Devil in Duke's Clothing (Royal Pains Book 1) (7 page)

“My cock will be worse, but I’ve done all I can to mitigate your discomfort.”

He eased his fingers out of her, pushed up on his arms, and walked up her body on his hands. Anticipation licked at his cods as he positioned his hips betwixt her thighs.

“I’m going to take you now.” He gritted his teeth against the urge to bury himself to the hilt. “If it hurts too much, tell me so and I shall stop—even if it kills me, which it very well may.”

She smiled, but with fear in her eyes. He’d rather see love there—would he ever? Maybe in time. For now, he’d settle for trust and tenderness. From the compost of those two things, love could take root and grow.

First, however, he’d have to reverse the convent’s programming. Sex—even off-color sex—betwixt a husband and wife was not a sin in his books, provided both parties were willing participants. Getting her on the same page might take a wee bit of time.

He’d have to be patient—right now and in the future. Their happiness together depended on it.

Positioning himself at her entrance, he pushed forward just enough to bury the tip of his glans. There he paused, with great effort, to avoid hurting or frightening her.

He had one chance to do this right, and he was determined not to cock it up.

“Relax, Maggie. It will be easier if you refrain from tensing up.”

He pushed a smidgen deeper, sinking the head. Sweet Jesus, was she tight. Easing into her might not be possible. He slid still deeper, clenching teeth and muscles against the overpowering urge to thrust.

He was vaguely aware of her hands on his back, her fingernails raking his flesh.

Holding himself in check, he inched deeper. Never had he taken so much care—and never wished to again. He watched her face for any trace of pain. She grimaced a wee bit and clawed at his back. God, what torture. ‘Twas all he could do not to climax.

The physical pleasure, however, accounted for only part of his present raptures. He also felt complete for the first time in his life. ‘Twas as if he’d found a missing part of himself he hadn’t been aware he’d lost.

And perhaps he had.

Her gaze was glassy and fixed on him. Her hands were on him, too, pressing his chest—to physically connect or to throw him off?

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, but looked pained.

“Your body must be broken in, I’m afraid, before you will find intercourse pleasurable. Please do not wholly judge the merits of our marriage bed by the first experience.”

He eased his cock deeper, keeping his gaze locked on her face. She flinched and gasped as her maidenhead gave way. He kept going until their pubic curls interwove, black and gold. At last, he was fully seated within his bride, making the marriage official in the eyes of God. His Rosebud, at long last, belonged to him.

Lowering himself, he pressed his lips against hers. She kissed him back, easing his woes on her behalf. She put her hands in his hair, which fell over both their faces. The kiss grew more passionate. He withdrew his cock a wee ways and sank back in. Pleasure stormed through him, exquisite and violent. He repeated the action with agonizing languor.

He rarely kissed his sexual partners. It seemed too intimate somehow. Kissing Maggie, however, was superb. As her tongue came into his mouth, he pushed his cock deeper into her virgin-tight burrow. God, but it felt amazing, this heady mixture of physical and emotional gratification. If only she could come to care for him one day. That would be sheer heaven. To have her body, her mind, and her love.

Hope and need played tug-o-war with his heart. He flexed his hips, pulling back before plunging again into her succulent, squeezing heat. Extreme pleasure rushed through him. The urge to hammer her burned in his gullet. Sweat beaded his forehead as he fought to maintain his slow, measured thrusting.

He extracted himself from the kiss so he could both breathe and speak. “Maggie, I’m going to move with more purpose. Do you think you can bear it?”

“I think so.”

He eased his prick partway out and thrust in with more force. She seemed all right, so he did it again and again, setting a steady rhythm as he pumped. His arms trembled and ached from supporting his weight, but the way her snug wee twat dragged on his cock was utterly divine.

Taking his weight on one arm, he wedged the other hand into the place where their bodies were joined, seeking her clitoris. As he rubbed the spot, she twitched and clenched so tightly around him he nearly came off. He groaned and stopped thrusting, but kept working her clit.

Her breathing grew ragged, her eyes pleasure-glazed, and her nipples erect. When she quivered, he moved again whilst continuing to attend her bud. He pulled back and drove deep. She was still glove-tight, but better lubricated now. He was ready to take the plunge, but wanted her to dive in with him.

“Come on, Maggie. Jump with me, darling.”

Her fingers squeezed his arms as her cunt squeezed his todger. Holy God, there was no holding back now. He quickened his thrusts. She dug her fingernails into his arms, arched her back, and made the most wonderful sound he’d ever heard.

As her cunt began to convulse, she bucked under him like a wild filly. He rode her hard as she thrashed and squirmed. Pleasure and pressure coiled together in his cods. They drew up, ready to unload. Every muscle clenched as bliss raced up his shaft. It took everything he had to pull out. As he docked his member against her pubic mound, ecstasy splintered through him. His cock pulsated violently, spurting his seed across her belly.
 

“That was incredible,” he said, panting hard. “Was it all right for you?”

The sweet sigh she released gave him his answer.

He fell down beside her, sweat drenched and spent. She moved against him. He collected her in his arms, wanting to hold onto the closeness they’d achieved. He kissed her moist temple and murmured again how beautiful he found her. He wanted to tell her he loved her—and in this moment, he felt it to his core—but he did not want to say it until there was some chance she’d return his feelings.

Drawing back his head, he studied her expression. She looked sated and sleepy and wore a wee hint of a smile. With a full heart, he held her close and closed his eyes. She was his now and, God and king willing, would remain so for the rest of his days.

Chapter Three

Light filled the room, coaxing Maggie like a gentle touch from dream to reality. She stretched out and opened her eyes. ‘Twas morning. She’d survived the wedding night—a wee bit worse for wear, mayhap, but nothing too traumatic. She still could barely believe it. She was a duchess, married to a dashing duke, who lay beside her, fast asleep.

Why had he not returned to his own bedchamber? Not that she was bothered. Quite the opposite, in fact. Did he plan to take her again? She had mixed feelings about the prospect. On the one hand, she was rather sore down there. He’d called it her stamen, but a casing stretched to its limits by an invasion of sausage would be much more appropriate. On the other hand, she’d enjoyed the closeness of his body, his passionate kisses, the animalistic sounds of his pleasure, and, of course, the glorious climax, which he’d described perfectly.

That sublime culminating moment when ecstasy takes flight through your being on a thousand blissful wings.

Robert lay on his side, one arm under the pillow, his wild hair partially covering his face. Seizing the opportunity to make a study of him, she drank in every detail within view. He looked more gentle and boyish in slumber. His eyelashes were long and sweeping, his cheekbones high, his nose straight, and his jaw square and strong. His lips were parted, giving the soft sounds of his slumber an easy escape.
 

His hair, like hers, had lost some of its curl in sleep and looked a magnificent mess. She liked how he wore his own instead of shaving his head to accommodate a more fashionable periwig. His hair was beautiful and she longed to touch it. She also longed to kiss his mouth. Did she dare?

No. She mustn’t.

If she touched him, he might awaken, robbing her of the chance to admire him unobserved. He was so beautiful, intelligent, and passionate. And hers. Or was he? They were wed, but did it automatically follow he’d be faithful? What if she abhorred the things he did in his secret room? If she failed to meet his needs, could she blame him for seeking satisfaction elsewhere?

No, she could not in fairness hold it against him, but ‘twould still give her pain. With a soft sigh, she rolled onto her back and looked up at the ceiling, her thoughts turning to Hugh. Robert, a better man than she’d originally believed, had sent his brother away for her sake. She was glad of it now. She had no wish to be married to a man who could not desire her.

Robert did want her as she wanted him—despite the soreness betwixt her legs and the urgent need to make water. Slipping out of bed, she retrieved the chamber pot from underneath and squatted over it. Blessed relief followed. Pushing the commode out of the way, she started to climb back into bed, but changed her mind. Opportunity knocked but once. She’d never seen Robert’s room and burned for a glimpse. Surely, he’d left it unlocked.

She crept in bare feet across the frigid floorboards, grimacing each time they squeaked or groaned. Robert roused not, thank the saints. The doorknob turned in her hand. She eased it open, keeping the hinges as quiet as possible.

Lord, bless me.

Her jaw dropped as she beheld the chamber. The bed was massive, very masculine, elaborately carved, and draped from top to bottom in blue-and-green tartan. The walls were a cheerful yellow, the ceilings high and heavily framed with crown moldings, and the other furnishings sparse. A washstand, a night table, a chest of drawers, and a small chair where he doubtless sat to take his footwear off and on. She bit back the urge to look in his drawers.

‘Twas wrong to snoop.

Though not much larger than hers, the room seemed much grander. ‘Twas the canopy, no doubt. Paintings hung on either side of the massive bed—a childhood likeness of Mary and a woman in an opulent red gown. Maggie touched the pearls at her throat as her gaze landed on the same necklace on the subject of the painting. She must be his mother, the former duchess. She had his lovely eyes, too—or, rather, he had hers.

Maggie looked back to the bed with a mild qualm. Would he ever invite her to sleep with him here? Would he share it with other women with his wife in the next room? Many husbands did. Some even resided with their wives and mistresses under the same roof. She prayed Robert would not be so insensitive of her feelings.

The thought pierced her heart so she threw it away and replaced it with another. If she pleased him, he would have no need to seek out other women.

A thick book lay upon the small, tall-legged table beside the bed. She crept over, mindful of creaks, and examined the spine.

Paradise Lost
by John Milton.

Curious, she cracked the cover and skimmed the first passage her gaze fell upon.

though both

Not equal, as thir sex not equal seem’d;

For contemplation hee and valor form’d,

For softness shee and sweet attractive Grace,

Hee for God only, shee for God in him:

His fair large Front and Eye sublime declar’d

Absolute rule; and Hyacinthine Locks

Round from his parted forelock manly hung
 

Clust’ring, but not beneath his shoulders broad:

Shee as a veil down to the slender waist

Her unadorned golden tresses wore

Dishevell’d, but in wanton ringlets wav’d

As the Vine curls her tendrils, which impli’d

Subjection, but requir’d with gentle sway,

And by her yielded, by him best receiv’d,

Yielded with coy submission, modest pride,

And sweet reluctant amorous delay.

Maggie frowned her displeasure with the verse. It seemed to suggest Eve stood below Adam in the eyes of God. According to the author, Eve, having been made from Adam’s rib, served God
through
her mate whilst he served God directly. Did Robert agree with this John Milton person’s ideas? She sincerely hoped he did not.

She closed the book and, burning with affront for her sex, crept back into her own bedchamber and carefully shut the door.

Robert still slept. She considered pulling down the bedcovers so she could gaze upon all of him, but the room was chilly and ‘twould be unkind to deprive him of the warmth of his blankets.

Going to the dressing table, she set down in the chair and gazed into the looking glass. Her hair was as big a fright as his, but otherwise, she looked no different for having lost her virginity. She endeavored to bring order to her chaotic coif with her fingers, but to no avail. Her tight curls had dissolved into frizz.

She powdered her nose and removed her pearls with a twinge of regret—she really did think them lovely.

They were my mother’s, and are as prized to me as you are, Maggie.

Returning to the bed, she slipped under the covers, grateful for their warmth, and snuggled against her new husband. She was ready for him to awaken, to hold her and kiss her and make love to her again if he wanted to. She would grin and bear it if that was what ‘twould take to keep him from looking elsewhere.