Devil in Duke's Clothing (Royal Pains Book 1) (9 page)

Gripping her upper arms through her sleeves, tongue still wrestling with hers, he pushed her down on the bench, pulled up her skirts and blindly groped for her vulva. Finding her bud, he circled it with a finger, eliciting a sound from her that made his cods throb and draw up.

She pulled on his cock like a milkmaid—a feat he found equal parts endearing and enjoyable. Then, to his great dismay, she sat up and withdrew from him.

Evidently, she’d had enough, so he took a breath, sat back on the bench and closed his eyes in an effort to cool his lusts. The next thing he knew, she was betwixt his legs on her knees. She put her hands on his thighs and pushed upward, taking the tartan along.

“What is it you plan to do?” He blinked at her in a hopeful muddle.

She smiled at his erection, now exposed to the breeze. There was no one else around, praise His holy name. She gazed up at him from under her long lashes, gave him a coy smile, and closed her fingers around his rapidly stiffening shaft. Was she really going to fellate him right here in the garden?

Oh, aye. She was indeed.

Her warm, moist mouth closed around his glans. Her tongue circled the rim before stopping to tease the cleft where his foreskin had folded back. Taking him deeper, she sucked hard as her tongue ran up and down his shaft in an excruciatingly pleasurable way.

His head fell back and his eyes half closed. “Oh, Rosebud. Where in the name of God did you learn to do that?”

There could only be one answer. She’d learned it from reading the borrowed books.

She went on licking and sucking, driving him to the edge of reason. Then, she bit him.

By God’s Holy day!

The melding of pleasure and pain nearly made him come off. Clenching against the overwhelming urge, he locked his hands on her skull and eased her mouth off his cock. The feel of the breeze on his spit-moistened flesh induced paroxysms of delight.

She blinked up at him with a childlike look of contrition. “Am I doing it wrong?”

“Nay.” He laughed. “You are doing it far too right, my darling.”

“I want to watch you bring yourself to orgasm,” she said.

Her request and bluntness startled him, provoking a cough. “Wha—why?”

She batted her eyes, the wee minx. “Must I have a reason?”

“I suppose not.” He took hold of his cock, now needfully engorged. “May I make the same request?”

Her cheeks colored. “You mean watch me whilst I watch you?”

“Exactly.”

Setting her hands on the bench betwixt his thighs, she pushed herself to her feet, took the seat beside him and hiked up her skirts. She then pivoted, lifted her feet, and opened her thighs, giving him an enticing view of her petals and bud. Of all the beautiful flowers in the garden, none were as lovely as the one he now beheld.

He tightened his grip on his engorgement. The sun felt warm and the breeze was cool and rose scented. His father had been right about Maggie. She was the perfect wife for him. Innocent, but open-minded. The quintessential virgin-whore.

“You might be ready for my secret chamber sooner than anticipated.”

A dent formed betwixt her golden-brown eyebrows. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

“‘Tis not a threat, Maggie. I have no desire to frighten you.”

“Then, what is it you do desire, Robert?”

He laughed. “Right now, I desire to watch you play with your cunny whilst I stroke my cock. Better yet, let us make a contest of it. The one to climax first gets to make the other to do whatever he or she wishes. Tonight. When we are abed. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes.” She pulled her downy lips apart and poised her forefinger over her bud. “On your marks.”
 

Gaze glued to her dusky rose-colored petals, he ran his thumb over the hypersensitive dome of his glans, smearing a sticky bead of pre-ejaculate across the empurpling flesh.

“And go,” he said, and commenced pumping like a fiend.

Chapter Four

Much to Maggie’s chagrin, Robert won their
plein air
competition. Only by moments, mind—after which he’d been good enough to allow her to cross the finish line, defeated but still sated.

‘Twas late in the evening now and Maggie awaited Robert in her bedchamber, aglow with the dim gleam of candles. He’d not yet named his prize and her nerves were on edge. If he intended to keep her in suspense, his scheme was working prodigiously well.

“What might he propose?” She addressed the question to her own reflection in the looking glass. “Something sinfully wicked, I should imagine.”

Pivoting in her chair, she glanced around her bedchamber. ‘Twas large, but cozy, especially with a fire burning in the grate. The mantle surround, carved with scrolls and flourishes, was lined with soot-stained Delft tiles depicting the Last Supper.

Had she won the garden challenge, she would have asked for one of two prizes. A whole night spent with him in his big tartan-draped bed or a glimpse inside his secret chamber. The thought of the latter still filled her with dread and confronting the fear might help put it to rest. ‘Twas possible the infamous chamber contained naught so very terrifying.

Possible, but unlikely in light of Hugh’s warnings.

Whatever you do Maggie, do not marry my brother.

A well-timed knock on the door nevertheless gave her heart a jolt. She rose from the dressing table in a whoosh of silk and tightened the belt on her new dressing gown. The pale blue moiré silk perfectly matched her eyes, and the elaborately embroidered border almost made her feel like a duchess. Almost, though she strongly suspected self-pleasuring tournaments in the castle gardens were not the usual occupation of noblewomen of her newly elevated station.

The picture of Robert’s triumph crashed in on her thoughts. The guttural sounds of his pleasure and the spectacle of his fountaining semen had pushed her over the edge. The memory of it scorched her all the way to her vulva. Holy Mary! She fanned herself with a hand as she hurried toward the door, her nerves as unraveled as cheap cloth.

A playful idea struck her before she reached her objective. Rather than admit him at once, she stopped far enough away to allow the door to swing open. She fluffed her curls and set a hand on her pearls—more precious to her with each passing hour.

She cleared her throat, stretched her neck, and threw back her shoulders. “Yes? How may I be of service?”

“Open the door, Rosebud.”

“Why do you not open it yourself?”

“Because my hands are otherwise engaged.”

The image of him stroking his cock in the garden flashed behind her eyes. Her mouth twitched, half in anticipation, half in fear. Pray, let it not be a whip he held in both hands. Steeling her courage, she turned the knob and pulled open the door.

On the other side stood her handsome husband, a sight to behold in his own dressing gown—an elegant banyan of gold brocade and midnight blue velvet. ‘Twas tied loosely at the waist with the gold cord edging the velvet lapels. Underneath, he wore his shirt and, oddly enough, his neck cloth, still decoratively knotted. Did he plan to tie her with it? She gave him a timorous smile before dropping her gaze to his hands. In the right, he clasped a dark green flacon. Claret, most likely.

Alarm warbled inside her when she saw what he held in the other. A gold mask of the sort one might wear to a fancy dress ball. Venetian, probably. Flowing ribbons of black silk hung from the temples. Oddly, the eyeholes were covered with bits of cloth outlined with metallic embroidery inset with tiny seed pearls. ‘Twas lovely, but she suspected its purpose was less so. Lifting her gaze to his, she met eyes dancing with a devilishness that provoked a hard swallow.

“Why have you brought a mask?”

“For you to wear.” He stepped through the doorway, his robe brushing hers. “After I strip you naked and tie you to the bed.”

She gulped, unsure how to react. Wearing a mask whilst being tied did not seem so terrible, provided he caused her no pain. She examined his person as he strode deeper into her bedchamber and set both mask and bottle on the night table. He did not appear to have any sort of whip or other pain-inducing device on him, giving her some relief.

Intelligent words escaped her, so she asked the first question that popped into her mind. “Pray, will you be naked, too?”

“Aye.” His beguiling lips curled into a wicked smile. “Eventually.”

She went to him, not wishing him to sense her apprehension. “May I at least have a kiss before you truss me like a Christmas goose?”

His smile beamed and his eyes twinkled. He really did have the most bewitching eyes. At times, they appeared to be gray and at others, quite green. They were green now. Like a cat’s.

Something told her she was to be his mouse tonight.

“Aye, but only one.”

Setting her hands on his chest, she lifted her mouth for his kiss. He took her face in his hands and brushed his thumbs across her lips as he stared into her eyes. A dark fire she’d never seen before burned within them, scaring her some. Her gaze fell to his beautiful mouth. Longing pooled in her womb—a dull, throbbing ache.

“Kiss me, Robert.”

Her gaze remained locked on his mouth, even as her eyelids grew heavy with desire. Only seconds passed, but they seemed like days. The room grew warmer, her breathing more labored. The atmosphere betwixt them crackled with the static of friction as her insides fluttered like hundreds of fiery wings.

“You have such bonny eyes,” he said with heated gaze and crooked grin, “it almost seems a shame to cover them up.”

He pressed his mouth against hers. She closed her eyes, savoring the sweetness of his lips. As she parted hers to release a breath, he thrust his tongue into the breach. She welcomed it with enthusiasm and slipped her arms around his waist. Clasping his firm buttocks in both hands, she pulled his body hard against hers. Feeling his erection trapped betwixt them like a living thing unleashed a burst of warmth in her loins.

He ended the kiss too soon, leaving her adrift and anchorless in a dark, swirling sea of passion. He stepped back, removed two pewter cups from the pockets of his banyan, and filled them from the bottle he’d brought. He offered her one, which she took, before raising his in a toast.

“To pleasure.”

“To happiness.” She touched her cup to his with a soft, metallic
clunk
.

He narrowed his eyes. “Are they not the same thing?”

“No, Robert. They are not.”

He shrugged and sipped his claret. “Drink up, Rosebud. The wine will help you to relax.”

The comment had the opposite effect. Relax for what, pray tell? She emptied her cup and held it out for a refill. After he obliged her, she gulped it down. The wine warmed her blood and loosened her muscles, as intended.

Her body tensed again when he picked up the mask. As he placed it over her eyes, he said, “You must trust me completely, eschew all fear, and wholly give yourself over to the experience. Do you think you can do that?”

As the cruel hands of dread and doubt threatened to strangle her, he spun her round and tied the ribbons at the back of her head, pulling a few hairs in the process. Her mind spun like a tot’s wooden top. Could she trust him? She wanted to, but wondered if she could or should. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Naught you need fear.”

She was dissatisfied. “Pray, can you be more explicit?”

He untied the belt on her dressing gown. She wore a nightdress underneath—a bonny one of finely embroidered batiste. He peeled the robe down her arms. As the weight of it came off her body, cold air infiltrated the thin cotton of her rail. She shivered, not entirely from the chill. He cupped her breasts through the fabric and ran his thumbs across the nipples. Goose pimples pebbled her flesh as desire blustered through her.

“Are you not going to answer me?”

“I will not hurt you,” he assured her, “should that be your fear.”

‘Twas, and lingered despite his assurance. “Do you give me your vow?”

He squeezed her breasts with pressure just this side of painful. “Aye.”

“And this is supposed to somehow cement the bond betwixt us?”

“The best relationships are built on trust.” He kneaded her breasts, stimulating her nipples in a most distracting fashion. His mouth touched hers unexpectedly. He nibbled and kissed her lower lip before running the tip of his tongue along the seam. When she widened the gap to invite him to deepen the kiss, he withdrew.

“Do exactly as I say. Nothing more and nothing less. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

His mouth came back to hers and nipped her pouting bottom lip.

She gasped in surprise. His breath was warm and humid on her mouth as his teeth tugged gently on her lip. He smelled of wine and sin.

“What are you planning to do after tying me to the bed?”

He bit her lip hard enough to give her a jolt. “Do not speak unless spoken to. If you cannot hold your tongue, I shall make you wear a gag as well as a blindfold.”

Her anger rose in protest, but she kept still. As much as she opposed being made to keep quiet, she cared less for the threat of being gagged. The darker side of the duke both frightened and thrilled her. This was the man she’d seen that day from the closet, the serpent who’d lured her from the garden of childhood innocence into the orchard of fleshly desires.