No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (Page 74)

She drank him in, every inch bathed in golden candlelight, and she wondered at him. How had this glorious god of a man, built like a Greek statue or a Michelangelo, come from one of the finest aristocratic lines in all of England? There was nothing mincing or foppish about him. He was the most masculine thing she’d ever seen, all power and grace and strength.

Her gaze rested on his good hand, clutching the cravat he’d tossed away earlier, the long stretch of cloth at once promise and threat.

“You worry about control,” he said.

Her heart began to pound. “Yes.”

He extended the cravat toward her. After a long moment, she took it, and he lay down on the bed, extending his arms up until his hands met the slats of the headboard.

Her mouth went dry at the look of him, spread out before her, broad and beautiful. And he was beautiful. He was perfect in every way.

And then he said, “Take it. Be in control,” and desire coursed through her, hot and heavy and far too powerful to resist.

She ran the cravat through her fingers, eyes wide, and said, “Are you certain?”

He nodded once, his grip tightening on the headboard. “Trust me, Mara.”

She inched up the bed, naked but for those silken stockings, watching his gaze on her, loving it. Kneeling beside him, she said, “You wish me to tie you to it?”

He smiled. “I wish you to do whatever you like to me.”

He was turning himself over to her. To her pleasure. And all she could think was that her pleasure was somehow inexorably tied to his. The thought gave her courage, strength to do the unthinkable, to straddle his torso, the heat of her pressed against his naked skin. He groaned and closed his eyes, lifting his hips from the bed, pressing up against her, his body making promises she hoped desperately that it would keep. His eyes flashed. “But if you plan to blindfold me, love, do it now. Before you torture me with this view any longer.”

Blindfold him. Good Lord. Did people do such things?

She wanted to. Desperately.

She couldn’t help the smile that spread at the words, and she loved the way he laughed when it appeared. “You minx. You enjoy it.”

“You want me.”

“Want does not begin to describe the way I feel about you,” his low voice promised. “Want is nothing compared with the level of desire I have. With the desperation I feel. With the way I long for you.”

She leaned over, unable to resist pressing her lips to his, taking his mouth in a deep, thorough kiss that she’d learned from him—in long, lush strokes that left them both breathless.

When she lifted her head, it was to find her courage. She slid the cravat over his eyes, and when he lifted his head from the pillows, she reached behind him and tied it tightly, loving the way his body tensed beneath her, loving the sound of his exhale, low and harsh and perfect.

She leaned forward, pressing her breasts to his chest, being careful of his wound as she whispered in his ear, “You are mine.”

He growled at the words. “Always.”

Not always, though.

She couldn’t have him always. It wasn’t the life he deserved—married to a scandal, to a woman no one would ever accept, to a woman London would never forget. As long as she was with him, he would be the Killer Duke.

And he deserved to be so much more.

But tonight, she could pretend.

She pressed long kisses to his warm skin, across one shoulder and up his good arm, where his tattooed muscles strained against his grip. She couldn’t resist running her tongue along the edge of that inked spot, worrying the dips and curves until he growled his pleasure and she moved on, lower, along the outside of his chest and then across it, paying special attention to the scars dotting his chest and stomach. Kissing them. Tracing their raised surfaces with her tongue.

He hissed at the sensation, and she lifted her head. “Do they hurt?”

“No. It’s just—” She waited for him to finish. “No one has ever wanted to touch them before. Not like this.”

She wanted to touch them. She wanted to touch every inch of him, and the realization made her bold. She lifted herself up and slid down his body, working at the fall of his trousers, sliding buttons from their moorings—instinct and desire overtaking experience. He lifted his hips from the bed, allowing her to slide the trousers down, revealing him, long and hard and perfect.

And hers.

She sat back on her heels, taking him in, spread out upon his bed, his good hand locked at the headboard, knuckles white, straining to stay there. Eager to give himself up to her.

Turning himself over to her.

Giving up his control. For her.

She reached for him then, hand trembling, uncertain. She stilled, an inch from him. Closer.

He sensed it. “Mara,” he said, teeth clenched, anguish and desire making the words thick and lovely.

She wanted to give him everything he wanted. But—“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed, the words somehow easier because he was blindfolded. “I’ve never—I want to do it correctly.”

His breath came in a short, panting laugh. “You can’t do it wrong, darling. I promise. I want you too much.”

She leaned forward, taking her confession with him. “I’ve only ever dreamed it,” she told him. “In the dark of night. I’ve wondered what this would be like.”

He shook his head. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to think of you dreaming of another.”

Shock coursed through her. “It’s never been another,” she said. “It’s always been you.”

And it was her turn to touch, her hand settling on the length of him, feeling him leap and harden even more—if it were possible. He groaned his pleasure, long and loud, and she reveled in the pure, masculine sound. “You’re so hard.”

“I am. For you.”

“And soft, too,” she said. “Like velvet over steel.”

One hand released from the headboard, coming toward her for a split second before he seemed to recall his promise. Before he forced it back to its position. “Not as soft as you.”

“You seem to be having trouble,” she said, her hands running up and down the hot length of him, loving the way his hips moved with her.

He tilted his head. “Are you teasing me?”

She grinned. “Perhaps.”

He scowled. “Remember, Miss Lowe, turnabout is fair play.”

A thrill shot through her. “What a pretty promise.”

The growl again. He couldn’t help himself, the glorious man. “Harder,” he said.

“I thought I was in control,” she said.

“Love, if you don’t think you are in control, you are mad.”

She smiled again, increasing the pressure of her touch. “How could I know I am in charge?”

“Because if I were in charge, we would not be playing silly games.”

She laughed at that, and he said, “I love the sound of your laughter.” She stopped. “It’s so rare. And I want to hear it every day.”

It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to her.

She rewarded him with a long stroke, down and then up his shaft, until his breath was coming hard and fast. “Tell me . . .”

“Anything,” he promised.

“Tell me how you like it.”

He moaned at the words, long and low. “I like it however you wish to give it.”

She leaned forward, kissing him on the lips, surprising him briefly before he reciprocated, the kiss wild and wanton and wonderful. She pulled away and whispered, “Would you like it if I used my mouth?”