Page 17 of A Virgin for His Grace
"Devon," she gasped as his hand moved higher, pushing the fabric up her legs with agonizing slowness. "I... I have never..."
"I know," he murmured against her breast, his voice gentle despite the obvious strain of his own arousal. "Trust me. Let me show you pleasure such as you have never imagined."
His fingers found the junction of her thighs, strokingthrough the damp curls there with a touch so light it was almost torture. When he discovered the source of her arousal, slick and swollen with need, she cried out sharply, her body jerking against his hand.
"Shh," Devon soothed, his mouth returning to claim hers in a kiss designed to muffle her cries. "Let yourself feel, Arabella. Let me worship you as you deserve."
His fingers explored her with growing confidence, discovering the places that made her gasp and tremble, the rhythm that drove her higher and higher toward some precipice she could sense but not comprehend. The pleasure was unlike anything she had ever experienced, building in waves that threatened to overwhelm her entirely.
When Devon's thumb found that most sensitive spot whilst his fingers continued their relentless caress, Arabella felt herself shatter into a thousand pieces, pleasure so intense it was almost painful washing over her in waves that left her gasping and shaking in his arms.
"Beautiful," Devon whispered against her hair as she slowly returned to herself, his arms holding her steady whilst the aftershocks of her release continued to ripple through her. "You are so beautiful when you come apart for me."
The crude words should have shocked her, yet somehow, they only served to intensify the languid satisfaction that filled her. She felt boneless, thoroughly debauched, and entirely too satisfied to care about the impropriety of what had just transpired.
It was only when she became aware of Devon's obvious arousal, still hard and pressing against her, that some sense of fairness penetrated her pleasure-hazed mind.
"What about..." she began hesitantly, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at her own boldness. "Should I not...? Do you not require…?"
Devon's smile was tender despite the obvious strain etched on his aristocratic features. "What I require, my dear, is for you to return to your chamber before I lose what little restraint I still possess and take you here against the library door like a common woman."
The harsh words were clearly intended to shock her back to propriety, yet Arabella found herself strangely unmoved by his attempt to create distance between them. Instead, she reached up to cup his face in her hands, studying the sharp planes and angles that firelight had rendered even more compelling.
"And what if I wished you to?" she asked quietly, surprised by her own audacity. "What if propriety and respectability no longer seemed as important as…"
Devon's eyes flashed with something that might have been pain or longing, and for a moment, she thought he might accept her scandalous offer. Then, with visible effort, he stepped back, putting physical distance between them whilst his expression settled into its familiar mask of cynical indifference.
"Then I would tell you that passion burns hot and dies quickly," he said with deliberate cruelty, "whilst reputation, once lost, can never be fully recovered. You would do wellto remember that, Miss Greystone, before you offer what you cannot afford to give."
The words struck her like physical blows, and Arabella felt tears prick her eyes as the magic of the moment shattered around her. She fumbled for her discarded robe, wrapping it around herself with hands that shook from more than mere cold.
"Of course," she managed; her voice carefully controlled despite the hurt that threatened to choke her. "How foolish of me to forget my place."
She turned to leave on unsteady legs, but Devon's voice stopped her before she could make her escape.
"Arabella..."
She turned back, hope flaring briefly in her chest at the raw need in his voice. But when she met his eyes, she saw only the familiar cool indifference that had replaced the passion of moments before.
"Sleep well," he said quietly, raising his brandy glass in a mocking toast. "And dream of respectable futures with worthy gentlemen. They are far safer than the alternative."
Without another word, Arabella fled the library, her bare feet silent on the carpeted corridors as she sought the sanctuary of her chamber. Only when she was safely behind her own door did she allow the tears to fall, great silent sobs that shook her entire frame as the full magnitude of what had transpired crashed over her.
She had allowed the Duke of Ravenshollow to touch her in ways no unmarried lady should permit, had experienced pleasure beyond her wildest imaginings, and worst of all, had offered herself to him with shameless abandon. That he had rejected her offer, choosing cruel words over the passion that had blazed between them, only served to compound her humiliation.
As she finally fell into an exhausted sleep near dawn, Arabella's last coherent thought was that she had been utterly and completely ruined, not by scandal or social disgrace, but by a single night of pleasure that had shown her what she had been missing all her proper, respectable life.
But despite his rejection and despite his calculated cruelty, she wanted nothing more than to experience such devastating pleasure again.
Chapter 6
"Good morning, Your Grace. I trust you slept well?"
Arabella's voice carried across the breakfast room with such studious politeness that it might have fooled anyone who had not witnessed the passionate abandon she had displayed mere hours before. She sat rigidly upright at the mahogany table, her dove-gray morning dress buttoned to her throat with military precision, her auburn hair scraped back into a severe chignon that emphasized the pallor of her complexion.
Devon paused in the doorway, his dark eyes taking in every detail of her carefully composed appearance with the practiced assessment of a man accustomed to reading the subtleties of feminine behavior. The woman before him bore little resemblance to the passionate creature who had trembled in his arms, crying out his name as pleasure claimed her.
"Tolerably well, Miss Greystone," he replied with matching formality, moving to his customary place at the head of the table. "And yourself? No... disturbances to trouble your rest, I trust?"
