His mouth on hers was sufficient distraction. All worry over what the servants might think of her or whether she would prove a woefully inadequate lover to a skilled rake fled. Nando’s fingers sank into the careful precision of her chignon, sending pins raining to the floor. Her hair fell heavy down her back, and then he moved on to the tapes of her gown, unfastening them.
He broke the kiss to pull the garment over her head, his movements knowing and sure. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the gown sailing halfway across the chamber. Eleanora, still unaccustomed to her new husband’s lavish wealth, winced at the brutish treatment.
“Thinking again,” Nando said, kissing the tip of her nose as he looked down at her with mock severity. “I forbid it. Besides, I’ll buy you a hundred more gowns just like that one if you like.”
“I would never wear that many gowns in my lifetime,” she protested as he found the buttons on her petticoat and slipped them from their moorings.
“Suit yourself, my dear, for I have a suspicion I will prefer you naked.” He grinned, then whisked the petticoat away with as much speed and ease as he had the gown.
His words were wicked. Again, she ought to have been scandalized. But he was her husband. They were wed. And there was no fear of being discovered, of losing her livelihood, of her reputation being dashed to bits.
This newfound freedom felt dangerous.
When he moved to her stays, she decided that it was time to return the favor. She reached for his shirt, plucking it from his trousers and then pulling it over his head, taking care not to cause injury to his wounded arm, which was healing well by now. Still, the skin was dark and puckered where it had been sewn back together, an unsettling reminder of just how close he had come to death.
“I suppose I’ll be hideously scarred forever now,” he said absently, taking note of the direction of her gaze.
“Not hideously. You wear your scar as a mark of honor and strength, a reminder of what you have withstood to be where you are.” Without hesitation, she pressed her lips to the healing flesh, kissing him there. “I find it quite heroic, actually.”
Her words pleased him. Nando’s grin deepened. “You do?”
“Of course I do. How can I not?”
“No one has ever called me heroic before.” He cupped her cheek, gazing at her with renewed tenderness. “Though they have called me many things.”
There was something in his voice and gaze, a neediness that she had never seen before. It startled her to realize that this silver-tongued rake longed for praise. Certainly, he must have received a great many compliments concerning his looks and his prowess in the bedchamber, but he wanted to hear it from her. A strange new warmth crept into her breast at the notion.
“Then I am happy to be the first,” she said. “There is far more to you than the devil-may-care you show to the world.”
And she couldn’t help but to feel she was glimpsing Nando—the real Nando, not just the rakehell prince with the self-deprecating grin and the flirtatious air. That revelation was gratifying on a deeply intimate level.
He kissed her by way of response, hungry and demanding. More garments were removed. Stays, stockings, and trousers dropped to the Aubusson, until they stood in only chemise andsmalls, and then with sure hands and well-placed caresses, those were gone as well. The difference between his body and hers intrigued her. His legs were long and lean, stippled with golden hair. His cock protruded, thick and erect, ruddy and ready and a thing of unique beauty.
She thought of how he had lavished pleasure upon her most intimate places before they had wed, using his mouth on her, and suddenly, she wanted that too. Wanted to worship every inch of him that was exposed to her, to taste him on her tongue. She knew enough to understand he would find it pleasurable for her to do so.
Without thought, Eleanora dropped to her knees before him.
“What are you doing, love?” Nando asked, his voice thick with need.
“Pleasuring you.” She reached for him tentatively, wrapping her fingers around his shaft, wondering at how much more delightful it was to touch him thus, no barrier of cloth keeping her from him.
“Eleanora.”
Her name was a strangled plea from above.
She glanced up to find him looking down at her, his jaw rigid and tensed, his eyes smoldering. “Am I doing it wrong?”
As she asked the question, she gave him a firm stroke, reveling in the way he felt, hard and yet smooth, his skin hot, his length growing stiffer as she worked him.
He groaned. “Ye gods, no. You’re doing it tooright. But damn it, I’ll not have you on your knees before me this first time.”
“I want to.” She continued her ministrations, noting a bead of moisture seeping from the slit in the tip of his cock. Curiosity seized her, and she leaned forward, catching the drop on her tongue.
“Fuck, Eleanora.”
The word was vulgar. Crude. She’d heard it before, of course, but it had never particularly moved her either way. But there was something about the way he said it now, his voice laden with desire, tinged with a hint of desperation, that made her feel powerful and sensual. Spurred by his reaction, she flicked her tongue over him again, circling the head.
“You’ll unman me a second time.”
