The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(62)
Her hips bucked at his words. He hissed out a breath as she sank deeper, taking him to the knuckle, surrounding him with her tight, humid heat. When she rose, her sheath clutched at him as if it wanted more, so he gave it to her. Eased two fingers into her on the next pass and searched out her nubbin with his thumb.
“Zounds,” she moaned, “it’s too much…”
“You can take it,” he growled.
And he was right because not two seconds later, she was riding him. Bouncing on his fingers with a wanton exuberance that made his blood sing. His palm slapped against her wet petals, his thumb diddling her pearl, and with his free hand he fisted his cock. Feeling the lush squeeze of her pussy, imagining his prick was buried where his fingers were, he could hold back no more.
“Kiss me, Tessa,” he grated out.
She crushed her lips to his, her hips slamming down at the same time that he thrust his fingers deep, hard, curling them to reach that special spot. She stiffened as if electrified. He drank in her sounds of fulfillment, the milking spasms of her pussy decimating his self-control. The pressure in his bollocks surged as he jerked his cock fiercely, steam boiling up his shaft. He groaned into her mouth as he exploded, his seed a hot geyser against his palm.
She sagged against him like a rag doll. With no little regret, he pulled out of her clinging sweetness. He neatened them both up as best he could. With the musk of their intimacy lingering in the air, he wrapped his arms around her and held her as the carriage rolled on.
“Bennett?” Her voice was drowsy.
“Hmm, sweeting?”
“In case I forgot to mention it, I like being yours.”
His chest tightened. As usual, he struggled to put into words what he felt.
He settled for, “Good, because you are.”
It wasn’t much, but she snuggled deeper into him. A minute later, she was asleep.
He directed the driver to take them toward home. As the carriage swayed in the darkness, he still couldn’t put it into words, but he knew. Knew in his bones that everything had changed.
22
The next morning, Harry passed beneath cooing pigeons perched on a sign that read “Will Nightingale’s Coffee House.” He, Ming, and a coterie of armed guards made up Black’s entourage for the meeting with the dukes today. As he entered Black’s stronghold, he had a sense of traveling back in time. Coffeehouses had had their heyday several decades back, and the interior of this one, while well-kept, belonged in the prior century.
Shaved wood floors softened the thump of booted feet, the walls paneled in dark wood. Trophies of the hunt were mounted here and there, staring out with glassy eyes. Next to those worn heads, watercolors provided a discordant note, and the sight of them made Harry’s lips quirk. He had no doubt who was responsible for the cheerful slaughtering of paint and paper.
Egad, but his sprite lacked the usual graces.
Yet if he had to choose between a wife who could paint a pretty scene and one who made love the way Tessa did, with such sweet, generous abandon…so much for art. Memories of their steamy carriage interlude fogged his brain before he pushed them aside. He couldn’t be fantasizing about Tessa while he dealt with a bunch of cutthroats, one of them being her grandfather.
The proprietor bowed low before Black, assuring him that his usual table was ready. Harry followed the cutthroat past long tables crammed with customers who fell into a deferential hush as they passed. One fellow rose, sweeping off his cap, stammering thanks to Black for finding him employ, and the king gave a regal nod as he continued on his way.
Black’s table turned out to be a massive oak trestle set in a secluded alcove. Red velvet drapes were tied back and could be drawn to afford additional privacy. There were eight seats in all, and Black took the carved, throne-like chair at the head.
As usual, Ming stationed himself behind his master. Harry went to stand beside him but was stopped by Black’s curt command.
“Bennett, sit there.” The cutthroat jabbed a finger at the seat to his right. “Want to talk to you before the others arrive.”
Harry looked to Ming, whose slightly raised eyebrows were the equivalent of a surprised exclamation from another man. Warily, Harry folded his long frame into the appointed chair. For long moments, Black aimed a brooding stare at him, his beringed fingers drumming on the table. A serving boy dashed forward with a silver pot, filling their cups with steaming, pitch-dark brew.
Black took his time doctoring his coffee with cream and sugar. As the silence stretched, so did Harry’s nerves. Black’s manner made him uneasy.
His intuition came to bear when Black declared, “What’s your secret, Bennett?”
Bloody hell, does Black know about me and Tessa? Cold sweat prickled his palms. Or did he discover my connection to the police force?
“Er, what secret, sir?” he managed.
“Your secret,” the cutthroat said impatiently, “for managing my Tessie. I’ve ’ired more bodyguards than the chit’s got years, and not one o’ ’em could ’andle ’er. Yet since you’ve been around, she’s been as docile as a lamb.”
Relief tumbled through Harry. At the same time, his brows lifted. If Black would describe Tessa’s behavior in the past fortnight as docile, what had she been like before?
“Told you she ’ad spirit, didn’t I?” Black countered, clearly reading his mind. “Yet there she was at breakfast, all smiles and biddable as you please. Told me the dressmaker’s coming around today, and she’s gettin’ measured up for ’er costume for Ransom’s masquerade. She didn’t give me no lip about that or pester me about coming ’ere either.” The cutthroat harrumphed. “Worked a bloody miracle, you ’ave.”