Page 80 of Anything But a Duke
Maybe some other night. At that moment, the last thing she wanted was to talk. Only when Aidan’s mouth was on hers, when his hands were on her body, did some of the constant noise in her mind stop. Feeling and sensation fought for their place and her loud thoughts quieted.
She needed that. She needed him.
Turning her head to look at him, she asked, “Help me undress?”
He didn’t answer in words but in action. Expert fingers worked the buttons at the back of her gown and he slid the garment gently from her shoulders. Next came her corset.
Diana had no experience of other men, but Aidan worked the laces far faster than her corset unlacer ever could have. It seemed only seconds before she was standing before him in her chemise and stockings.
He cupped her breast through the thin fabric, his long, elegant fingers finding the taut peak of her nipple and rolling it gently beneath his fingertips.
She gasped at the intensity of the sensation.
“Now your clothes,” she told him when he bent to kiss her.
She began with buttons and found there were far too many between his waistcoat, which went quickly, and his shirt, which she stopped and started to unbutton between kisses.
When she finally worked the last button free, she eagerly slid the fabric over his shoulders and gasped.
Feeling his muscles through layers of clothing was nothing like seeing them in the glow of lamplight. She slid her hand along the ridges of his shoulders and arms and chest, tracing every slope and swelling line.
Goodness, he was warm. Though she stood in little more than a thin layer of cotton, the heat radiating off his body like a furnace kept her warm.
He was patient as she explored, only tracing a finger across her cheek or stroking his hand down her back. He watched and waited, and when she’d finished he laced his fingers with hers and led her to the bed.
Diana settled on the edge and he knelt before her. He applied himself to removing her stockings, but turned the task into an opportunity to stroke and kiss every inch of her leg. When she let out a moan, he chuckled, his breath hot against her skin.
“Do you like that?”
“No,” she told him honestly, “I love it.”
He smiled and kissed her again, the spot above her knee, the inner edge of her thigh. When her stockings were off, she expected him to stop, but he didn’t. His fingers found the lace of her drawers, and he slid them off as tenderly as he’d removed her stockings, adding kisses on every inch of skin he uncovered.
Then he sat back on his heels, his fingers skimming the tender skin of her thighs, slipping higher as he looked into her eyes. “Do you trust me, Diana?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
He smiled at that, then he shocked her by sliding his fingers along her sex, stroking at the part of her that was slick and aching. Then he bent and replaced his fingers with his mouth, flicking his tongue out to taste. Her body tensed with the keen pleasure of it, almost too much. But a moment later she bucked against him, desperate for more.
He lapped and suckled, and then she felt his finger slipping inside her heat, ratcheting up the pleasure. Her muscles tautened as he stroked her. The sensation was too intense, and yet she wanted more. She grappled for his shoulder and dug her fingers into his flexing muscles as her release shuddered through her. She held on to him as she gasped and cried out, and he kissed her through it, his mouth leaving a hot, damp trail along her thigh.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered against her skin.
Only when she sighed with a deep, languorous contentment did he stand, work the buttons of his trousers, and begin slipping them over his hips.
“Let me,” she said, pausing him midslide.
She’d read books, seen sculptures. She had a fair notion of what he was about to reveal, but she wanted to uncover him herself. Hooking fingers on each side of his hips, she inched the fabric lower.
When the hard, smooth length of him sprang free, Diana inhaled sharply and licked her lips. Empirical knowledge was indeed far superior to crosshatch illustrations and the work of artists’ hands.
She reached for him, shaping the length of him in her palm. His jaw tightened as his breathing turned shallow.
Every touch, every stroke seemed to make him harder and his breath seemed to sync with the rhythm of her movements.
“Diana,” he whispered. A plea but also a warning. “If you don’t stop—”
“I know.” She released him reluctantly and reached down to lift her chemise over her head. She was completely bare before him, and there was no place else she wished to be. “Show me,” she demanded softly. “Show me everything.”
