Somehow, without taking his mouth from hers, he settled between her thighs. The voluminous draping of her skirt accommodated his intrusion. Her legs parted naturally, and her body was traitorously eager for the invasion. Her core ached and pulsed. The need spiraling through her was frightening. She had never wanted another man as she wanted the Duke of Whitley.
Not even James.
It stood against all reason. Against all logic, for Whitley was the enigma she was bound to deceive. If the accusations hurled against him were to be believed, he had betrayed his best friend. He was a traitor. And if rumor was to be trusted, he was also a depraved rakehell, returned from war with an insatiable hunger for thirst and ladies of ill repute.
But another possibility had been niggling at her with increasing certainty. What if Kilross was wrong about Whitley? The papers she had found thus far certainly did nothing to indicate his guilt. He did not feel like a monster in her arms.
No indeed. Quite the opposite.
She scooted forward on the desk, seeking more of him. His groin came into contact with hers. Even with the barrier of her skirts and his breeches, she could feel the hard, thick length of him. His arousal spurred an answering pulse of want within her.
Jacinda told herself she could allow one more kiss before putting an end to her ill-advised lack of inhibition. She could not afford to make herself vulnerable to him in this fashion, and even if she were not charged with uncovering his darkest, most damning secrets, she could never in good conscience carry on with such a lack of respect for her charges. She had not come to Whitley House to be seduced by the Duke of Whitley. Kissing him, allowing his hands to freely roam her body, had never been part of her task here.
He bit her lower lip. She could not suppress a moan as he kissed a path over her flesh. His wicked mouth found her ear. He nibbled the lobe. Licked a particularly sensitive patch of skin. Buried his nose in her hair and inhaled.
“I want you.”
His guttural admission settled in her belly like molten honey. Her nipples tightened. The part of her pressing against his manhood ached. It had been so long since she had been touched intimately. Since she had been desired. Since she’d been kissed. Needs she had buried along with her husband’s memory woke from years of dormancy.
That was why she didn’t protest when he snagged her lace fichu and removed it. Why she didn’t even notice his hand had moved from her nape to the buttons on the back of her serviceable gown until she felt them sliding from their moorings one by one.
She did not move to stop him or to escape.
Mindless longing had taken control of her faculties.
“Do you want me, Jacinda?”
Jacinda.
It was the first time he had used her given name, and the intimacy of it slid over her like a caress. His wicked mouth did not stop its decadent exploration, trailing down her throat. His tongue flitted to the hollow where her heart thumped madly.
“Tell me,” he urged, kissing his way across her collarbone. “Do you want me?”
Yes, and desperately.
No, because she ought not to want him. Ought not to allow him to affect her at all.
She had promised Kilross she would obtain the information he needed. She had a duty to uphold to Father. So very much depended upon the outcome of her month at Whitley House.
Everything, it would seem.
But when the duke dragged those sinful lips across her breast, and when her gown, chemise, and stays lowered in one swift tug, she could do nothing but arch her back. Her fingers tightened in his thick, dark brown hair.
Still, she would not capitulate. Nor would he give her what she wanted without her affirmation. He stilled, glanced up at her with his unnatural gray gaze that cut straight through her. Now was the time to put an end to this. To brace her palms on his shoulders and shove him away.
He blew a long, hot breath over her nipple, never taking his eyes from hers. “One word. Say it. Your body already speaks for you.”
Her breasts had stiffened into taut peaks over breakfast, and they craved his mouth.Shecraved it. Merciful heavens, what had he done to her? Perhaps the Duke of Whitley truly was the devil Kilross would have her believe.
“Yes.”
The whisper fled her lips before she could contain it. The duke flicked his tongue over her. “Louder.”
He was such a demanding man. She should not be surprised his arrogance extended to lovemaking. And though her marriage bed with James had been soft and gentle, tentative and sweet, something in the savage dominance of the Duke of Whitley made her weak. She wanted to battle him. She wanted to let him have his wicked way with her. She wanted to have her wicked way with him.
Lord, how she wanted.
“Yes,” she repeated.
