No Good Duke Goes Unpunished
Page 95

He raised a ginger brow and did not move. “Do you?”
She raised a brow in retort, and he smirked, rolling off her and shucking his coat, waistcoat, and shirt before returning to the bed. “Does this help?”
“In point of fact, good sir,” she said, letting one hand fall to the smooth skin of his torso, loving the way he stiffened at the touch, “it does. But you are not nude.”
He pressed a kiss to her neck, letting his teeth scrape along delicate skin until she shivered and sighed. “Neither are you.”
“You never indicated a wish for me to be.”
He lifted his head and met her gaze. “Make no mistake, my lady. I wish you nude every moment of every day.”
Her eyes went wide. “That would make teas and balls awkward.”
His white teeth flashed, and she loved him more with the wicked smile. “No teas. No balls. Only this.”
His hand rose to punctuate the sentiment, carrying the linen of her night rail with it, sending it sailing across the room, landing on Trotula, who gave a startled snort. They both looked to the hound, and Pippa laughed. “Perhaps I should send her away?”
He met her gaze, grey eyes filled with amusement, his smile sending a thread of pleasure through her as pure and unbridled as any before. “Perhaps that would be best.”
Distracted by her task, she led the dog to the door, opening it just enough to shoo the beast through it. Closing the door, she turned back to him, taking in the long, muscled length of him on the bed, staring at her.
Waiting for her.
Perfection.
He was perfect, and she was bare before him, bathed in candlelight. She was instantly embarrassed—somehow more embarrassed than she had been that night in his office, when she’d touched herself under his careful guidance. At least then she’d been wearing a corset. Stockings.
Tonight, she wore nothing. She was all flaws, each one highlighted by his perfection. He watched her for a long moment before extending one muscled arm, palm up, an irresistible invitation.
She went to him without hesitation, and he rolled to his back, pulling her over his lovely, lean chest, staring up at her intently.
She covered her br**sts in a wave of nerves and trepidation. “When you look at me like that . . . it’s too much.”
He did not look away. “How do I look at you?”
“I don’t know what it is . . . but I feel as though you can see into me. As though, if you could, you would consume me.”
“It’s want, love. Desire like nothing I’ve never experienced. I’m fairly shaking with it. Come here.” The demand was impossible to resist, carrying with it the promise of pleasure beyond her dreams. She went.
When she was close enough to touch, he lifted one hand, stroking his fingers along hers where they hid her br**sts from view. “I tremble with need for you, Pippa. Please, love, let me see you.”
The request was raw and wretched, and she couldn’t deny him, slowly moving her hands to settle them on his chest, fingers splayed wide across the crisp auburn hair that dusted his skin. She was distracted by that hair, the play of it over muscle—the way it narrowed to a lovely dark line across his flat stomach.
He lay still as she touched him, his muscles firm and perfect. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, fingers stroking down his arms to his wrists.
His gaze narrowed on her. “I am happy you approve, my lady.”
She smiled. “Oh I do, my lord. You are a remarkable specimen.” White teeth flashed again as she gained her courage, retracing her touch, over his forearms, marveling in the feel of him, reciting from memory, “flexor digitorum superficialis, flexor capri radialis . . .” along his upper arms, “biceps brachii, tricipitis brachii . . .” over his shoulders, loving the way the muscles tensed and flexed beneath her touch, “deltoideus . . .” and down his chest, “subscapularis . . . pectoralis major . . .”
She stilled, brushing her fingers over the curve of that muscle, the landscape of him . . . the valleys of his body. He sucked in a breath as her fingers ran over the flat discs of his ni**les, arching up to her touch, and she stilled, reveling in her power. He enjoyed her touch. He wanted it. She repeated the stroke, this time with her thumbs.
He hissed his pleasure, one wide hand falling to the inside of her knee, sending a river of heat through her. “Don’t stop now, love. This is the most effective seduction I’ve ever experienced.” He traced along the top of her knee. “Tell me . . . what is this?”
She took a deep breath. “The vastus medialis.”
“Mmm.” Fingers moved, higher. “And here?”
She shivered. “Rectus femoris.”
They slid to inside her thigh. “Clever girl . . . and here?”
“Adductor longus . . .”
And higher.
“Gracilis . . .”
She moved, breathless, spreading her legs to afford him better access, and he rewarded her, moving higher, barely stroking. “And here, love? What’s this?”
She shook her head, desperate for more. Struggled with words. “That’s not a muscle.”
He increased the touch, barely. Enough to drive her utterly mad. “No?”
“No.” She sighed.
The touch moved away, leaving an ache in its wake. “I see.”
She grabbed his hand in one hand. “Don’t stop.”
He laughed, the sound low and wicked, and levered himself up, taking her mouth in one of those long, maddening kisses, sucking and licking and claiming until she had lost herself in him . . . against him. And only then, when she was pressed against him once more, panting and nearly wild with heavy, tingling desire, did he give her the touch she craved.