The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(12)

“What is happening to me?” She moaned, lifting on her toes. “Alexander, what are you doing to me?”

“Loving you,” he said against her skin. He withdrew and placed his hands on her buttocks. “Turn around. I want to see you.”

Meagan swallowed hard and pivoted in a slow half circle, stepping out of the pile of her dress. Alexander regarded her with eyes of heated blue, the ruby glittering among the dark strands of his hair.

He slid his hands from her hips up her waist to her breasts, his thumbs caressing the dusky tips. “You are beautiful.”

“I am overly plump, step-mama says,” Meagan said in a scratchy voice.

“Your stepmother is wrong.” Alexander’s voice was thick and low, his accent deepening, as though he had to struggle with English. “You are glorious the way you are. Beautiful, like a goddess.”

Meagan laughed lightly, though the laughter sounded a bit hysterical. “Is there a goddess Meagan?”

“We will invent one. I will have you sculpted by an artist, just as you are now, bared for me. Or I will hire a portrait artist and have him paint you lying on a couch, waiting for me in nothing but your stockings and slippers.”

Meagan shook all over but tried to make a jest of it. “I should look silly covered in paint.”

His gaze turned feral, his smile telling her he’d not think her body streaked with paint silly at all. He took her hands and guided them to hold her breasts. “Stay like that,” he said. “Feel the pleasure of it.”

He leaned forward and kissed her abdomen, warming her skin with his breath, trailing little kisses to her navel, into which he flicked his tongue. Meagan tentatively squeezed the tips of her nipples, gasping at the little tingle that sped from them.

Alexander rubbed the coil of hair at her thighs, his voice admiring. “So beautiful, so exquisitely red.”

“I always thought it odd to be red-haired.”

“Not odd at all.” Alexander splayed his hands on her thighs and rubbed his thumbs across her opening. “Beautiful.” He kissed her where his thumbs played.

Meagan swallowed a gasp as he dipped his tongue to the part of her that ached most of all. He licked, rubbing the little bead of skin, his tongue expertly understanding how to bring forth the rasping friction Meagan craved without knowing she craved it.

She wanted to rock her hips to him, and at the same time stand still so he could continue. She kneaded and stroked her own breasts, wanting to touch him instead, but having a strange, crazed need to obey him.

They were caught in this madness together, Meagan and Alexander, magic that swirled around them and pulled them to each other.

Meagan bit back a scream. She wanted to cry her dark pleasure up to the gaudy gods and goddesses writhing above her. The peak was building, she could feel it in her throat and in her lungs, and best of all, in the sandy, fiery feel of Alexander’s tongue on her.

In the next moment, the door’s handle rattled. Meagan heard the voice of some lord or other saying to one of his cronies, “Let us step in here, and you can tell me what those damn fools in the cabinet are saying.”

In alarm Meagan stumbled back from Alexander and half-turned, nearly losing her balance. The door opened an inch, then another man said, “No, let us escape to Mount Street and my man will cook a chop for us. The suppers at these balls are thin and my blood needs warming with good port.”

The first man pronounced it an excellent idea and closed the door with a thump.

Meagan let out her breath. She swung back to Alexander, ready to frantically point out that they’d almost been caught.

The look on his face stunned her. He was smiling, his eyes hot. Nearly being found out had excited him. Alexander rose in one sinuous movement, laced his arm behind Meagan’s back, and kissed her deeply. His tongue stroked the inside of her mouth, opening it for him, the rings on his fingers like bands of ice on her skin.

Alexander broke the kiss and released her long enough to cross to the door to turn the key in the lock. On his way back, he loosened his cravat and untied his shirt, then he unbuttoned his trousers, calmly pulling them open. He pushed his trousers down to his ankles without shame as he seated himself on the chair.

Meagan stared, wide-eyed, at the erection that stood up, long and stiff, between his legs. Alexander’s thighs were hard with muscle, sinews in his arms working as he pulled his loose shirt off over his head. He tossed it away and held out his hands to her. “Come to me.”

Meagan swallowed, heart thumping. “What are you going to do?”

“Love you, Meagan. Come to me, and I’ll do the rest.”

It seemed wrong to not do as Alexander said. Somewhere inside her, the little voice that was Meagan Tavistock shouted for her to stop, but sensible Meagan was faint and far away, of little importance here. Alexander was important, as was his beautiful body—hard muscle dusted with black hair, ruby rings like fire on his fingers, his arms open for her.

Meagan moved to the chair and carefully placed her feet on either side of his legs. Alexander caught her hips and lowered her to him, pulling her forward to skim his body.

“Will it hurt?” she asked in trepidation.

“It might. I will try to make it gentle for you.” His rumbling voice softened. “You are wet for me, that is good.”

Meagan knew what he meant. Her opening was full of warm liquid, which excited her, and the more excited she became, the more it filled. She remembered the feeling of him inside her from the vision and knew she was going to experience it in truth.