Page 51 of Her Wicked Duke
“Of course,” he answered, glancing between her and the space in front of him.
Perfect.
He extended a hand to her. Between her skirts and the lack of a good angle, her clamber up was as graceful as she could manage to make it, before she slid into the space between the horse’s neck and Alexander’s legs. She shifted back, brushing her backside against the front of his breeches to tease him.
After all, had he not done the same thing to her in the art gallery, leaving her wanting and breathless?
She heard his sharp intake of breath, and his hands gripped her waist.
“Is everything quite all right, Alexander?” she asked, all tease and feigned innocence.
“Quite,” he answered tightly. “Let us ride.”
Alexander was tortured every time he saw Anne. He’d dreamed of her body since that day in the art gallery, wanting her, desiring her painfully.
Mark my words, I shall have you writhing with pleasure and gasping my name.
That’s what he’d promised her.
But he’d also promised that he didn’t leave a woman wanting, not because he couldn’t give more, but because he enjoyed having control over the pleasure. But what about further needs and wants… things outside the bedroom, where he was not so confident?
Alexander shook his thoughts off and tried to focus on the generous curves of Anne’s body, of which he had a perfect view as they rode through the estate. Every trot had her rocking back against him, not like they had on the desk in his friend’s study, but with the natural movement of the animal. And yet it rendered Alexander wild with desire.
She rubbed against him, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she looked over her shoulder at him through lowered, dark lashes. His jaw tightened as he tightened his grip on the reins as if to stop himself from pushing her forward and pulling her dress up around her waist right there.
I will ravish you.
It was a promise he couldn’t voice. Or maybe he could. He imagined teasing her, trailing a hand between her legs as they rode, telling her to remain quiet. He thought about being daring between the trees, of rocking his arousal against her like this.
It took every inch of his years-earned restraint not to do that. He managed not to expose his attraction toward Anne for so long. He could do it for longer. Or at least until they were truly alone.
Above them, the apple trees rose overhead, and he plucked an apple for each of them. He slowed the horse as he talked about planting some of those trees with his mother when he was a boy.
But soon, he was distracted, as Anne bit into her apple and let out a soft moan at the sourness of it. The soft fruit gave way between her teeth, and her lips shimmered with the juice. Some of it ran down her fingers, and Alexander caught her wrist, not wanting any of it to get on her dress.
Anne’s eyes remained on him as he drew her fingers into his mouth and licked the juice off them. Her lips parted as a shudder ran through her.
“Alexander…” she murmured, her eyes darting around them as if to check for any onlookers.
But they were relatively alone out here. Still, he did not go further. He wished to worship her fingers, her hand, kiss her palm and wrist, follow the lines of her body until he memorized every inch of her flesh.
“They taste good, do they not?” he asked, taking her apple and biting right next to where she had, tucking his own away. “Have another bite, Anne,” he commanded softly, his eyes boring into hers.
He cupped the back of her neck gently and pressed the apple to her lips to coax her to bite into it. He held her as she bit into the apple again, her eyes locked on his. From this angle, withthe way her tongue darted out to lick the juice, he could scarcely hold himself back.
He continued to hold the fruit and bit into the other side. The juice burst over his tongue, and he let out a soft moan of his own. Much to his delight, it made her eyes flash with barely hidden lust.
She pulled back, wiping the corners of her mouth. “Thank you,” she mumbled hoarsely.
How long has she spent trying to relieve herself after I left wanting that day at the gallery? How many times had she pleasured herself, wishing I had done it instead?
“Shall we return?” she asked. “Mama will be looking for me.”
“Of course,” he agreed.
He turned the horse around and continued telling her the story of planting the apple orchard with his mother. On their way back, he showed her the fountains and stone statues.
“My grandmother believes the statues are cursed,” he told her. “It is an old superstition about bread offerings to an old god from some mythology, but it is nonsense. She has begged me to get rid of them for many years, but I’m quite fond of them.” He pointed out some of the statues to her—Ancient heroes from myths or gods from another country that he did not worship but enjoyed hearing about. “They were imported from Egypt.”
