How to Tame Your Duke(30)

"Sir," she whispered. "Mr. Brown . . ."

"Don't speak, Emilie." His voice was hoarse, almost harsh.

While she watched in wonder, his fingers traced a circle around her  nipple. His hand cupped around her breast, lifting it, and his thumb  found the nipple at last and grazed the extreme tip. She gasped and  flung up her hand to grip his wrist.

He said, into her ear, "Tell me what to do, Emilie. One word. Tell me what you want."

His breath was hot. He took her nipple between his thumb and forefinger  and idled about the hardened nub. She watched the play of bone beneath  the skin of his hands, the tiny movement of muscle and sinew that  created the extraordinary sensations streaking through her body. She  couldn't think. Who was she, this throbbing scrap of Emilie, standing  here in this dim and wind-battered room while the Duke of Ashland's  all-powerful hand cradled her naked breast?                       
       
           



       

Tell me what to do, Emilie.

Anything. Everything. But she could not manage the words. She watched  his hand, his beautiful hand, as it caressed her body. His lips touched  her ear in a whisper of a kiss.

If she asked, he would take her to bed. He had put the decision to her;  he had taken his honor and placed it in her hands. Because she would not  take his money, because she came to him without condition, because she  had stripped herself bare before him, he had given her the only thing he  could: himself. He would take her to bed if she asked it, he would  become her lover, and he would bear the guilt on his own shoulders.

Would she let him?

She should not let him. His body wanted her passionately, but he would  suffer afterward. The burden of guilt-however unjust-would lie on his  conscience like an anvil. And she! An even greater madness, this  physical surrender. She would entangle herself irrevocably, she would  endanger every plan for the future. To part with him afterward would be  like cutting out her own heart.

Oh, but to lie with him. To feel his skin upon hers, to know at last the  eternal mystery. To show him what she felt and couldn't say. To comfort  him; to bring him joy, however fleeting.

To be united with Ashland, for a precious instant.

"Sir. Mr. Brown."

He went on stroking her breast with his gentle fingers. He, too, was  watching this union      of their flesh, of Ashland and Emilie; she could  feel his gaze like another caress on her skin.

"Please," she said.

His hand left her breast and went to her blindfold. He tugged it down  from her forehead and ran his fingers along its length, making sure it  lay flat and snug across her eyes. Every movement slid against her body  with tantalizing energy.

She didn't wait for him to turn her around. She rotated between his arms and tilted her face upward.

She meant to say, We must stop. For your sake, and for mine.

What she said was: "I want you to kiss me."





THIRTEEN




I want you to kiss me.

The words fell from her lips in the softest whisper, but they ignited  like a spark in Ashland's brain. She held her face up to him, waiting,  her blindfold dark against her pale skin, her mouth red and unbearably  inviting.

If you kiss her, there is no going back.

It was his last logical thought.

He bent his head. He kissed her forehead and the rounded tip of her  nose. Her breath was warm and damp on his chin; her body stood vibrant  between his arms. It was like holding a living coal.

He lifted his hand and touched her hair, her ear, her cheek. You are so  soft, he wanted to say. So soft and utterly perfect, and I am a brute, a  sinful and mutilated brute.

Emily's lips beckoned, round and flushed and irresistible. He had no right to them.

He brushed the corner of her mouth with his thumb and laid his lips atop hers.

For a long second, he didn't move, and neither did she. They simply  stood there, breathing each other in, lips held together in the lightest  of bonds. Emily's breath was sweet from the tea, scented with orange,  unsteady. Her chest moved rapidly, touching his ribs as she inhaled.

She lifted her hands, and he caught one the instant before it touched him. "No," he said, into her mouth.

"How can I not touch you?" she asked, in a pained whisper.

"You cannot." He led her hand back down to her side and released it.  "Let me touch you, Emily. Just let me. You don't need to do anything."

He settled his mouth again on hers, and this time he nudged at her lips,  he brought her body closer, and the spark in his brain fanned into  flame and spread in a stunning draft through his body. He was already  aroused, his prick iron stiff and heavy against the snug wool of his  trousers, but this was something else. This was urgency, this was over a  decade of suppressed sexual need roaring back into life; this was Emily  in his arms, kissing him back with unskilled lips, meeting his every  questioning movement with an ardent counter-movement.

If she could see you, she wouldn't kiss you like that.

He wrapped his arms around her, gathered her up, and kissed her in  earnest. She made a surprised sound, a little mewling cry, right at the  back of her throat, and he parted her lips and swallowed it up into his  soul.

She wanted him. Her desire was a gift from God, unexpected and unlooked for.

She wasn't used to kissing, and he was thankful for that. Her lack of  practice made his own less evident. He had forgotten how to be tender,  how to seduce. All he knew was that he wanted to taste her.

He ran the tip of his tongue along her mouth. A tremor moved her, as if  she hadn't been expecting it. He licked her again, a little more deeply,  and this time her mouth opened to receive him, and her body, trapped  within his, strained upward. He dipped his tongue inside to find the  silken tip of Emily's tongue, waiting for him, inquisitive and  uncertain. He stroked it with care, testing her reaction, tasting the  sweet tea-spiciness of her mouth.                       
       
           



       

Another sound came from her throat, a demanding sound. She tried a  tentative stroke of his tongue, just finding him with the tip, and the  sensation crackled along every pathway of his body. He lifted his head.  "Emily, I . . ."

But she went on her toes and took his mouth back. She sucked his upper  lip, she thrust her tongue against his and slid it up and down, as if  she were savoring him, and all at once the wooing was over. He could not  restrain himself. He bent down, keeping his mouth locked on hers,  mingling and tangling in desperation, and he swung her into his arms and  strode across the room. He kicked open the door to the bedroom, still  kissing her, and set her on the edge of the bed.

Emily started at the softness of the bed under her bottom. She broke off  the kiss and braced her hands against her legs, as if to steady  herself. "Sir . . . Mr. Brown . . ."

Her chemise had rucked up her thighs. He grasped the edge with his hand  and tugged it upward from beneath her bottom, swiftly and forcefully,  before she could protest, before she could change her mind. If she  changed her mind, he would die, he would explode, leaving only a single  combusted heap of ash on the carpet to mark his demise.

Emily's body unveiled before him, lit only by the dim light from the  other room, full of shadows and faintly gleaming curves. Her hips  swelled out from her small waist; her breasts were high and round, the  nipples pointed slightly upward, puckered into hard little tips. He drew  the chemise over her head and tossed it to the carpet.

She did not move to cover herself. Her hands remained at her sides, her  body tilted to his gaze, as if daring him to find her wanting.

For a moment, Ashland stood perfectly still, unable to move. He had not  seen a woman like this in years, had not had a woman's nakedness tilted  willingly toward him since the night before he'd left for India.

He dropped to his knees. "Beautiful," he said, and with the tip of his tongue he licked her nipple.

She jolted in response. Her hands came up, reaching for him, and he  snared her left wrist and pinned it to the bedspread, not relinquishing  her breast for an instant. He ran his tongue over the tip and around,  swirling almost in delirium, and then he drew the nub into his mouth and  suckled greedily. She gasped and sighed; her body moved to the rhythm  of his suckling, mimicking the act of union      itself. He kissed his way  to the other breast and did it all over again, the luxurious tasting of  her, and then he released her wrist and rolled the abandoned nipple  between his thumb and fingers, pulling gently at one while he suckled  hard at the other, until her legs thrashed and sobs broke the air above  his head. Her hand touched his hair and fell back again. "Sir . . . Mr.  Brown . . . Oh, let me, let me touch you . . ."