Page 21 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

20

G oodness .

Hartwood tossed her— gently —on the bed, amid a half-dozen over-stuffed, heavily embroidered pillows, all of which he hurled across the room with a growl. One he held up, full of glittering beads. “The design makes me dizzy.” He made a puff of disgust.

“I like them,” she answered. Only an hour ago, she’d been considering the impossibility of taking Hartwood for a lover, and now, that was about to become…real.

“Don’t move.” He proceeded to pull off his boots, which he did with excessive care and placed side by side.

“I wouldn’t dare, Your Grace.” Celia was entirely unclothed, which if she’d had the number of lovers she’d been accused of, would not matter. But she’d never been naked before anyone other than Therese, and the urge to cover herself had Celia fisting the coverlet. If he witnessed excessive modesty from her, Hartwood might ply her with questions. None of which Celia wished to answer.

I know there is blood the first time. Usually.

Though, Eleanor claimed she hadn’t bled, nor had there been any pain. Just disappointment.

Celia had explored her…lady parts several times, but not to the degree that Hartwood had. Nor had the results been quite so spectacular. She would never again take a bath and not think of his hands on her. Nor would riding in a carriage ever be the same.

Oliver had agreed to her terms, especially regarding Lady Helen.

Even during her lowest moments, in the loneliness of her marriage to Percival, Celia had never once considered breaking her marriage vows. She might be reckless and childish at times, but Celia had promised a long time ago that she would not take a married man to her bed. Nor one who was promised to another. The line was thin in regards to the Duke of Hartwood, given that everyone assumed he would marry Lady Helen as he’d been courting her on and off for some time. But they were not betrothed. Not married.

“Take the pins from your hair.”

Hartwood, austere, priggish man with all the warmth of jellied aspic. At least, that had once been her opinion. He looked at her now as if he’d devour her whole.

“Celia.”

Still commanding. Bossy. Domineering. He ripped off his cravat, paused, and then folded the silk. Unbuttoned the top of his shirt, exposing a delicious triangle of skin. “Spread that glorious autumn across the bed.”

“Autumn?”

“The color of your hair.” He pulled his shirt from the leather riding breeches. “Warm and glorious. The leaves of every tree when the weather begins to turn. Take down your hair.”

“Stop ordering me about,” she retorted. Her hands flew up to the pile of curls atop her head, flinging the pins off the bed with no regard for where they fell. No one had ever made such a lovely compliment about her hair. Percival had likened it to a rotting orange.

He watched where every pin fell as she flung them about. “You do realize I will collect every one of those later and put them away. Properly.”

“I know.” The heavy mass came tumbling down in an array of twisting curls in various shades of auburn, peach and reddish gold. “But why?” Celia suspected she knew, given the comments he’d made about his mother, whom he always referred to as ‘the duchess’ with not a hint of affection, supplemented with the stories she’d heard from others.

There was a flash of discomfort across his features. An awkwardness Celia would never have guessed from such a capable, responsible duke.

“I like order. A duke should be…orderly.” His fingers continued to pluck at the buttons of his shirt, revealing more of his torso. Not pale as she’d expected, but sun-kissed and brushed lightly with dark hair. Hartwood?—

No. Oliver.

Spent a great deal of time out of doors.

“I must give you fits. I am entirely without an ounce of order.”

“You are the very definition of chaos.” His features softened, gaze on her struck through with some emotion before he turned away.

“Isn’t it against the rules…” The words sounded husky to her ears as the remainder of his torso was freed from his shirt. “For a duke to go about shirtless while ordering the peasants about at his estate?” Celia took him in, pulse beating madly, forgetting all about the fact that she was completely naked, and he had yet to be.

She had witnessed plenty of men without their shirts growing up in the country. Her brother’s tenants for instance, on hot days, especially when they assumed Celia was nowhere in the vicinity. She’d admired their flat stomachs and the sculpted muscle of their chests. The strong arms heavy with sinew. Bodies made for physical labor.

Oliver resembled those men far more than a duke.

First, he clearly spent a great deal of time outside without a shirt, as evidenced by the golden hue of his skin. Hipbones prominent, drawing attention to the flat stomach with the small trail of hair disappearing into his riding breeches. He had a scar under one arm, the sort made by, of all things, a sickle.

“Where did you get that, Oliver?”

A pleased look came over his features at his name. “Accident during harvest. Not deep.”

“An accident during harvest?”

“I like to work with my hands. Don’t be so shocked, Celia.” A mischievous smirk pulled at his lips, so unlike his usually stiff countenance. He stretched his fingers down across his stomach, stopping short of the enormous bulge decorating the front of those ridiculously tight riding breeches.

Celia had grown up in the country.

Her heart took up an unsteady rhythm. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t give herself away.

He took a step towards the bed, leaned over, and ran the fingers of one hand through the strands of her hair. A look of utter adoration flashed across his features as he wrapped a curl around his thumb, and Celia’s heart nearly stopped.

“Shall I show you?”

Her mouth had gone dry. “Show me what, Your Grace?”

“How I like to use my hands. My mouth.” He leaned over, his tongue flicking out to lick up the edge of her breast before circling the tip of one nipple.

“Yes.” She could barely think or breathe, not with Oliver so close and so…unlike himself.

No, this is who he really is.

He took her wrists, pinning both above her head. Lowering his mouth, he… feasted on her breasts. Adoring every inch of her skin, licking and sucking, teeth grazing the swollen points of her nipples before retreating, until Celia was a panting, aroused mess.

She twisted, arching her back, attempting to force one sensitive peak into his mouth.

A lovely, deep sound that reminded Celia of melted chocolate came from his chest. “Will you be good, Celia?”

The slow, painful ache along the lower half of her body told Celia that yes, she would do whatever Oliver wanted, if only he would give her more of this.

Rotten man.

“Does it amuse you to have me at your mercy, Your Grace?” A cry left her as he gently bit the small tip.

“So much,” he said softly, the heat of his mouth settling over the sting, lazily sucking at her skin.

Celia struggled against the hold on her wrists, though admittedly, not very hard. The sensation of his mouth on her breasts was like a flame, searing down between her thighs. She didn’t want to escape.

“It is the only time you give the pretense of obedience. When I pleasure you.”

“Pretense is all it shall remain,” she breathed.

The gold of his eyes deepened as he looked up at her. “I would not want you any other way.” He pressed an openmouthed kiss to her stomach. “Annoying, mind you.” She could feel the smile against her skin. “A constant source of irritation. But overall, I think you…” The timbre of his words grew husky. “Glorious.”

A tingle shot along her body, from her heart straight down to her toes. It was the same description she’d used to describe him.

He released her wrists, his hands floating down to trail over her waist and the curve of her hip. Big and warm, doing such amazing things to her.

“Kiss me, Your Grace,” she commanded, her fingers sinking into his hair.

Celia sighed in pleasure at the unrestrained savagery of his mouth on her own. Her palms spread down his chest, listening to his satisfied groan. He took one hand and pressed it against the bulge in his breeches, tongue lashing wildly with hers.

“Take them off,” Celia said boldly, wanting to see what lay beneath the leather. “Toss them. Carelessly.”

“You don’t order a duke about.”

She gazed up at him. “I don’t think you mind.”

He shook his head and peeled out of his riding breeches, tossing them just as Celia had instructed.

Oh. Dear.

Well, she had seen her brother’s stallion, of course. And—not really the same at all. Before Celia could make another coherent thought, possibly scaring herself, he crawled over her on all fours and did exactly as he had promised.

The Duke of Hartwood put that lovely mouth of his on every inch of Celia’s skin, branding her with every nip of his teeth and press of his marvelous tongue. The chafe of his jaw, already dusted with a line of hair this late in the day, rubbed along her skin, marking her. He paused every so often to press a gentle kiss when he found a scratch or a bruise that required extra attention.

Her body hummed at his attention, curling and stretching beneath his mouth until she was once more aching and sensitive between her thighs.

Oliver stretched out beside her, rolling Celia until her back was to his chest. He nudged her legs open with the press of one knee. One arm loosely clasped her neck, turning her mouth to his.

Celia tried to hide her surprise at the change in positions. She’d assumed Oliver would be on top of her. That’s what she’d always been told. Minerva had claimed that was the correct manner of physical relations.

Oh, Minerva was wrong.

It occurred to Celia that she should tell Oliver of her untouched state, given how close he was to ending it, but immediately discarded the idea. He would stop. Decide to be honorable. Wouldn’t ruin her. He would leave and never return.

And I want it to be him .

Her heart, which whispered and cried out for him, demanded it be Oliver.

When he inched inside her, taking more care than she’d expected, Celia gasped. He withdrew, only to thrust more forcefully, taking her slowly until Celia felt him break through the small barrier and bury himself deep.

Celia covered the sudden shock, the pain of his invasion, with a low moan, trying not to tremble. Her heart beat wildly as her body attempted to accommodate his, hoping Oliver hadn’t noticed the way she’d stiffened. Forcing her body to relax, Celia pressed closer to him.

His mouth lingered over her neck as he moved his hips sensually with each stroke.

Pleasure followed every thrust, mixing with the pain until that ebbed away into nothing. Celia forced her hips back and heard Oliver groan. Their bodies rocked together until she no longer recalled anything but him.

He was everywhere. Fingers gently caressing Celia between her legs, even as he thrust hard and deep. This was far more intense, more intimate than she’d imagined. The pressure inside her built once more, his fingers matching every thrust of his hips.

“Oliver.”

“No one else.” He moved Celia until she was nearly on her stomach. Shifting her legs, he moved quicker, harder, the new angle hitting a space inside her that had her pulse leaping about. The hold on her neck tightened as Oliver pounded into her, all gentleness gone.

Celia cried out. Pleasure, so intense it stole her breath, shattered every lucid thought. Her entire body shook with the force of her climax.

A hard breath came from Oliver as he bit her shoulder, his last thrust halting, before the weight of his body disappeared. His fingers curled into her hip, holding her still as the low growl of her name passed his lips and warmth spilled over the backs of her legs.

Oh. That was…quite marvelous. Worth falling off Daisy.

The ragged sound of their breathing was the only sound in the room as Oliver pressed his forehead to her back, then a kiss to her neck.

“Celia,” he purred. “I told you that bloody quim belongs to me.”