. Opening the drawer, he retrieved an apothecary jar and reached inside with two fingers. He pulled out a small round material that looked like a sponge with a string attached to it.
“This goes inside you before sex. It’s soaked in a vinegar mixture which prevents the sperm from taking root.”
She stared at it, wondering how she was supposed to possibly put that where it was meant to go, then she looked at him and wondered how she felt so comfortable having this conversation with him. “I didn’t know that such a thing existed.”
He handed it to her before replacing the jar’s lid and returning it to his drawer. “Sometimes they’re preferable over sheaths, which can dull sensation. There is also the option of having a cervical cap made for you.”
“Oh.” She had never heard of a cervical cap, either. “I suppose there’s much I don’t know,” she said, turning the sponge over in her hand.
His fingertips touched her face, brushing a strand of hair back. “I can teach you. Is there something else you want to know?”
She shook her head and placed the contraceptive on the table, all the while considering how to ask him. “Well . . . perhaps . . .”
“Say it, Camille.”
“I wonder if I could touch you without the fabric between us.”
“Of course.” Eagerness lit his face, making his eyes bright as he untied the belt and pushed the dressing gown back. It clung to his arms but left the rest of him fantastically bare. From the wide expanse of his shoulders to the ridged muscles of his torso, he was so beautiful. She wanted to savor the sight of him fully, but she couldn’t because she was too curious about his newly exposed erection.
It rose between them, almost resting against his stomach, rigid and thick. Powerful just as she’d thought. A moment of anxiety stilled her hand.
“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered.
She believed him. Taking a deep breath to settle herself, she gripped his thigh. His muscle flexed beneath her, reminding her of how his strength was attractive to her. It could be the same with that part of him.
“I want to touch you.”
He nodded his encouragement and went still. She reveled in the sharp intake of his breath as they both watched her hand slide up his thigh to his cock. She took him in hand again, only this time there was nothing between his flesh and her palm. With gentle exploration, she exerted a slight pressure as she gripped him. He let out a harsh breath and she looked at him for signs of pain.
“Do that again,” he whispered.
So she did, and the pleasure that crossed his face was unmistakable. A pearl of moisture gathered on the tip, and she touched it before she could talk herself out of it, gliding the pad of her thumb over his satiny skin. She squeezed him again, and he took her hand in his. She watched, unable to react in any other way, as he brought her palm to his mouth and placed a kiss there. She gasped when he licked her, making her stomach quicken in pleasure. Then he brought her hand back to his cock and showed her how to pleasure him.
