Page 112 of The Captive
“Gilly, dearest lady, you likely treasured your indisposition because it meant old Greendale stayed at a distance. He’s dead. If you want your pleasure of me, I’m not put off by a little untidiness. Copulation is messy. That’s part of its charm.”
“You are entirely lacking in delicacy.” And yet, his honesty, his simply lusty directness was as precious to her as the feel of his fingers circling gently on her neck.
“I am entirely lacking in subterfuge when it comes to my countess. Give me your hand.” He followed her arm down and took her hand in his. “Feel this.”
He put her fingers around his engorged shaft then took his hand away.
“You get into this state merely fromtalkingto me?”
“And from missing you, and touching your sweet flesh, and feeling your leg brushing against my thighs in an unintentionally provocative manner.”
He fell silent, and Gilly trailed her fingers over his length—intentionally. He was quite aroused, so aroused she considered risking the sheets. And her dignity.
“You can bring me off, love, touching me like that.”
“I can…?” She stroked him again, though repeating such vulgar language was beyond her—taking her nightgown off before him had once been beyond her too.
“Take you about two minutes, and you’d have a very grateful duke in your bed, did you try it.”
“A very chatty duke…” she muttered as she sleeved him with her fingers, a light grip, and stroked over the length of him while he flexed his hips.
“That’s it,” he said, setting up a rhythm. “And you could come here and give a lonesome duke some kisses to linger over lest he rush his fences.”
The hand on her nape slid up into her hair and guided her head so he could get his mouth on hers, but she pulled back.
“I’m glad you’re home.” Foolish words, but she wanted to give him something, because in his blatant desire for her, even in her indisposition and crankiness and fatigue, he gave her a precious gift.
“I’m glad to be home.” His mouth was still smiling when he set his lips against hers.
He kissed her with easy languor, letting her take the lead until the end, when his hand closed over hers and he demanded more than a light grip. He shoved the sheets aside, bowed up, and cradled her against him tightly, while a wet warmth spilled over their hands and his breath seized in his chest. When he lay back on a sigh, he still didn’t let her hand go.
“We’ll need a handkerchief, Your Grace, or a flannel or a—”
“Hush.” He stroked her hair. “Give me a minute to hold you, and then an hour to thank you. You now have a favor to call in, Gilly, the best kind of favor.”
He was so cheerful about the whole business, so easy with it, while Gilly felt an inconvenient urge to weep. She withdrew her hand, grabbed a handkerchief from the night table, and tossed it onto his chest.
“You’ll have to do the honors, love. You’ve shot my horse right out from under me.”
“I’m to…use this?” She dangled the small white cloth before his nose.
“Somebody had better. I’m missing in action. Felled by sniper fire,noncomposmentis…”
“Do shut up.” She dabbed at him. Then used one hand to hold his softening member and the other to scrub with the monogrammed linen. She finished up rubbing briskly at his belly and resumed her place curled against his side. His passion had a scent, musky, male, and not unpleasant, but…different.
“How much longer are you indisposed?”
“Weeks.”
His belly bounced with suppressed humor, and Gilly smiled despite the ache in her throat.
“I’d wait weeks for you, Countess.”
“Provided I occasionally shot your horse out from under you?”
“Two can play at that, you know. Not only lonely dukes are susceptible to pleasure.”
“Hush, now.” She kissed his nose and tucked herself beside him.
