Page 15 of Duke with a Debt (Wicked Dukes Society #2)

CHAPTER 15

R osamund gave the wooden boat floating at the edge of the Gilden Hall lake a dubious look.

“Are you certain it’s seaworthy?” she asked Stuart.

As a Londoner born and bred, she could not swim. And whilst her husband had assured her that punting could be a wonderful diversion, she was not convinced.

“I don’t reckon I would take her on the sea.” He flashed her a grin that was almost boyish, looking indecently handsome with the sun shining on his country tweed and dapper hat, his eyes twinkling merrily into hers. “However, I think she’ll do just fine on the lake.”

When he chose to be charming, the effect was nothing short of devastating. Their honeymoon was soon at an end, which was just as well. Because she needed the stern reminder of the life that awaited them in London to keep her from falling any further beneath this magnetic rake’s spell.

Stop mooning over how handsome he is , Rosamund , she ordered herself, turning her attention back to the punt, which looked as if it had been sitting on the edge of the lake, forlornly awaiting its fate, for at least as long as Stuart had been alive.

“How old is it?” she asked suspiciously.

“ She , sweetheart,” he corrected. “A ship is always a female.”

The derelict vessel in question was nowhere near a ship. But Rosamund decided not to argue the point.

“Forgive me for my lapse. How old is she ?” she tried again. “She looks rather…weathered.”

“Seasoned,” her husband told her, taking up a pole that looked equally as ancient as the punt itself. “Don’t let her hear you calling her weathered. Females have very delicate feelings. You’re likely to hurt hers. Call her seasoned instead.”

He was being absurd, and equally absurdly, she found it impossibly endearing. Over the course of their time together in Hertfordshire, she had discovered that Stuart possessed a lighthearted, silly side she’d never guessed at. He could make her laugh and smile with such dedicated ease that it was almost frightening.

Was he trying to make her fall in love with him?

Rosamund banished the foolish question, shocked her mind had even arrived at such a conclusion. She didn’t love Stuart. She was fond of him, yes. She’d enjoyed the time they had been spending together and getting to know him better as well. But nothing had altered. She was still a pragmatic businesswoman who had married him so that she might have a family, and he was still the duke who had married her to pay off his many debts.

“Is something amiss?” Stuart asked, jolting her from her thoughts as she realized he had turned his attention back to her.

She forced a smile. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

“You look distressed.” He frowned, moving toward her. “Are you afraid to go punting? If you are, I’ll not force you. I thought you would enjoy it.”

She wasn’t about to tell him that her unease was caused by the wayward ramblings of her inner musings. Nor about the feelings she was unintentionally developing for him. Let him think it was the old punt that was her greatest source of worry.

“I’m not afraid,” she reassured him. “I merely want to make certain the boat won’t take on water the moment we’re in the midst of the lake.”

“If it does, I’ll swim you to the shore,” he said with a gallant air.

“You can swim?”

“I learned in this very lake as a lad.”

For a wistful moment, she tried to imagine what Stuart must have looked like as a young boy, swimming in the sparkling, still waters before them. Then she wondered what their son might look like, were they to have one, and all those warm, fluttery feelings she was doing her utmost to ignore returned.

Clearly, she needed a diversion. Punting on the lake in a dilapidated wooden boat was preferable to lingering on the unsettling feelings that had blossomed for her husband and continued to grow.

“Very well,” she relented, needing to keep her mind from such unsettling thoughts. “I’ll go punting with you, as long as you promise to save me should we sink.”

He took her hand in his and settled it into the crook of his elbow. “I promise. Besides, the lake is filled with silt. It’s grown quite shallow. You could likely wade to shore.”

She allowed him to lead her to the waiting punt and help her to get in—not a particularly easy feat with the way the boat dipped and swayed as she lifted her hems and stepped one booted foot into the hull. He put a hand on her waist, steadying her.

“I have you,” he said softly.

And oh , the effect those words had on her. Her foolish, foolish heart. His presence, strong and reassuring at her back, his hands on her, guiding her—it made her feel wonderfully protected . Protected in a way she had never felt from a man before.

Father had protected her, of course. He had doted on her too. Cherished her. He had encouraged her, been proud of her. But although she understood she had been fortunate to have a father who treated her as equally as he would have any son, a father who adored her unconditionally, he had still been her father. He had not been a suitor, a beau, a husband.

She had to cease this nonsensical thinking of hers.

With a haste she instantly regretted, Rosamund straightened and jerked away from Stuart’s hold, making the old boat rock wildly and the calm waters of the lake splash up the sides. She stumbled, catching her boot in her hems, and nearly pitched over the opposite side into the water. It was only her husband’s quick thinking that saved her. A jerk on the rear of her skirts halted her forward motion, and, gasping for breath as her corset cinched her waist from her ungainly pose, she turned to find Stuart had caught her skirts in his fist, keeping her from falling overboard.

His expression was taut with concentration and worry. “Trust me, Rosamund. I won’t allow any harm to befall you, this I swear.”

“Thank you,” she managed as she grasped the edge of the punt, trying to salvage what remained of her pride after nearly falling into the lake. “You can release me now. I won’t go overboard. You needn’t concern yourself with my welfare.”

He gave her an odd look she couldn’t quite decipher. “You are mine to look after now, and I intend to do precisely that.”

His words were so unexpected that, coupled with her thoughts about Father and her heightened emotions, they caused tears to prickle the backs of her eyes. Her vision swam, but she blinked furiously, chasing that weakness, that insistent vulnerability she refused to acknowledge.

She was made of sterner stuff. She was Rosamund Payne, and she was a businesswoman in her own right.

“I can look after myself,” she told him pointedly. “Just as I have been doing.”

A slight smile curved his lips. “I didn’t say you couldn’t look after yourself, sweetheart. You are, without doubt, the most capable and intelligent and independent woman I know. But that doesn’t mean I’m not here to catch you when you need me. To keep you from falling headlong into the water, or whatever it is you require in a given moment.”

Curse him. Why did he have to somehow always say what she needed to hear?

Rosamund forced herself to remain unmoved, offering him a curt nod. “Thank you.”

With painstaking care, she sank onto the bench seat, maintaining her poise as best she could and mercifully keeping the boat from swaying too much. But it was impossible to keep her gaze from Stuart as he stepped into the punt as well, his motions fluid and graceful. Grasping the long wooden pole, and still standing, he used it to push them into the lake.

The boat glided with surprising ease, traveling with a few bobs from side to side. Rosamund cast her eyes around the punt’s interior, looking for any indications that they were taking on water, and thankfully found none thus far.

“Searching for leaks?”

Stuart’s amused voice had her gaze returning to him with a start, heat creeping up her throat. “I don’t see any yet. Should you not sit down now that we are moving?”

He grinned, standing at the bow, apparently unperturbed by the subtle swaying of the boat on the water as he punted them deeper into the lake. “I’m touched by your wifely concern, but I won’t fall in, I promise.”

Wifely concern. Was that what this feeling was, tight and inescapable coiled within her? She didn’t know, nor did she want to examine it, for fear of what she might discover about herself. Because she was beginning to suspect that this feeling was far more than that, that it ran deeper. It was dangerous, this feeling. And she refused to allow herself to entertain it.

“See that you don’t,” was all she said, turning her head and adjusting the brim of her hat to account for the sun reflecting off the water. “I have no wish to be stranded in the midst of this lake on a rotten old boat.”

He chuckled. “The boat is hardly rotten. She is only taking on a bit of water.”

She glanced back toward him, alarmed. “It is?”

But her husband was grinning, looking as carefree as she had yet seen him. “I was only jesting, sweetheart. She’s as watertight as ever.”

She stared at him, that feeling inside her growing, and swallowed down a rising lump in her throat. “You seem at home here. The countryside is good for you, I think.”

“Perhaps it is you who is good for me,” he countered, his smile fading, his countenance serious.

He was being charming again. Gallant. She forced her eyes back to the water, a far safer place.

“You needn’t woo me,” she said quietly. “You’ve already won me.”

“I don’t think I’ve won you just yet,” he said thoughtfully. “But I’m determined to try.”

If only he knew. But she wouldn’t tell him. Rosamund would never allow herself to be vulnerable again. No amount of drugging kisses, courtly promises, captivating grins, or knowing caresses could change that.

“I’m your wife. I do believe that is as much victory as you shall have,” she said primly.

“There is always more.”

A seductive note had entered his voice, one she recognized.

“You’re being fanciful,” she told him.

“There’s nothing fanciful about what I want to do to you,” he promised. “Have you ever had your cunny licked in a punt in the middle of a lake?”

His words sent molten heat to pool between her thighs even as he scandalized her. “Naturally not.”

His pole dipped into the water again with a small splash, and they coasted closer to the lake’s center. “Then I shall have to rectify the matter at once.”

“Stuart,” she protested when he settled the pole inside the hull and stepped toward her, making the boat sway wildly under the force of his motion. “You’ll capsize us and send us both into the water.”

“No, I won’t.” He dropped to his knees on the scarred old bottom of the boat, which couldn’t have been comfortable at all. “You see? We’re still afloat.”

“Yes,” she agreed breathlessly. “We are. But you’re not going to…we cannot…it’s the afternoon, and we are out of doors where anyone could see.”

Calmly, he removed his hat, revealing the silken dark strands that had hidden gold lights in them brought out by the sun. “You know how hard my cock gets when you turn into a maiden spinster, sputtering over your words.”

“Stuart,” she tried again, with meaning.

He took her hems in his hands and slowly raised them up her ankles, past her boots, and higher. “Yes, darling?”

“I could never…not in a boat…”

“You can, and you will.” Her hems went to her knees now.

She was on fire, and it had nothing to do with the sun blazing overhead. “But…”

“Hush,” he interrupted softly, nudging her legs apart as he pooled her silken skirts in her lap. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

Her husband’s head disappeared beneath her voluminous gown, and she felt the flick of his tongue over her, and all other objections swiftly fled.

“Oh my…” He lapped at her clitoris, then sucked. “Goodness,” she hissed.

This was indecent. Scandalous. Depraved. They were in sight of the manor house, even if a spacious distance stretched between the lake and Gilden Hall. But there was something thrilling about being in the open air with him, in this boat, on the water, with the sun gilding them in a warm glow and the birds calling in the trees and the rhythmic, pleasant sound of water splashing at the sides of the punt.

His tongue found her entrance, and he licked into her, the hot, velvet glide almost too much for her to bear. Her every sense was acutely heightened. His hands were on her hips, holding her in place for him to devour. She clenched the layers of her gown and undergarments in a tight grip, keeping them pinned to her lap as his tongue sank in and out of her channel in a wet mimicry of lovemaking. She moaned, scooting her bottom forward on the bench seat, pressing herself to his face.

He growled in response, his efforts growing more concentrated and demanding as he returned to her pearl, licking, stroking, suckling, even nipping lightly with his teeth. As he lavished attention on the greedy bud of her sex, he sank two fingers inside her, thrusting them deep, finding the place that brought all the desire within her to a crescendo.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her head tipping back, and she surrendered herself to the glorious sensation he was visiting upon her. To the pleasure. He sucked hard, his fingers gliding slickly through her wetness, and she came with a cry that echoed off the shimmering water, shattering the stillness of the day. When the last pulse of bliss ebbed from her, he kissed her between her legs and then emerged, flipping down her skirts in the same motion.

His handsome face was etched with desire, his lips glistening as he gave her a slow, beautiful smile that made her toes curl in her boots. “I hope I’ve given you a new appreciation for punting.”

She struggled to find her wits and her breath, before finally answering, “Boating on the lake was far more enjoyable than I anticipated. We should do it again.”

“There’s my wicked duchess.” He drew one of her hands to his lips for a soft, reverent kiss. “I knew I could persuade you.”

Rosamund knew in that sun-drenched moment, in the midst of the Gilden Hall lake, that her heart was in grave peril. And she needed to do everything in her power to keep herself from falling for her husband.

“My heavens, this must have been a wonderful edifice at one time,” Rosamund exclaimed at his side, her enthusiasm making him smile as they approached the late-fifteenth-century Tudor ruins that had been abandoned back in the early seventeenth century for the present Gilden Hall’s manor house.

“It was a grand house at one point,” he agreed solemnly.

She was dressed in a bright-blue silk walking gown with black velvet trim and a line of buttons down the bodice that had made his fingers itch to undo them from the moment she’d emerged from her bedroom earlier. On her head, she wore a matching bonnet with a jaunty cluster of silk flowers adorning the brim. She looked absolutely entrancing, and he couldn’t wait to return home, strip her out of her gown, and make love to her.

But for now, he was escorting her through the Doric columns on the entry arch that still remained. Because Stuart had discovered a newfound pastime.

He enjoyed making his wife happy.

Not just pleasuring her—although that was another pastime with immense rewards that he’d discovered over the course of their marriage thus far. But making small gestures that made her smile. Humoring her by sitting for multiple watercolors. Finding a book of poetry in the library that he thought she might enjoy. Washing her hair when she was at her bath.

With each day that passed, Rosamund’s walls of defense crumbled more and more. He was damned grateful for the progress they’d made, for he had come to realize something startling during the course of their honeymoon. He didn’t just like his wife. He cared for her.

And a great deal.

So much that it would have alarmed him. The old him. The Stuart before Rosamund. The Stuart he was beginning to think had been adrift in a sea of nothingness, waiting for her to lure him to shore.

“Only just think of what it must have been like to walk through this when it was in its glory,” she was saying, her voice hushed with awe.

Here was the woman who collected Roman antiquities in her father’s mold. He felt embarrassingly profligate in her presence. The ruins had stood here all his life, and whilst he had explored them as a lad, he had never imagined what the old abbey would have looked like when it had been new.

“Queen Elizabeth visited here,” he told her, knowing she would enjoy that bit of history which had never particularly interested him. “It would have been quite grand at that time.”

“Why did you not bring me here sooner?” she demanded. “To think I might have missed this.”

Their honeymoon was, unfortunately, waning. And all too soon, they would have to return to London. But he didn’t want to think about that now.

“It’s not much to look upon any longer.” They walked through the entryway and back into the grass, where crumbling brick and limestone foundations delineated the place a room would have been. “I suppose I’ve grown rather accustomed to it. I only thought of bringing you here when you spoke of how you longed to see the ancient ruins in Greece. The travel distance to this ruin is significantly shorter, even if it isn’t nearly as old as the Acropolis.”

“I’m so glad you thought of it,” she said, moving away from him, to where one of the original windows was still supported by a dilapidated wall.

The panes had long since been smashed and lost to the passing centuries.

Here was something else he enjoyed: admiring her. She had an expressive face, and her innate curiosity meant that she was often moving, investigating, her clever mind whirling. She also had a genius for a dressmaker. The way her gowns clung to her curves was nothing short of criminal. The day was warm enough that she didn’t require a wrap, which meant that the lush nip of her waist was on full display.

Rosamund rejoined him, her countenance pensive. “It seems a shame for a home so rich with history to simply molder like this. I wonder if we might restore it.”

There wasn’t much left of the abbey. It was rather akin to the skeleton of a fallen stag he had come upon once as a lad here at Gilden Hall—sparse bones all that remained of the once-proud creature.

“It would require a small fortune and an endless amount of work, I have no doubt,” he said. “Such a tremendous outlay of money would never have been possible before.”

Before he’d married her, he meant. Before her dowry had revived the Gilden family coffers and before she had brought with her the fortune she’d inherited, hers to direct as she pleased. She was silent for a few steps as they continued their meandering path through the ruins, and he feared he had overstepped by mentioning it at all.

“We have a great deal of other work awaiting us first,” she said. “Perhaps one day.”

They certainly did. And there was also the matter of keeping his brother’s gambling debts reined in. To say nothing of the blackmailer. But those were worries for another day as well.

“Perhaps,” he echoed.

They finished exploring the ruins and headed back toward the manor house. The walk wasn’t far, and they made the trek while she regaled him with tales of some of her favorite antiquities and how they had come into her father’s possession. It wasn’t until they were settled into the drawing room, a tea tray laid out between them along with some light confections, that he recalled another subject he had wanted to speak with her about.

“How do you teach the feathered menace words?” he asked curiously, before taking a sip from his cup.

Rosamund had prepared it perfectly for him, just as he liked. Of course she had.

“Why?” She arched a brow, looking amused. “Do you intend to teach Megs something dreadful so that she will embarrass me even further before company?”

He pressed a free hand over his heart with a dramatic air. “I’m wounded that you think I would do something so Machiavellian.”

She was not entirely wrong, but Stuart didn’t bother to tell her that. It would spoil his fun.

“You must admit that it wasn’t out of the realm of reason for me to make the assumption,” she said archly.

And he couldn’t disagree. She knew him so well already. He would fret over that alarming fact later. For now, he needed to learn her secret means of charming a parrot.

“Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I can assure you that I have no nefarious intentions. I’m merely curious. It is quite intriguing how intelligent and loquacious she is. I’ve never known another parrot before.”

Something in her countenance shifted, and there was suddenly a tenderness there that she often kept hidden. He wanted to kiss her. But that would distract her from giving him the information he required, so he tamped down the desire.

“You don’t dislike her as much as you claim to, do you?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t entirely say the two of us have called a truce, but seeing as how she has many more years to live and I fully intend to have the same, perhaps it is best if Megs and I might reach an understanding. If I know how her mind works, I shall be well ahead of myself.”

He was evading the truth, dancing about it lightly. But Rosamund appeared to take him at his word. She nodded.

“Not all parrots are as social and eager to learn as Megs is,” Rosamund explained. “Some are much more resistant to training. However, Megs enjoys new words. All she requires is impetus, and it was quite easy once I learned her cues.”

“Cues?”

“Her behavior tells me whether she is amenable to learning. If she is moving about and making sounds at me, the chances are far greater that she will enjoy a small session of learning. If she is tired or quiet, I know to wait until her mood improves. If she’s in the proper mood, I place her on her perch and make sure no one else is about. It is imperative that she have a calm, quiet room, as she can get easily distracted.”

By God, the parrot was not so dissimilar from a person. He didn’t know what he had supposed the process would be like, but he hadn’t imagined it would require such attention to detail.

“Of course,” he offered. “Distraction is the very devil of a thing. I can’t begin to count the number of times, just in this day alone, that I’ve been distracted by your breasts straining against your gown. It doesn’t matter the time of day or the frock. Your bubbies look astonishingly lovely in everything you wear, and then I can scarcely concentrate on a word you say. I’m merely staring at you, thinking of the moment when I can strip the silk and corset and linen from your skin, and suck your pretty nipples until you come.”

Her lips were parted as he finished, and there was no mistaking the way her pupils had darkened and grown. She was not unaffected by his words, though she remained a safe arm’s length away.

Not at all.

He grinned. “Oh dear, have I shocked you, wife? I must confess, I wasn’t certain such a thing would be possible. But let us get back to the subject, shall we? You were telling me how our feathered friend must not have any commotions.”

Rosamund wetted her lips. “I…you…” she stammered in that adorable way of hers, looking deliciously flustered. “My breasts are that great a source of distraction to you?”

His grin deepened. “The rest of you as well, my dear. I could go on if you would like.”

“No.” She shook her head vehemently this time. “That won’t be necessary. We were talking about Megs.”

If ever there was a topic of conversation that made his rampant prick wilt, here was one. Just as well. He did need to learn how to teach the damned nettlesome parrot to call him something far less insulting than gormless shite .

“Ah yes.” He kept his tone magnanimous, as if he weren’t drowning in lust for her at this very moment. “Do go on, my dear. What happens after the feathered beggar is on her perch?”

Rosamund’s frown was instant. “You must cease referring to her by such names, you know.”

“Must I? Well then, she is to also refrain from calling me a gormless shite,” he said smoothly. “What comes after the perch?”

“When she is settled, I hold a treat before her, making sure it’s level with her eyes,” Rosamund continued.

Level with her silvery demon eyes? Did that mean he needed to look into them? Stuart barely suppressed a shudder at the notion. But for his wife, he would do anything. Even beguile a parrot.

“Not an entire pistachio for training,” Rosamund continued, unaware of his uncharitable thoughts, “but a bit of a crushed one works wonders. I say the word I want to teach her, and then when she makes any sort of sound, I praise her and give her the pistachio. After a few rounds of this, I withhold the pistachio until she makes a sound that is closer to the word I’m trying to teach her. She adores praise, so I tell her what a smart bird she is, what a pretty bird, and then she usually preens. We do this in five-minute increments, with lengthy pauses in between, until she has mastered the word. If she needs a rest or grows weary, she begins to groom her feathers, and I know it’s time to give her a respite.”

“That sounds as if it requires a great deal of patience and time,” he said, trying to quell his inner disappointment.

Of course it couldn’t have been as easy as telling the parrot repeat after me . He couldn’t lie. He’d rather hoped it would have been as simple.

“Teaching her did require some patience,” Rosamund agreed. “Of course, she still has a mind of her own, as you have seen. Some of her favorite words tend to be the impolite ones, much to my chagrin. I can only imagine it is because of her former owner.”

“You never did tell me how Miss Rosamund Payne became the caretaker of an African grey parrot who belonged to a sea captain,” he reminded her.

“He was one of the finest captains in my father’s shipping fleet,” she explained with a wistful smile. “Captain William Vaughan was his name. Megs kept him company for several years after he was no longer able to captain his ship. He liked to pay calls upon my father at his offices and take coffee with him. He would always bring Megs, and of course, I spent a great deal of time with my father there as well. Megs took to me, as Captain Vaughan said. Just before he died, he told me that if anything were ever to befall him, he wanted me to have her. So I honored his wish.”

Her voice broke a bit at the last, a sheen of tears making her eyes glisten. It was akin to a knife being stabbed into his gut, the sight of her grief.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. If I had known it was a sad story, I wouldn’t have asked.”

She sniffled, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her gaze. “You need not apologize. I miss the captain. But I miss my father as well. There was a great deal of death in a short period of time in my life. I don’t suspect I shall ever truly recover from it. Not entirely.”

Her raw admission touched something deep inside him. Stuart rose from his chair and opened his arms to her, not knowing any other means of comfort.

“Come here, Rosamund.”

She didn’t hesitate, setting down her tea and rising to close the distance between them. She burrowed into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. He held her tightly, pressing his face to her fragrant hair.

“I wish I had been there to comfort you then,” he murmured thickly.

“You are here now,” she said, her words muffled into his waistcoat.

Yes, he was, wasn’t he? And he was thankful for it. Not because he had needed her fortune to dig himself out of the tremendous hole of debt in which he’d nearly been buried. But because the time he had spent with her recently was the happiest in his memory. She had brought passion and caring and kindness to his world, like a lamp lit to shine into his darkness. How astonishing that she should be his. How wondrous.

He kissed her part. “Yes, I am here now, yours to do with as you wish.”

“As I wish?” Her head tipped back, and there was a lone tear that had slipped down her cheek, leaving a trail.

He couldn’t resist lowering his head and drying up the salt of her sorrow with his lips. “As you wish,” he repeated softly when he had finished.

She gave him a subtle squeeze. “I’m not certain you should give me so much power over you, husband.”

“I ceded it to you long ago, whether you realized it or not,” he said honestly. “You’ve changed me, and in the very best of ways, I think.”

“Oh, Stuart. I do believe that is the sweetest thing you have said to me.”

Another thought rose in his mind.

Marrying you has made me happier than I ever hoped to be.

The words were impetuous, impossible. How could they be true? This wasn’t meant to be anything more than a marriage of convenience. He didn’t dare speak them aloud for fear he was delusional. Had he fallen and hit his head? Was he feverish? He didn’t feel as if he had gone mad, but perhaps he had.

He swallowed hard against a rush of emotion and tried for a lighter tone to disperse the heaviness of the moment. “I rather thought that bit I said about your bubbies earlier was sweet as well.”

She laughed, and it was a beautiful sound. One he wished he could capture and store somewhere so that he might listen to it again and again. It was husky and sweet, mellifluous like her voice. But it was also the knowledge that he was the source of her laughter that moved Stuart.

“It was sinful,” she told him, “and you know it. Moreover, I cannot believe it’s true. I do think you merely wanted to shock me.”

“I would never lie about something like that,” he assured her. “Shall I offer you the evidence that I spoke truth?”

Her eyes widened. “Stuart.”

He liked when she said his name with spinsterish outrage. It made his cock hard.

“Here, give me your hand, darling.” He reached for her right hand with his left and brought it between their bodies, settling her palm over his straining cock. “You see? Proof that I’m hopeless when it comes to trying to ignore your potent allure.”

Her fingers curled around his length, and she gave him a brazen stroke from root to tip. “I’m not certain if this is proof,” she said slowly.

“Oh?” It certainly felt that way to him.

He was near to coming in his trousers—and not for the first time when she was about.

She nodded, every inch the seductress. “I think you will have to show me to persuade me.”

His cock thickened, and he thrust himself into her touch. “My beautiful, naughty wife. I do like the way you think.”