He gave her a smoldering grin, his mouth a scant distance from hers. “Depraved. You never did answer my question, Cin.”
The sobriquet was unexpected. On his tongue, it sounded deliciously wicked. Not unlike the word.Sin. Yes, the worst part of her liked it well. All her life, she had been Jacinda. Jacinda the good daughter, Jacinda the loyal wife, Jacinda the quiet widow. For the first time, a wild sense of possibility flitted through her. She saw herself, just for a flash, as someone she might be instead with the shackles of her responsibilities removed.
But the shackles remained, loosened rather than removed, and she could not escape. “What was your question, Your Grace?”
“Crispin,” he prodded, one of his knowing hands dipping between her thighs to trace her most intimate, sensitive flesh. “Will you accept something else from me, Cin?”
Long fingers found the bud of her sex, just the whisper of a touch, so light. She swallowed the moan that rose in her throat but could not keep her body from responding. Her hips undulated, seeking, longing for more pressure.
She should tell him to go to the devil. Should recall what she was about, what she was meant to do, and push him away and flip down her skirts. But her greed superseded duty. She wanted those fingers on her. Wanted those fingers inside her. Wanted his mouth and his tongue and his…
Oh, Lord in heaven.
Jacinda expelled a humid breath. “Crispin.”
He hummed a sound of approval, still stroking over her slick nub enough to tantalize but not satisfy. “Tell me what you want. I am your servant to command. Whatever you order me to do, I shall do.” He kissed her again, lingeringly, his tongue swiping across her bottom lip. “I promise.”
She should know better than to believe the promise of a rakehell. A man she dared not trust. And yet, her resolve had been stripped away as surely as her skirts.One more time, wheedled the wickedness inside her.What can be the harm?
“Tell me what you want,” he prodded. “Take what you want, Cin.”
Jacinda wetted lips that had suddenly gone dry. He was giving her what she had never had in all her life. The twin prizes that eluded every woman thanks to her sex. Things she had not even realized she longed for until this very second.
Power.
Freedom.
She knew what she wanted, and it was the Duke of Whitley on his knees before her, pleasuring her with his mouth. It was a pleasure she had not known existed, and even now, the mere remembrance of his tongue dancing over her sensitive flesh, alternating with the suction of his mouth and the nip of his teeth, sent a thunderbolt of arousal straight to her core.
But she did not dare say what she wanted aloud. Instead, she guided his mouth to hers. When she would have deepened the kiss, however, he withdrew. His gray gaze bored into hers. “Tell me what you want,” he urged again, teasing her with his fingers relentlessly.
The steady ache between her legs had built into a crescendo with his clever digits exerting just enough pressure to arouse her without allowing her to reach her pinnacle. Her body longed for the release he denied her.
Still, she could not speak aloud the new iniquity that ran through her. “Crispin.”
“Cin.” He kissed her again, and it was a kiss that claimed, a kiss that made certain no other kiss that came in its wake could ever match it. “You can.”Kiss.“You will.”Kiss.“Say it now.”
His fingers traced her seam, and when she would have twisted her hips to bring him inside her, he withdrew his touch altogether. She was bereft, denied of the one thing she needed the most.
Holding her gaze, he raised fingers glistening with her dew and sucked them into his mouth. When a guttural sound of appreciation rumbled from him, something inside her broke.
She was in control.
She knew what she wanted.
And she was going to take it.
“I want your mouth,” she said. “On me.”
The look he gave her was enough to set her aflame. The words had scarcely left her lips before he guided her bottom to the edge of the desk and sank to his knees. Hot, smooth hands swept over her thighs. She held her skirts in place, taking in the sight of the Duke of Whitley obeying her wish. This was decidedly not what she had intended to happen in seeking him out, but she had never seen a more pleasing sight in her life.
Until his dark head dipped. His handsome face pressed against her mound. His tongue played over her pearl expertly. The bite of his teeth had her moaning, and then she gave in entirely, keeping her skirts in place with her left hand while allowing the right to burrow into his thick, sleek hair. She cupped his skull and raked his scalp with her nails in appreciation when his tongue followed her slit.
She could not stifle her moan. Full-bodied and loud, it would announce to anyone passing in the hall what she was about. What the duke was about. She knew she had toed a dangerous line between passion and ruination, but now that she had cast caution to the wind, she could not stop.
Would not stop.
His fingers tightened on her hips. He buried his face deeper, using the pressure of his mouth to stimulate her, and when he once more found the nub of flesh that sent pleasure hurtling through her like lightning, she knew it would not be long. He sucked. Those masterful fingers left her hip to sink inside her. He stroked, curling his fingers, probing deep inside as his mouth sucked.
