The Duke's Perfect Wife(54)

Hart’s body jerked the slightest bit. His gaze fixed on her, waiting.

Eleanor’s smile widened as she drew her finger up the length of him to his tip. His skin was smooth, hot, and at the same time, silken soft. Strength encased in a firm package.

“The male’s organ stiffens,” she said. “So that he might penetrate the female’s softest place and enter her for his purpose.”

“Bawd,” Hart said, voice rough. “Who taught you such talk?”

“A scientific journal.”

Hart’s laughter shook him, but not enough to make Eleanor’s fingers slide away. “I hope you damn well don’t whisper such things to any other man, especially not in that sweet voice.”

“Only to you, Hart. Only ever to you.”

He stilled. “Eleanor, you are killing me.”

She lifted her hand away. “Shall I stop?”

“No!” Hart grasped her wrist, grip biting down, then he stopped himself, deliberately uncurling his fingers. He tucked his hand behind his head again, but she saw it shaking. “I don’t want you to stop,” he said. “Please.”

It was very difficult for this man to say please. Eleanor put her finger to her lips, hesitating as though pondering what to do. Hart watched her, his entire body tense.

Eleanor rested her hand on him again. Again he jerked, Hart trying to contain his reaction.

She glided her palm up the length of him, exactly as he’d showed her that long-ago day in the summerhouse. Hart sucked in a breath, body rigid. Eleanor brushed her palm over his tip and then slid her hand back down.

“Oh, God, Eleanor… lass.”

The groan nearly undid her. Eleanor stroked him again, this time a little faster. Hart grew even harder under her touch, and Eleanor warmed with the power of it.

“El. Sweet El. Holy Christ.”

Hart’s hands tightened to fists, as though he stopped himself, with great effort, from reaching for her.

In the summerhouse and the bedchambers, they’d undressed before intimate touching had commenced. Eleanor had not known how exciting things could be when they both remained fully clothed. What a delicious discovery.

Hart, for his part, was making all kinds of discoveries. That Eleanor was more beautiful than ever, that he wasn’t quite dead, that her touch was incredible. Despite Eleanor’s assertions, she was innocent, and her little smile opened up every devilish part of him.

The wild feeling in his cock spread down his body and up again into his heart. Hart was going to die of this. Hart the master, the all-powerful, surrendered to his lady’s touch.

God, it was glorious.

“Eleanor,” he said breathlessly. “You undo me. You always have.”

“Shall I stop?”

Look at her, playful and challenging, utterly innocent and wicked at the same time. He’d let her walk away from him, because he’d been stupid, and young, and too bloody arrogant. He’d never let her walk away again. Even if he had to lock her into this chamber with him for the rest of their lives, he’d keep her with him, always.

It would not be so bad an existence. His servants could cut a hole in the door to pass them food and drink, and maybe Hart would remember to eat it.

“Never stop,” Hart heard himself say. “Never. Please. Oh, dear God.”

He rose on his elbows, unable to stay flat against the pillow. He watched the hand that pleasured him, with small, feminine fingers that were proving to be very, very clever.

“Take me all the way, El. Please, or you’ll kill me.”

Eleanor knew what he meant. She did have knowledge, because Hart had taught it to her a long time ago.

Eleanor lay down at his side as she kept up the beautiful friction, and Hart wrapped his arm around her. Her head rested on his chest, and strands of red gold hair snaked across his black coat. Hart stroked her, keeping his touch gentle.

Darkness rose, but Hart fought it down. He wanted this to be simple, light, a woman pleasuring him because she wanted to pleasure him.

Basic physical need took over. His mind blanked to all but the scent of Eleanor’s hair, the glorious feeling of her fingers, her warmth at his side. Nothing but her and him, sensation, wanting.

His hips moved. “Eleanor.”

He scooped her up to him and thrust his mouth over hers just as it ended. Heat scalded his thighs, but the sensation went on and on. Hart kissed Eleanor’s mouth, and she moved her lips in greedy response.

“Lass, what you do to me.”

Eleanor’s eyes were half closed, lovely blue between black lashes. Hart’s words ran out, and he simply kissed her.

It was peaceful here. The house was quiet, he and she close, Hart kissing Eleanor on her bed on a rainy London morning.