Page 62 of Never Beguile a Duke
“Do you know mine?” he asked as his mouth moved across her throat.
Her mind blissfully blank, she tilted back her head and moaned.
“That wasn’t a word.” The vibrations of his voice tickled her skin.
“You’re distracting me,” she panted.
He pressed his lips against her ear, the distinctive combination of carnation and cinnamon swirling around her. “My name is Silas.”
Winifred grabbed onto his arms as her knees gave way.
“Hmm, I’ve never had that effect on a woman before.” His tongue darted out, tracing the shell of her ear.
Liquid fire blazed through Winifred’s body. Her grip on him tightened, her fingers digging into his sleeve as her legs failed her a second time.
In the whole of her short relationship with Mr. Hollingsworth, she’d never had this type of reaction to his physical touch. Winifred swallowed. If the Duke of Beaufort could fell her with a kiss, what would happen…
“You’re trembling.” He pulled away, his eyes searching hers.
“Did you not request that I seduce you?” she asked, attempting to calm her racing heart.
His mouth twitched. “I recall daring you to do so.”
“Then, we should begin with your coat.” Taking his hand, she led him around the wing chair beside the fireplace.
“Not my trousers?”
“Seduction takes time, Your Grace.”
“Silas,” he rumbled as her fingers rose to the fastenings on his black tailcoat.
“Silas,” she repeated, peeling the garment from his shoulders and draping the jacket over her dress on the back of the chair.
His waistcoat quickly followed, but she struggled with the cravat and growled at the knot when it refused to loosen. He reached up to assist her, and she pushed his hands away, clucking her tongue.
“You’re not allowed to touch,” she said, untying the cravat and pulling the cloth from his neck.
“We’ll see how long I can hold to that restriction,” he replied, tucking his hands behind his back.
She’d never undressed a man before. Mr. Hollingsworth had preferred to leave as much of his clothing on when they had relations. The Duke of Beaufort’s willingness to allow her to do so only served to increase his character in her mind.
Tugging the white muslin shirt free of his trousers, Winifred’s fingertips brushed along the waistband, caressing the Duke of Beaufort’s exposed skin. He inhaled a sharp breath and grabbed her hands.
“I fold,” he ground out, dropping into the wingback chair and pulling Winifred onto his lap, her legs straddling his.
“I haven’t finished,” she gasped as he ground his hard length against her center.
“You’ve succeeded at your task,” he replied, his fingers nimbly opening the front closure of her corset.
He yanked the corset over her head, flung the garment to the side, and removed his shirt, which he tossed in the same direction as her corset. Then he slammed his mouth against hers, his tongue dipping past her parted lips and entangling with hers.
As she wrapped her arms around his neck, he ripped his suspenders off his shoulders, then his hands dropped to his trousers. In one quick move, he unfastened and shoved his pants down, exposing himself.
She rose on her knees, and he gathered her petticoat into a fist, bunching the material around her waist. Then, he guided her back down onto his lap, his hard length stretching her as he slid into her warmth.
Once he was fully sheathed, he exhaled a low groan, pausing for several seconds before his fingers tightened around her hips. He tugged her pelvis forward, thrusting deep, and sharp pain sliced through Winifred. She cried out, her eyes flying open.
The Duke of Beaufort froze, the color draining from his face. “I thought you were experienced.”
