“My turn,” she repeated, kissing his ear, running her tongue over the whorl, rewarded by the tremor she felt run through him. Here, he was every bit as responsive as she, every bit as affected. “To worship you. With my mouth, and my tongue.” She licked again, kissed his clenched jaw, loving the abrasion of his stubble on her lips. “Let me, Spencer. Let me love you.”
He stiffened, and she stilled in the same instant. She had not meant to say it, but she had lost jurisdiction over herself, caught up in the moment and the desire. For a beat, she turned her options over in her mind, wondering what she ought to do. Fear won, and she rained kisses all the way across his jaw, to the corner of his sensual lips. Passion was a language he understood.
She cupped his beloved face, gazed into his eyes. “Let me make you come.”
“Bloody hell.” The epithet sounded torn from him. His fingers tangled in the wet locks of her nape, and he slammed his mouth into hers. The kiss was open-mouthed, hungry. Almost savage in its insistence.
She kissed him back with everything she had, unleashing all the desire, all the pent-up need, every last drop of the love welling inside her. If she could not tell him with words, she would tell him with her body, with her actions. Bo moaned into his mouth, letting him know how badly she wanted him, unashamed of his effect on her.
On a growl, he rose from the water, scooping her into his arms as he went. She gasped, hands flying to his shoulders for purchase. “Spencer!” She could not help but protest, conscious of the fact that he could so easily slip. Though he had lifted her into his arms on previous occasions, she knew that her tall frame was by no means light as a feather. “Put me down.”
“No.” With a masterful illustration of his exquisitely honed strength, he stepped from the tub, still holding her tight, in one fluid motion.
“Spencer,” she tried again, when he began striding from the bathroom to his chamber.
“Hush,” he chastised, his tone gentle. “The duke insists.”
They were both soaked, and though the castle was drafty in the cooler evening air in spite of its renovations, she was not at all cold. No indeed, she was positively aflame. She clung to him as he carried her all the way to his bed and laid her upon it with such tender care that her heart ached.
As he joined her, she admired the rugged beauty of his body. He slid between her legs, their wet skin connecting in perfect, delicious friction. But when he would have once more taken charge of their lovemaking, she was determined to thwart him. Some far recess of her mind recalled the manner in which he clung to control, and she wanted to upend him. Perhaps if there was a way to break him free of his past, it was this, the only dynamic between them that was easy and without conflict.
While he did not love her, he did desire her every bit as much as she desired him. In this, they were equals. And she longed, how she longed, to break him free of the cage he had built around himself. Maybe this was the way.
She braced the heels of her palms flat against both his shoulders and pushed, not stopping until he relented and submitted to her dominance. He allowed her to roll him on his back. She straddled him, her wet, hungry flesh upon his stomach, and leaned over him until their noses touched.
“The duchess insists more,” she challenged.
And then, without waiting for another word from him, she lowered her mouth to his neck. Here he smelled so divine, of the soap from their bath, and all man. All wonderful. She kissed the cords down to his hard clavicle and then lower, across his pectoral, over each slab of his abdomen, to the soft trail of hair that led lower still.
Mmm.
Her hands trailed after her mouth, and she breathed him in, deep and full, her palms framing his hips. She caressed, moved down, to where his cock strained, full and proud, jutting toward her, dark and engorged, a drop of seed weeping from the slit on his crown.
When they had enacted the woodcut from her bawdy book a few nights ago, he had not spent in her mouth. Instead, he had pulled away, sinking inside her for a few deep thrusts before slipping from her body and delivering his seed into the sheets once more. This time, she was not going to allow him to withdraw.
“Boadicea.”
She paused, glancing back up the sculpted planes of his body to meet his gaze. “Spencer, hold your tongue. Let me worship you.” She kissed the patch of skin beneath his navel.
“Fuck.”
She smiled, dipped her head. “Yes.” Then her fingers circled his shaft, and her mouth closed over him. His hips jerked, and she took as much of his length as she could, sucking and stroking with her tongue. His moan spurred her on, sending moisture between her thighs, a deep pulse of want.
“Sweeting, stop. I don’t want to…”
She ignored him, continuing her assault, gratified when his words trailed off. She wanted him to lose his mind, to lose his thought, to lose every instinct that told him he must restrain himself. If she could not have him spend inside her womb, then she would at least have this.
His fingers tangled in her hair once more, but instead of dislodging her, he held her fast, guiding her, showing her what he liked. How much suction, how fast. She found her rhythm, relaxed her throat, and welcomed him deeper still, moaning her pleasure in time to the sweet sounds of his surrender.
“I cannot,” he groaned.
But he could. And he would.
Bo sucked greedily, wanting as much of him as she could have. Wanting all of him. Everything. Anything he would give. One hand palmed his bum, the other cupped the base of his shaft, her lips and tongue and throat moving over him, up and down, up and down.
A guttural sound tore from him, his hips jerking upward, and then the molten spurt of his seed hit the back of her throat. She swallowed all of it, all of him, and it was not enough, but it would have to do.
For now.
