Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(42)

This firm, long ridge of heat against her belly . . .

It meant he wanted her. Magnificently.

He pushed her shawl from her shoulders. It fell to the ground. He slid his fingers along her collarbone, dipping under the edge of her sleeve and slipping it down her bare shoulder.

“You stopped counting,” he whispered.

“How can I count when you’re—” She gasped as he scooped her breast straight out of her stays. Cool air rushed over her exposed nipple. “How can I count when you’re doing that?”

“It’s easy. I’ll help.” He bent his head, trailing kisses down her chest until he reached her bared breast. His tongue flickered over her nipple. “Thirty-one.” Another lick. “Thirty-two.” Lick. “Thirty-three.”

The alternating heat of his mouth and the coolness of the air . . . She must have gooseflesh everywhere, including the soles of her feet. If he’d continued on in such a manner, Izzy might have incinerated before she reached the count of forty-five.

But he didn’t continue. Instead, he drew her nipple into his mouth and suckled hard.

After that, numbers had no meaning.

How many counts were in forever? That’s how long she wanted this to last. His tongue made lazy, delicious circles around her nipple, driving her mindless with pleasure. Oh, he was good at this. Very good indeed.

Then he sank to his knees, sending one hand to delve under her skirts.

When he grasped her leg, Izzy panicked.

She clutched at his shoulders, holding him off. “Ninety-nine, one hundred.”

He paused, one hand frozen in the act of rucking up her petticoats and the other encircling her ankle.

“You said everywhere,” he reminded her, in a low, wicked voice.

“I did say everywhere.”

Her heart thundered in her chest. He was giving her the chance to refuse, and everything in her upbringing screamed at her to take it.

But she only had this one life. And so far, in this one life, she had only had this one man show the least bit of interest in tossing her petticoats to her waist.

This could be her one and only chance.

It was just a bit of touching, she told herself. Harmless. It wasn’t as though he could deflower her here, with a dozen handmaidens hiding nearby.

“Have you changed your mind?” he asked.

Oh Lord oh Lord oh Lord. “No.”

He muttered something that sounded like, “Thank God.” He gathered her skirts in one hand and hiked them to her waist with a single, expert motion.

Izzy reclined against the wall and stretched her arms overhead, feeling wanton and daring. As he ran his hands over her stockinged calf and up her thigh, she let her legs fall just slightly apart.

“Yes,” he groaned. “Open for me. Just like that. Lovely, lovely.”

Impossible, impossible.

That’s what Izzy would have thought about this entire scene just a fortnight ago. She felt like a pagan goddess in an ancient temple. Reclining against the ivy-covered wall of a ruined folly, being ravished in full morning light by a scarred, sensual duke.

This was beyond anything she’d ever dreamed. And Izzy had a vivid imagination. She reeled from the sheer joy of his touch and the exquisite wickedess of . . . of everything.

A new, throbbing pulse started to thrum between her legs. Hurry, it beat. Hurry, hurry.

His hand slid up her thigh, skipping over the garter and proceeding on to the smooth slope of her inner thigh.

“So soft.” He kissed her just above the knee. “Like satin.”

As his touch swept closer to her sex, the building crescendo of pleasure was unbearable.

Higher . . . higher . . . and a little higher still.

Until his thumb grazed her there.

“Oh.”

A rocket of bliss shot through her, racking her from toes to scalp. She clenched her fists, tugging on the ivy branches for support lest her quivering thighs give away.

A dusting of white grit showered down on them both.

Ransom looked up. “What was that?”

“Oh, dear. I think a bit of the wall is crumbling.” She released her grip on the ivy, but another few pebbles shook loose.

“Then come away from there.” He rose to his feet, letting her skirts fall back to the ground, and tucked her close to his chest.

Thunk. An apple-sized chunk of wall tumbled loose and hit him square on the head.

“Oh, goodness! Ransom!”

He cursed and recoiled, pressing the heel of his hand to the wound as he staggered backward to sit in the grass. Magnus circled him, whining.

Izzy rushed to kneel by his side. A fresh bump was already swelling, and a small patch of his skin was scraped raw. It was on the unscarred side of his brow. She didn’t know whether that made things better or worse.

It was almost funny when she considered it. She’d been rescued from ruination by . . . ruins.

She picked up her forgotten shawl and pressed the folded edge to his brow. “Are you all right? Are you dizzy? Look at me, and tell me how many—”

She bit off the absurd question. Of course he couldn’t tell how many fingers she was holding up.

Unless . . .

Unless he’d experienced some sudden cure. She’d heard it could happen. Soldiers blinded in battle, having their vision returned to them after one good knock on the head.

“Do you have all your usual faculties?” she asked cautiously.