The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(81)

It was no easy task. He was huge, for one thing, and this was only her second attempt. If Bennett’s reaction was any indication, however, her efforts were not unappreciated.

“Christ, your mouth.” He sounded drunk, his voice slurred with passion. “Bloody heaven.”

Hmm. Perhaps she was better at this than she realized.

She found a rhythm, bobbing her head in concert with the pumping of her fist. She liked taking him this way, liked that she could return what he gave her and watch him lose control. One of his hands was curled in the coiffure that he’d just moments ago fretted over righting. His other arm was extended, his palm flat against the bookcase behind her, as if he needed to steady himself against the onslaught of pleasure. His face was carved with raw, primal need.

All this made her double her efforts. She moved her fist faster, harder, trying to cram in more and more of his cock. His hips bucked, and she choked a little when he hit the end of her throat. When he tried to withdraw, she refused to let him, tightening her hold and taking him deeper.

“Sprite, let go,” he bit out. “I can’t hold back—”

She came up for air. And to whisper, “I don’t want you to.”

At her words, his control seemed to snap. His fingers tightening in her hair, he surged powerfully into her mouth. She welcomed his plunging strokes, savoring his abandon, his surrender to her. As an experiment, she used her free hand to cup his stones, rolling the heavy, velvety sac in her palm.

“Bloody fuck,” he groaned.

He jerked suddenly and then exploded. His essence flooded her senses, the hot, salty spurts overflowing her mouth. His shattered breaths, the knowledge of the pleasure she’d given him, filled her with joy.

Still hard, he eased away gently, and this time she let him.

He drew her to her feet and kissed her.

“Christ.” His voice ragged, he ran a thumb over her bottom lip. “You taste of me.”

“I like it,” she whispered.

The wonder in his eyes made her tremble. “Tessa, it’s never been like this. I…I’ve never felt anything like—”

“Ahem.” They both jumped at the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville’s loud and not-so-subtle tones coming from the seating area. “Is anyone back there in the shelves?”

Bennett cursed under his breath, his hands fumbling with his trousers.

Gathering her wits, Tessa said in hushed tones, “Stay here.”

Before he could stop her, she drew a breath and marched out.

Ransom was standing by the hearth. He didn’t look overly surprised when she emerged.

She forced a smile. “You startled me, Your Grace. I was just touring your library. It’s, um…very well endowed.” Blast it, why did I say that? Hastily, she added, “I mean, you have an impressive number of books in your collection.”

“Size matters, my dear, and never let a man tell you differently.” His brows arched. “Would you like a personal tour of my…collection?”

“No! That is,”—she floundered for an excuse—“I’m rather parched. I was just about to go in search of refreshment. Would you escort me?”

With a hope and a prayer, she made for the door.

“A moment, Miss Smith.”

She froze as the duke came up to her. Her breath caught as he reached out…and righted the furry ears that she hadn’t realized had been dangling from her coiffure. For an instant, the veil of indolence lifted from Ransom’s eyes; his cold, predatory stare lent his costume a chilling authenticity.

“If pussy goes out to play, we must ensure she returns in her proper state,” he said.

Crikey, does he know?

Heart thudding, she fought not to blush. Not to cast an incriminating look toward the shelves.

“Th-thank you, Your Grace,” she stammered.

The veil fell back in place. Ransom smiled as he held out an arm. “Shall we?”





29





“Promise you’ll stay close to the others,” Harry said.

“I have promised. A hundred times at least.”

He could tell that Tessa was fighting not to roll her eyes. He didn’t care. He was already regretting that he’d let her talk him into her harebrained scheme. She’d sprung her proposal on him on the way home from the ball last night when the aftermath of pleasure had put him in an indulgent mood. The intimacy they’d shared, beyond anything he’d ever experienced, had primed him to yield to her whatever she wished.

Now it was too late: they were en route to the Garritys’ townhouse in Bloomsbury.

Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t know what you hope to discover.”

“Anything is better than nothing,” she said prosaically. “With Alfred on De Witt’s tail, we’re free to investigate other possible hellfire suspects. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for any clues at Garrity’s.”

She said this as if she were a seasoned investigator.

“Garrity is a dangerous man,” Harry stated. “If he catches you in his home—”

“He won’t recognize me. I’ve only met him once, and it was years ago, when I was just a girl and Grandpapa had taken me to Nightingale’s. At any rate, I doubt Garrity will be home at this time of day. If he is, I’ll just be plain Miss Smith, there to take tea with his wife.”