Page 69 of The Untamed Duke
Reaching down, his fingers laced with hers, bringing them up along the base of his shaft. Without words, he showed her how her hand could almost encase the flesh, while her mouth attended elsewhere. She caught on quickly, mouth and hand moving simultaneously; up, down, twisting and undulating until Nicholas thought he would shout aloud from the hedonistic thrill.
Just when he thought he’d surely reached a pinnacle of debauchery by allowing her to do this in the first place, he heard himself snarl in a tone he’d never used before, “All of it, love. Every drop.”
Grace could not possibly understand that dissolute command. A portion of his brain registered that fact and processed it as truth. But she whimpered in approval, her tongue swirling around the molten steel of his cock. With her golden gaze upon him, he exploded in her mouth, a heated frenzy of sensations leaving him disoriented.
And goddamn.
Reality exceeded all his wildest fantasies.
* * *
He must have blacked out.When he came to, eyes fluttering, his gaze immediately went to the space between his knees.
Grace still knelt there, leaning back slightly, watching him with a quizzical expression. Her mouth was flushed red, her lips plump from use. But her eyes held his attention. They glowed, a slightly wild, almost smug look about them.
Letting out an unsteady breath, she licked her bottom lip and asked softly, “Are you all right?”
Nicholas couldn’t speak; he could only stare, dumbfounded by their encounter and the stunning visage she presented. A temptress he’d never seen coming. One he never expected. A girl...young and innocent. And she wrapped him about her finger as easily as an experienced courtesan would a green lad in the throes of his first sexual experience.
“Nicholas?” Grace leaned forward, sliding her hands along his thighs. Nicholas actually trembled. The first hint of uncertainty glinted in the topaz depths of her eyes. “Did I do it wrong? Are you angry with me?”
“God, no.” Still woozy, his fingers sifted through her hair, an indolent caress that allowed the strands to filter and fall like sheaves of thick, liquid gold. “No, you were perfect. Amazing. Have I ever told you how beautiful your hair is?”
Grace smiled at the arbitrary compliment, appearing amused by his sudden turn toward the abstract. “It is wretchedly straight.” She rested her chin on his knee, watching him as if she found his mood quite curious.
“Like rays of sunshine. I’ve wanted to do this since I laid eyes on you.” Nicholas ruffled the fringe of bangs feathering her forehead, pleased by how easily it all fell back into place.
“You may thank Lady Celia Darby when next you see her. She is responsible for my hairstyle.”
“Why is that?”
“She was so excited when I first arrived in London, she insisted on making me presentable. She forgot the wrapping papers when winding my hair about the curling tongs. It singed it off until little more than a half inch remained.” Grace gave him an irrepressible grin at the memory. “It smelled hideous and looked even worse. Once it began growing back, Annabelle, our upstairs maid, took me in hand and did what she could. Now she cuts it like this because I ask her. She’s quite good at hairdressing—for that matter, dressing me in general. She’s my lady’s maid when I’ve need of one.”
Nicholas’s jaw tightened. The women of his acquaintance would have delighted in that sort of cruelty toward a rival. That Grace might be the victim of such subterfuge angered him.
“I trust Lady Celia was punished. Her father— “
“Oh, no!” Grace interrupted. “She was far more upset than I. She cried over the incident for days and days. Until she was ill with remorse.” They stared at one another, and then she said softly, “I’m glad you like it.”
The quiet statement rattled Nicholas. She was so pleased by the compliment. He suspected she received very few of them, which seemed impossible, for she was stunningly beautiful, if not conventionally so. She was especially lovely at this very moment.
He abruptly became aware she still crouched between his legs. Her knees were surely sore by now.
With a slight curse, he tucked himself back into his breeches then hauled her up so she straddled his lap, her upper body resting against his, legs spread wide again on the bulge in his breeches. Of course, that’s where the trouble started before, but Nicholas loved having her nestled within his arms. She was warm and tiny, and the protective streak burning through his soul was not unwelcomed. A man could get used to such delights as this. Holding a woman. Gaining pleasure in her warmth and sweetness, in the perfumed softness of her flesh. But not just any woman. He only wanted Grace. And that was problematic.
Nicholas hooked two fingers in the bracelet, holding Grace prisoner with the slightest of effort. The pearls in the intricate gold setting paled in comparison with her skin. Her eyes widened as he brought her wrist to his mouth. He kissed the pulsating beat beneath the surface of her flesh, then bit down softly.
Her pulse jumped in response, and he recognized the dreamy look on her face. He’d seen it before in women who became attached to him, despite their insistence to the contrary. A virtual battlefield existed in his wake. He’d ravaged and abandoned so many of them without even a backward glance. Without concern or thought. Or regret.
Now, he had ruined his Grace. And she had ruined him.
“Oh, little bee. What have you done?” His groan was borne of weakness and desire. It was becoming increasingly difficult denying what he felt because of her. The emotions careening around inside him were confusing.
In answer, she kissed him, pulling the fullness of his lower lip between her teeth, nipping softly as he'd taught her. He smelled her arousal. Tasted the lust in her kiss. Tasted himself on her lips. Knew she wanted him as desperately as he wanted her. But a brutal reality existed. It demanded a distance must be maintained between them. For both their sakes.
“Do not fall in love with me, Grace,” he warned. “I’ll destroy you.”
“Take me to bed and destroy me now,” she murmured agreeably. “We will not speak of love.”
