The sound he made was extraordinary. A raw, guttural groan that was torn from somewhere deep in his chest. It echoed off the walls of the lodge and went straight through her like a current. He was hot in her palm. Silky and impossibly hard, the skin tight and smooth, and when she tightened her grip experimentally and stroked, slow and firm from root to tip, his hips jerked up into her hand so hard it rocked her forward.
“Christ,” he breathed, his head falling back.
“Interesting…” she murmured, and did it again.
She set a rhythm. Slow at first, learning the weight and length and heat of him, learning what made his breath stutter and what made his whole body go rigid beneath her. She twisted her wrist at the top of each stroke, dragging her thumb across the slick, sensitive head, and the way his thighs clenched beneath her, the way a bead of wetness gathered and spilled over her fingers, made her belly clench with want.
“You are,” he groaned, his voice barely recognizable, “doing that on purpose.”
“Doing what?” She kept her hand moving. Kept her pace steady and unhurried. Kept her eyes on his face.
His laugh was strangled. “Beingwicked.”
“I am merely following instinct,” she said sweetly. “And your reactions. So far, nothing has discouraged me.”
“God forbid,” he rasped, and his hips thrust up into her fist again, harder this time, chasing the pressure, and the desperate, involuntary nature of it made heat flood between her thighs all over again.
She shifted her weight, grinding herself down against the base of him, and the rough slide of his manhood against her still-wet flesh drew a moan from them both. His hands flew from her hips to her waist, gripping, steadying, and the dark, blown look in his eyes when he stared up at her made her feel as though she held all the power in the world in her hand.
Which, she supposed, she did.
She kept moving her hand. Kept grinding. The sensation was exquisite, dizzying, the slick heat of her own arousal coating him where they pressed together while her fingers worked him with a confidence that surprised her. She watched the muscles in his stomach flex and release. Watched the tendons in his neck standout as his jaw clenched. Watched the way his chest rose and fell faster and faster, his breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls.
“Catherine.” A warning. His voice was barely there. “I am close. I cannot—”
“Then don’t,” she breathed, and held his gaze, and tightened her grip, and did not slow down.
The climax hit him like a blow. His whole body seized beneath her, his back arching off the floor, his hands crushing her waist hard enough to bruise as his arousal pulsed hot and thick against her palm. The sound he made was broken and raw and utterly, devastatingly undone, and Catherine memorized every second of it, watched his face as the pleasure tore through him, watched the way his mouth fell open and his eyes went dark and distant and then snapped back to hers with something close to wonder.
She held him through it, her hand steady and sure, until the last tremor had passed through him and he sank back against the blanket, breathing hard, staring up at the ceiling as though it had personally astonished him.
She released him gently. Wiped her hand on the blanket. And leaned down to press her lips to the center of his chest, right over his hammering heart.
“Well…” she whispered against his skin. “That waseducational.”
His laugh was raw and breathless and entirely genuine, and he pulled her down against him.
And for a long while, neither of them said a word at all.
Much later, they were dressing, restoring respectability to themselves, but catching each other’s eyes and sharing blushes and smiles. A faint smile touched Aaron’s lips as he looked towards a pile of opened correspondence, but it faded quickly.
“Sir Obadiah writes to me. He wishes me to take on another partner. The Earl of Stafford.”
At the name, her body went cold. “No.”
“No,” he echoed, fierce. “He will not come within a mile of you.”
Fear twisted in her, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. Then, she shook her head vehemently.
“No, I will not let my fear harm your ambitions. If it means I must play the Duchess, then I will play her. I will receive your partners. I will smile and bow and give them no cause to doubt you.”
His eyes searched hers. “You would do that?”
“For you,” she said. And she meant it.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he kissed her brow, his hand tightening over hers. Silence stretched, soft and sweet. Catherine felt a new longing stir within her, not for safety or comfort—but for life itself.
“Take me out,” she said suddenly.
