Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(57)

He slid his hand over one breast, pulling the material taut. “Did you do this?”

He rubbed a thumb over a small, neat square patched over a hole worn into the linen. The patch happened to sit right above her left nipple.

“Yes,” she said. “Who else?”

“A practical woman.” He fitted his mouth over her nipple.

She arched into his sucking warmth, her fingers flexing against his scalp. “A woman without any other options.”

He looked up, his face suddenly grim. “Have you come to me because of your lack of options?”

“No.” She frowned at him because she resented the abrupt absence of his lips. “I’ve come to you because I want to.” She arched up to him, scraping her teeth against the edge of his jaw before falling back. “I come of my own free will. I have the right to do as I wish.”

He nodded slowly. “So you do.”

And he caught her chemise between his hands and ripped it from top to bottom.

She was bare before him now, everything from her nipples to the place between her legs. She should be ashamed. Embarrassed and confused.

Instead she felt wonderfully free. She stretched her arms over her head, arching her back, and looking through her eyelashes up at him. “Will you take off that banyan now?”

His eyelids had half-lowered, his gaze a burning brand upon her naked skin as he stared at her legs. “Yes, I believe I will.”

He straightened and she watched as he carelessly flicked open the buttons lining the front of his banyan. Beneath he wore merely a shirt and breeches. He shrugged off the shirt easily, the muscles on his shoulders bunching and relaxing as he moved.

She caught her breath as his torso was revealed. She hadn’t seen many a male chest unclothed—a rustic or two when she was a child, once a drunken soldier in the streets of London, and of course the marble chests of statues—but she had a mind that most aristocratic men didn’t have such muscled bodies. She was reminded abruptly that this man was not only the Duke of Wakefield but also the Ghost of St. Giles. What exertions had built such massive shoulders, such bulging upper arms, and such a deep chest? This body had been honed to fight. This was the body of a dangerous warrior.

His eyes narrowed as if he knew her thoughts and he shucked his breeches and hose quickly before climbing into the bed.

“Now we two are as God made us,” she said as he settled over her again.

He arched an eyebrow. “And you prefer me thus?”

“Always,” she said. “There’s nothing between us now—neither your past nor mine. Your rank and titles mean nothing here.”

He bent to kiss the tip of her breast, making her wiggle. “Most ladies prefer my ducal finery, I think.”

“But then I am not most ladies,” she said sternly.

“That is true. You are like no other lady I know,” he breathed and took her nipple into his mouth.

Heat enveloped her, making her moan. She could feel his tongue against her sensitive breast, the curling hairs on his chest tickled her belly, and one hard thigh was suddenly pressed against the apex of her legs.

She caught her breath. She might not be ashamed of her nudity—or his—but that did not mean that there wasn’t a bit of trepidation about what would come. She’d never done this. Never even come close. While her peers had been marrying and learning the joys of motherhood, she’d been cataloging Penelope’s embroidery thread.

But she wanted this—wanted him. She ran her fingers through his shorn locks, fascinated by the bristles. He had speckles of gray at the sides, making him look both more commanding and more human. Her hands dropped to his broad shoulders and their warmth, their tensile strength, made her bite her lip in anticipation. He was so vital. So alive. And soon he would be her lover.

He moved abruptly to her other breast, sucking strongly even as his fingers teased the first damp nipple. The twin points of pleasure made her restless. She clenched at his sides with her fingers, wanting more.

He reared back, watching her. “All right?”

“Yes?” She frowned and bit her lip, shaking her head against the pillow.

The corner of his lips quirked, but he looked far from amused. A dark flush had moved up his high cheekbones and the lines beside his mouth had deepened. She could feel that part of him—his male part—pressed into her leg. It seemed to throb against her, a living thing wanting sacrifice.

He petted down her side, soothing her as if she were a fractious mare.

She glared at him, prompting him to kiss her, hot and quick, on the mouth. “Patience.”

“I don’t want to be patient anymore.” She stared at him defiantly. She wanted to find out what this was about. What would happen and how it would feel and if she would be a different woman afterward.

He smiled down at her just as his fingers reached the tiny curls at the top of her slit. She could feel him parting them, carefully, probing, and she went very still, waiting to see what he would do.

One finger trailed to her valley and he looked up into her eyes and smiled. “You’re wet.”

She frowned because she didn’t like not knowing if that was good or bad.

He bent, brushing his mouth against hers, growling so deeply his words were nearly unintelligible. “Wet for me.”

Good, then.

He slid his thumb between her folds and found that nub at the top, pressing down as he watched her face. She arched involuntarily, the sensation singing through her limbs.