Page 14 of Duke with a Debt (Wicked Dukes Society #2)

CHAPTER 14

“ H ow much longer do I need to remain still?” Stuart asked Rosamund.

At her request, he was seated on a chair in the sitting room, where she had chosen to set up her watercolors. The sitting room itself was decorated sparsely, much of the furniture outmoded. The chair wasn’t particularly well padded or comfortable. But the chamber did enjoy the brightness of the morning’s sunshine, thanks to the wall of windows facing eastward. She had chosen it for that reason, she’d told him when she had lured him here after breakfast.

“Just a bit longer,” she said, frowning down at her work, her brush hovering over the canvas.

They had settled into a glorious routine here at Gilden Hall, a place he had never particularly cared for until he had brought his wife here. Despite its general shabbiness and the repairs it required, the old edifice had begun to feel like home over the course of their idyll. He’d never expected to enjoy Rosamund so much. But enjoy her—and most thoroughly—he did in every way. As evidence, he was presently sporting a cockstand that no amount of subtly adjusting his trousers or forcing himself to think prick-wilting thoughts could cure.

Because the more he had of Rosamund, the more he wanted her. He would have sworn it was an impossibility, the feverish way he desired her, had he not experienced it firsthand.

“My arse is getting sore,” he complained. “Perhaps you might finish your portrait later.”

In truth, watching her paint him had proven such exquisite torment that he was nearly going out of his head with desire. How did she expect him to remain perfectly still, in the same room with her, whilst she was wearing a Prussian-blue dress that showed off her lush breasts and her gorgeous curves? To make matters worse, the entire affair had a tempting line of black buttons on the bodice that begged to be undone. He’d contemplated opening them by any means he could devise—fingers, teeth, and even a knife.

“Don’t be disagreeable,” she chided in the same tone she used for his nemesis, her parrot.

“Or what?” he couldn’t resist asking. “You’ll not give me my pistachio?”

With a naughty smile, she continued with her brush, dabbing delicately at some of the paint on her palette before applying it to the vignette she was capturing. “Don’t be silly. I know it’s not pistachios you want.”

“You’re damned right,” he said, maintaining his stillness. “What I want is you.”

Rosamund kept her attention on her art, adding a bit more paint from her palette. “If you had your way, you’d be having me all day long.”

Of course he would.

His cock liked the prospect of that far too much. He was going to have to invest in looser trousers.

“And the problem with that is?” he asked, hoping she wouldn’t take note of the effect she had on him.

Because if she did, he would abandon the chair altogether, and despite her insistence to the contrary, her watercolor was going to have to wait. He would bend her over the settee and fuck her silly.

Damn it , he had to stop all such thoughts at once.

“You’d wear me out,” she said lightly.

“Ha!” He grinned. “You’re insatiable.”

Yes, his formerly innocent spinster had been thoroughly debauched. And much to his delight, he had discovered she had a lusty appetite that matched his. Even better, she went wild when he said filthy things to her. Which was as often as he possibly could. Oh, she still stammered and struggled for words. But the way she had unabashedly embraced pleasure—hers and his—was a dream.

Pink colored her cheeks as she sent him a pointed look. “You mustn’t say such things. There are servants about, and they’ll hear you.”

His grin deepened. “Let them. I’m besotted with my wife, and she cannot get enough of the pleasure I give her. Particularly my tongue and my big cock.”

He was being ridiculous, but he couldn’t help himself. He liked shocking her.

“Stuart.” She bit her lower lip, looking at once scandalized and tempted. “Besotted, you say?”

He raised a brow, holding her gaze. “Do you doubt it?”

He had been following her about like a mongrel after a bitch in heat. He’d not apologize for it. There was something about Rosamund that made him nearly mad with desire. Her beauty, her inner naughty streak, her luscious breasts, her intelligence, her silken hair, her self-possession—these were all qualities he admired, and not particularly in that order. They seemed to be a combination that was uniquely hers, and that combination made him drunk on lust.

He wouldn’t apologize for it.

Nor would he allow worries about what would happen when they returned to London to intrude on their happiness. He would fret over his blackmailer, his mother, and his arsehole of a brother when their honeymoon was at an end—and not a moment sooner.

“Is this not how it is for you with all your lovers?” she asked, returning her attention to the portrait, her brush moving again.

“No,” he said honestly. “It is not. I’ve never experienced the heights of pleasure with another that I have with you.”

Her honey-brown eyes jolted back to his. “You haven’t?”

He shook his head slowly. “No, sweetheart. I haven’t.”

What they shared was rare and unique, at least based upon his own storied history. He had bedded women aplenty, it was true. But Rosamund was…different.

“Are you bamming me?” she asked softly.

He hated that she doubted what they had. Perhaps her reticence was yet from what had happened with Wesley.

“I would never joke about what is between us,” he told her, entreating her with his eyes.

She nodded. “Thank you. I have enjoyed our time together immensely, but as I have no comparison, I wasn’t sure what to think.”

Such a practical woman, his Rosamund. She strove to view everything through logic. Undoubtedly, it was one of the reasons she had been able to successfully carry on her father’s business ventures after his death. She had opened up to Stuart considerably during their time together, and he had been astounded to learn that she alone continued to run Payne’s empire, overseeing her man of business, shipping, antiquities, and other ventures.

“It is rare,” he reassured her.

“Good.” As swiftly as she had allowed her calm mask to slip and her emotions to show, she turned back to her portrait, straightening her spine. “I’m almost finished painting you. If you would just turn your head slightly to the left, toward the window, however. I do believe you’ve shifted your posture.”

Rosamund didn’t want to further examine what was happening between them. Fair enough. He didn’t want to do that either. For now, he simply wanted to enjoy it. To savor it. To savor her . Everything about her and about their marriage was so damned unexpected.

He corrected his posture as she had directed. “How is this?”

“A bit more to the left,” she advised, studying him with the cool air of an artist rather than the heated stare of a lover. “A bit more. Now, tip your chin up, just a hint, toward me.”

He did as she asked, but then a new idea took hold of him, and he deliberately moved his chin to the window. “Like this?”

“No.” She frowned at him. “In my direction, not in the window’s direction, if you please. The light has changed with the sun moving, and I want to see if I can have your face bathed in the late-morning glow again.”

This time, he made an exaggerated motion with his chin and shifted his right shoulder.

“Let me help you,” she said finally, frustration evident in her voice as she replaced her paintbrush in its crystal holder and rose from her seat, shaking out her skirts with a sigh.

She brought with her the seductive scents of rose, violet, bergamot, and ambergris, blended together into a decadent floral lure. He inhaled and maintained the pretense of his confusion, which forced her to lean over him, cupping his face and angling it the way she wanted.

“There,” she said, sounding breathless as she placed a hand on his shoulder and pressed it down as well. “I do believe this is how you were originally seated, with the light playing across your face just as it is now.”

Stuart decided he had grown weary of posing. He had Rosamund where he wanted her. Well, almost where he wanted her. That could be remedied, however. He hooked his right arm around her waist and hauled her into his lap with one swift motion. She fell atop him with a squeak of surprise.

“Stuart!”

“I like it when you chastise me,” he told her. “Go on. Do it again.”

Her eyes went wide as, undoubtedly, through the layers of her gown and undergarments, she felt the exact effect she was having upon him.

“Oh my.” Her cheeks were flushed. She was so fucking gorgeous, and her skirts were billowing around her, so bountiful that the two of them scarcely fit together in this bloody chair, and he didn’t care.

He had lured her away from her portrait, and now, she was in his arms and he wasn’t about to let her go. With his left hand, he smoothed some of her skirts out of the way before settling it on her waist in a possessive hold.

“Do you have any idea how much torture it is to watch you from across the room and not be able to touch you?” he asked, nuzzling her throat.

“It’s only been two hours,” she protested.

“It felt like bloody eternity,” he grumbled, noting the way she softened in his arms, the protest seeping out of her. “Tell me, did you feel nothing as you painted me?”

“Nothing at all,” she said, tilting her head back for him to ply her neck with kisses.

Stuart strung a path of kisses to her jaw. “I think you’re lying.” Ever so gently, he nipped her there. “But the truth is proven easily enough.” He kissed the corner of her lips. “All I need to do is slide a hand beneath your skirts and find the slit in your drawers. If your pussy is drenched, then I know you weren’t telling me the truth.”

“Why, Your Grace,” she protested, pretending maidenly outrage. “I’m shocked that you would suggest something so very untoward.”

“I’m a very untoward man,” he told her unapologetically. “Shall I prove it to you?”

“I’m trying to paint your portrait,” she said, laughing as he drew her hems up past her knees. “I’ll never have it finished with so much distraction.”

“Do you know what I think, my dear?” He lifted her skirts a bit higher, caressing her outer thigh as he did so.

And promptly discovered that his very naughty minx of a wife wasn’t even wearing any drawers.

“You wonderful woman,” he praised, dragging her hems even higher. “You seem to have forgotten a rather important undergarment.”

“Oh dear,” she said, biting her lip as she gazed at him with an unapologetically sensual air. “Have I?” She shifted, parting her legs for him. “You’ll have to tell me which one.”

He caressed the satiny, warm skin of her thigh even higher, the heat blossoming from her cunny beckoning to him like a lighthouse on shore calling in lost sea captains. This was where he belonged. He knew every inch of her intimately already. Had committed to memory every part of her that earned him the greatest sighs, that made her writhe, that made her wet. And oh, what a glorious education it had been.

He dragged a lone finger over her folds, gratified at the moisture kissing his fingertip. She was hot and soaked, and he was as randy as a young man about to shag his first woman. After the torment of remaining still with her gaze traveling over him like a caress, he couldn’t wait to be inside her.

“I do believe it’s your drawers that seem to be missing, Duchess,” he told her, keeping his voice hushed so that it wouldn’t carry beyond the closed sitting room door.

He had no wish to embarrass her. Their games were for the two of them alone. And indeed, whenever they were together, it felt quite as if they were the only ones in all the world.

“Silly me,” she lamented insincerely. “Perhaps I was distracted this morning when I dressed.”

“Or,” he said carefully, parting her folds and finding her swollen clitoris, “you intentionally took them off because you knew you’d be painting me this morning, and because you are a very bad, naughty duchess. One who likes to get fucked often.”

He circled her nub once, twice, keeping his touch light and teasing, without giving her the pressure he knew she craved. “Is that why you aren’t wearing any drawers, madam? Is it because you wanted me to give you my cock and all the spend I’ve been saving for you since dawn?”

“Oh sweet heavens, Stuart,” she gasped out, her hips chasing his fingers. “Must you say such filthy things to me?”

“Yes, because you love it.” He made another light swirl over her pearl, tormenting her, bringing her to the edge. “It makes your gorgeous cunny so very wet.”

“I’m wicked, aren’t I?” she asked, undulating against his hand, on her knees as she sat astride him, her billowing gown covering everything that was happening.

Pity. He would have loved to see her all pink and glistening. To sink his tongue deep inside her and suck her clitoris until she screamed. But this particular position didn’t allow for such luxuries.

He rubbed her harder, faster, rewarding her. “You are wicked, Duchess. And there is only one way to atone for your sins.”

She was panting now, riding his finger, her expression a mix of ecstasy and determination. “What is that?”

“Ride my cock,” he told her, withdrawing his fingers and moving them instead to the fall of his trousers. With a few deft motions, he had them undone, and his cock sprang free beneath the shielding dome of her skirts.

Somehow, being fully clothed—at least as far as his eye could see—heightened the experience. It made this feel so much more forbidden. He gripped his thick shaft, presenting it to her.

Wordlessly, she rose up, then lowered herself, inch by inch. He held himself still, her entrance finding his cock with unrelenting precision. Slowly, surely, she took him inside her, her greedy cunny bathing him in a vise of tight, slippery heat. It was perfect. She was perfect. His head fell back, and he watched her, his beautiful wife, always assured and poised, coming undone for him, his cock wedged deep within her.

If anyone were to open the door, they would see nothing more scandalous than a wife sitting on her husband’s lap. He had debauched her most thoroughly during their short marriage, and he didn’t regret it one bit. Watching Rosamund embrace her sensual nature was a revelation. A true aphrodisiac.

“Oh, that feels wonderful,” she breathed at his cock seated inside her, stretching her wide.

“Fuck me,” he urged her. “Take your pleasure. Use me to get what you need.”

He didn’t need to tell her twice. Rosamund rose until he almost fell free and then sank down on him again, the throaty sound of bliss she made enough to make his cock pulse within her. He had spent himself inside her just that morning. Indeed, each day of their honeymoon had been spent alternately eating, talking, and fucking. If he didn’t have her with child by the time it came to an end, he would be amazed.

And somehow, that notion made him harder still.

He surrendered himself to the exquisite sensation of her fucking him, riding his cock as the chair creaked around them, threatening to give way, and the sun shone on them both, gilding them in late-afternoon warmth. It was too good. So good. Exquisitely, wonderfully good. Just as each time with Rosamund had been. He had to clench his jaw to keep his climax at bay as she worked him in and out of her pussy’s delicious grip. He longed to rip open her bodice and tear at her corset so he could suck her nipples, but there wasn’t sufficient time.

He could feel the pleasure building at the base of his spine, white-hot and potent. His balls ached. More, more, more. She rode him faster, harder. And then, with a cry, she came, clamping down on him, her cunny nearly squeezing him from her velvet depths. He clamped his hands on her waist and held her there, her pussy fluttering around him, so hot, so wet, milking him. A few thrusts of his own, and he was gone, his hips pumping to meet her, sinking his cock deep as he came and came and came, his seed a hot flood within her, his vision going black around the edges.

Stuart drew her to him, giving her a long, slow kiss on the mouth, before releasing her. “Now, sweetheart, you can finish your portrait.”

She stared at him, skin flushed, eyes glassy, looking dazed and sated. “Perhaps I can finish it tomorrow instead.”

He grinned and kissed her again.

This woman. He was so damned grateful she was his.