This Duchess of Mine(80)

His eyes definitely looked less somber now.

“I learned a great deal from Frenchwomen,” she said dreamily, running a hand down over her breasts.

“I want to hear every word,” Elijah said, leaning over her, but not touching her.

“Did you know that women love to be kissed, here?” Jemma asked, running a finger straight down her belly and below.

“I’ve heard as much. And I would love to experiment.” The throaty pleasure in his voice was entirely genuine.

“And did you know that some men enjoy a woman’s kiss—” She let her eyes drift down to the relevant spot.

“—almost as much as they enjoy other acts? And that sometimes a woman’s pleasure is increased if her lover strokes her at the right moment?”

His eyes looked wild, like those of a man at the very limit of his self-control. “Jemma, are you done talking now?”

Without pausing to give her answer, she turned over on her stomach, came up on her knees, and turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. “I just wanted to say that an old Frenchwoman told me that this was the best position in which to conceive a child.”

Elijah made a hoarse, strangled sound in his throat and flipped her back over. Then he was looming over her, on his knees, looking into her face. “It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

She cupped his face. “I love you.”

The words seemed to fall into the room like a blessing, like cool rain in summer. His throat worked and then he said, “Ah, God, Jemma, do you really?”

“More than life,” she said simply. “Elijah?”

He was staring down at her as if she were made of pure gold. “Yes?”

“Would you mind very much if we made love now? Because I think that I’m about to go out of my mind.” Her whole body was prickling and tremors kept running through her legs.

A corner of his mouth quirked up, and a hand settled on her breast.

It felt so good that she twisted under him, gasping, and finally managed to say, “I need—”

“This?” His lips replaced his hand, but it wasn’t enough. They had been playing for hours, and she was mad for him.

“I need you.” Her voice sounded childish to her ears, so she wound her hand hard into his hair and pulled his mouth to hers. She said it into the sweetness of his kiss, “I need you now.”

The Duke of Beaumont was a man whom many in the English government had come to trust. If you told him there was a desperate need for something, no matter how difficult or impossible, he would do his best to satisfy you.

Without saying a word, Elijah reared above her and a thumb stroked down her most delicate part.

Jemma twisted under him, crying out. His voice was as deep as the devil’s itself, without a trace of the controlled statesman about it. “You are exquisite.” His hand caressed her so that she arched again.

“Elijah,” she whispered, and then lost track of what she was saying because his lips followed his hand. His tongue sent wild sensations rocketing through her body. She closed her eyes as if the blindfold were there again. Elijah was ruthless, controlling her desire, driving her higher and higher, closer and closer.

Finally, finally, he pulled back, pushing her legs even farther apart. “Open your eyes, Jemma,” he growled. “Look at me.”

She could no more disobey him than she could fly to the moon. “Please,” she finally gasped. “Elijah!”

She was small, and he was large, yet he stroked into her as if they had made love every night for years. It felt as if he were coming home, as if no time had passed. A dark pleasure burned down her legs, making her cry out.

The passion that gripped her had nothing in common with what she remembered of the awkward couplings of their early marriage. She had been unsure and embarrassed, those days, biting her lip to keep silent so he wouldn’t be disgusted. Now she could no sooner control the moans flying from her lips than she could leap from the bed.

Yet still their rhythm didn’t seem entirely right. He would thrust, and then she would arch up at the wrong moment. They bounced off each other rather than moving in unison.

Elijah stopped moving.

“No,” Jemma gasped. There was a lovely, building heat in her legs, more intense than she’d ever experienced, and she was desperate to chase the sensation. “Please, please don’t stop!” She shuddered and arched against him again.

“You’re leading, Jemma,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“What?” She blinked up at him.

He deftly pulled her arms over her head and imprisoned them with one hand. “Let me,” he said through his teeth.

But she didn’t understand, even when he stroked forward again. It was so lovely that the heat seethed in her legs and she cried out.