She obeyed because he was Duncan and she trusted him implicitly, seating herself primly on the edge of his bed. She stared up at him, acutely aware he was fully clothed while she was almost entirely nude. She felt wicked, wild, and free. It was wrong, forbidden, and the knowledge only made her want him more.
He dropped to his knees before her, his hands on her ankles, kneading softly. He kissed one, then the other. His hands swept up her calves, warm brands. Claiming.
She could not suppress the soft moan of appreciation that emerged from her. She was recalling his mouth on her flesh, his tongue. His teeth. She remembered all too well the pleasure he had brought her, and even now, her core throbbed. Perhaps something was wrong with her. She was lacking in morals, it was certain, for she could not dredge up a speck of remorse or shame.
He took off her shoes. His fingers found the arches of her feet, massaging as he kissed his way to her knees. Even though her fine stockings provided a barrier between his lips and her bare skin, she felt those kisses in the center of her body.
His hands swept higher, leaving her feet to glide over her ankles, up her calves, all the way to her thighs. He caressed her. Raked his nails gently over her skin. She jerked at the sensation, meeting his gaze.
“Open for me, darling,” he ordered gently.
She did as he asked, her legs falling apart. He was between them in an instant, fully clothed and gorgeous in his black coat and trousers. His golden head dipped low like a supplicant. He pressed a kiss to her right knee, then her left. Then higher still, up her inner thigh. His hands and his mouth worked in concert, skimming her everywhere, licking, sucking, gently nibbling, all whilst he avoided the part of her he had so thoroughly pleasured before. And now that she knew the pleasure to be had from such an action, she wanted it again.
And again.
And again.
But she would settle for once more just now. One more touch of Duncan Kirkwood’s wicked mouth upon her sensitive flesh. One more flick of his tongue, suck of his mouth.
He kissed higher still, and she jerked, arching against him.
“Do you like this?” he asked as his tongue flitted over her flesh.
Near enough to where she wanted him but not the same. “Please, Duncan,” she whispered.
His hands, so large, so knowing, ran up her outer thighs. “Please what, darling? Please lick you? Please make you spend? Say it. Tell me everything. Every wicked little thing you would have me do. I want it all, your complete surrender. Tonight, you are mine alone, Frederica. Tonight, you belong to me.”
Of course she was his. Always his. Only his, and she would do whatever he asked of her. Anything if it meant more of his touch upon her skin, more of his mouth on her, more of the torturous pleasure only he could deliver.
Up and down his hands traveled, over her thighs in slow and steady strokes, touching her so softly, so sweetly, as if he feared she was as delicate as the finest porcelain teacup. He kissed a path back to her knees. He had made her greedy, and she wanted more. But the words would not leave her tongue.
“I want words, darling.” He kissed his way back to the juncture of her thighs, pursing his lips and blowing a tantalizing burst of humid air over her pulsing sex. “Give them to me.”
“Ah,” was all she could manage at first. “Your mouth. I want your mouth.”
“Here?” He moved higher, teasing her, pressing a kiss to the jut of her hip.
“No.” She moved, restless. “You know where.”
“Ah, I believe I do.” He smiled up at her, both dimples on show, and he was wicked and beautiful all at once. He kissed her other hip bone. “Here? I want to worship you, Frederica. Tell me where.”
His words, delivered into her bare flesh with the tantalizing brush of his warm lips, made a slow, steady ache pulse in her core. She could not speak. Her hands were starving for him. She sifted her fingers through his thick, golden hair, absorbed the strength of his broad shoulders, flexed and beautiful beneath his coat.
“If you will not tell me,” he growled, kissing a path up her side as he caressed her waist, “I shall have to kiss you everywhere.” He bracketed the fullness of her breasts. “Here.” His mouth closed over the peak, sucking. He released the nipple. “Here.” He moved to her other breast and kissed it as well. “Here, where you are the same pretty pink as your cunny.” He sucked and lightly bit with his teeth.
She gasped. Her need for him was built like a fire stacked with dry kindling and then doused with oil. She wanted to be nearer to him. Pressed against him. Wrapped around him. She arched helplessly, undulating against him in an effort to assuage the ache.
Her hands were desperate for him now, traveling over his back, her face dipping into his glorious hair to inhale. Lemons and musk and ambergris and warm, delicious man.Duncan.
She could love him.
She could so easily give him her heart.
The realization hit her as he ran his tongue over her nipple, holding her gaze as he sucked it with such strength she cried out, shooting forward on the bed. Her thighs splayed open, her aching sex pressed against his waistcoat. It was not enough. She wanted his flesh. She wanted to be as wicked as she could be with him.
But she must not allow herself to feel more. All they had was tonight. Now. These stolen moments together. Pleasure, passion, and sin. She did not dare fall in love. He was a wild stallion, meant to be admired from afar. Untamable. Unbreakable. Hers, fleetingly.
He continued his game, dragging his lips up her neck, finding the mad fluttering of her pulse. His mouth opened, and he sucked as if he wished to consume her, and she wished he would. She wanted him everywhere. Wanted his arms, his embrace. Wanted to become one with him, their bodies and skins and beating hearts indistinguishable.
