Page 13 of The Duke of Cups (The Highwaymen #3)

She was looking at him, but she knew he meant to look at his face, and she lifted her gaze, feeling two warring sensations at once, one a sort of feeling of having been scolded, like a naughty child, and another a feeling of vast and wild permissiveness, as if she had been transported into a brave, new world where wickedness was encouraged.

He crooked a finger, beckoning her.

She went to him.

He pulled her against him, pressing the tip of his erection into her belly .

She swallowed.

He dragged a finger under the bodice of her dress. “This is better than I thought it would be. I think I could get addicted to the destruction of feminine innocence, actually.”

She let out a noisy breath. “I don’t want to be innocent.”

“You won’t be,” he said softly. “Turn around.”

She did, and he started deftly undoing her buttons. When he was done, he pushed the sleeves of her dress over her arms, and she climbed out of her skirts, leaving the dress to lie in a heap on the floor.

He bent over to remove his boots and step out of his trousers. Totally naked, he stepped around her dress and pulled her into his arms. He kissed her again, and she melted into him.

But then she pushed back, at arms’ length, peering down between their bodies. “I want to touch it,” she said, all in a rush.

He laughed, quite pleased. “Oh, by all means.” He spread his hands, stepping back, offering himself to her.

She put her finger on the tip of him. He was warm. Firm. Sleek. She snatched her hand back, letting out a little noise.

“It’s not going to hurt you, Miss Thomas, it’s a cock,” he said lazily. “Try again. Wrap your hand around it.”

She did that. It jerked against her, like it was alive, separate somehow from the man himself. “I like it,” she found herself saying. “I like it a great deal.”

“It likes you,” he said in a dreamy voice. “Stroke it.”

She did.

“Tighter,” he said, his voice like iron.

She did that, too.

He groaned, and she looked at his face, and he had an expression of ultimate abandon, ultimate pleasure, and this made her feel powerful and excited and it made her entire body go taut in response.

But then she let go. “I’m still not entirely undressed.”

“Oh, you’re quite right,” he said. “That’s an oversight that must be immediately corrected. Let me at your stays?”

She turned around again .

He made quick work of them, helping her pull those over her head.

Now, just in her shift, she gathered up handfuls of it and yanked it off, wanting to be as bare as he, wanting the freedom of it.

He smiled. “Not wearing drawers, I see. I like that.” He reached out and wound a hand around the inside of one of her bare thighs and used that to tug her closer.

Oh, his hand there. She let out a moan.

“You…” He drew in a sharp breath, looking her over, his gaze lingering on her breasts, on her waist, on her hips. “You’re stunning.”

The compliment felt like basking in the rays of summer sun. She sighed.

His hand migrated up her thigh, all the way up, and then he turned his hand and put his whole palm on her there , cupping her sex.

She let out a whimper.

He gave her a little squeeze.

Tremors went through her pelvis. “Oh,” she said in surprise.

“Was that a good ‘oh’ or a bad one?” He kissed her cheekbone.

“Good,” she managed. “Do it again.”

He hummed his approval and did. His other hand came up to explore her breasts.

She liked that. She shut her eyes and sighed.

He weighed them both and then gave each of them a squeeze and then pinched each of her nipples.

She recoiled. “Ouch.”

“Oh,” he said, apologetic. “Sorry, love.”

He left off touching her breasts entirely, concentrating only on his hand between her thighs.

This felt lovely, and she wavered on her feet, leaning into him, allowing him to massage and tease her there, sending wondrous little thrills and sensations through her.

She closed her eyes again, and she began to feel as if she had been thrust into a lovely dark, warm world, one tinged with threads of red pleasure. She followed each of these threads as they led her down twisting passages of delight.

Until he’d be too rough or too harsh, and the thread would break.

But she was now afraid to say that it hurt, for fear he’d stop entirely, so she simply tried to communicate through a series of breathy moans. When it was good, she moaned more. When it hurt, she made no noise at all.

It worked well enough, and at one point, she was likely only moments away from following one of those perfect little red threads to completion, to a sweet climax.

But then he just… stopped.

She opened her eyes and he was looking at her with half-lidded eyes, and his face was the perfect picture of masculine beauty and she had forgotten how fascinating he was, his bare body was, his prick was.

She put her hand back on it, realizing she’d been neglecting him.

He grinned at her. “Bed, love,” he said softly.

Right.

She let him take her there, and they lay down together, and she put her hand back on him and there was more kissing.

He traced his fingers lazily—gently—over her breasts as she stroked him the way he’d liked it, tightly, and she mused that maybe he was rougher with her body because he liked a forceful touch, and she wondered if she should say something about that, but it was hard to find words, somehow, now that they were naked and touching each other, now that her body was all shot through with red threads of goodness.

His fingers grazed her belly, her hips, and then went back to her between her thighs. He murmured in her ear. “Did you? I couldn’t quite tell.”

“Did I what?” She was confused, and words were still hard. Understanding them, too, she thought. She was pleased. She liked this, rather a lot, but it was so very intense and disorienting .

“Come, love,” he said.

“I don’t know what that means,” she said.

He laughed softly. “Of course not.”

She went back to toying with his prick. He might like her stroking it, but she sort of wanted to simply play with it, explore it all over, maybe to sit up and look at it while she did, play hide and seek with her fist and the head of it. She started to leave off the stroking, doing exactly that.

He sighed. “Yes, better, you’re distracting me, and I don’t want to spill in your hand.”

What did that mean?

He brushed at the hair on her sex. “So, let’s see, then. Do you ever touch yourself here?”

Her eyes popped open and she let out a giggle. But this was the wide world of permissive wickedness. It was all right to admit such things here. “Maybe. Sometimes.”

He kissed her thoroughly and deeply.

She shuddered. “Not often.”

“All right, all right, love, everyone does it.”

She was horrified. “No, that’s not true, and I know it’s not, because—”

“Can you show me?”

She left off exploring his prick. “Touch myself in front of you? Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes, quite sure.” He smiled down at her.

She felt her face heat up, but she nodded, tucking her hand down to slide it into her very slick sex, and to rub herself in the right place.

“Good,” he said, sitting up. “Can you… spread your lovely thighs a bit so that I can see better?”

Something about that seemed quite good, and quite wicked, and maybe good because it was wicked, and she let her thighs fall open to display herself to him.

He made a noise that was nearly an animal noise, and she liked that.

Suddenly, she was very close, riding one of those red threads at full speed, careening around the twisting corners like a runaway carriage.

She let out a little gasp and then went entirely still and quiet, concentrating—she always seemed to have to concentrate to do this—and then, it happened, and it was like being tangled up in a knot of red threads that tightened and tightened and tightened until she convulsed in little spasms of pure bliss.

Then, she let out a cry and left off touching herself, sinking bonelessly into the bed.

“Wait,” he whispered. “Did you…?”

“Come,” she breathed. “It’s called that.”

“Oh, you did ,” he said, and he was smiling.

“I’m sorry. I suppose I was supposed to let you do it.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “It seems to take you some time to get there, anyway.”

Oh, she thought. Did it? He must have been quite bored and annoyed then, touching her there before for so long. She felt a rush of shame at letting him do that for so long. How selfish that had been of her!

But he was moving now, over her, settling himself between her legs, raining kisses all over her jaw and neck, whispering words of praise to her. “That was just exactly what I wanted from you, love. Such a good girl, are you not? I want you wet and ready for me, just in case…”

“In case what?”

He drew back and looked down at her, concern on his face. “No, nothing, love.” He kissed her lips. “Am I really a very, very bad man? I think I might be, actually, but…” He reached between them, and she felt him sliding around against her, questing, and she knew then.

In case it hurts you.

Because it was supposed to hurt, wasn’t it? She had heard that, and that was the thing with the tearing maidenhead and the—

Blood.

She tensed.

He felt it. He kissed her earlobe. “No, no,” he breathed in her ear. “Shh, it’s going to be just fine, Miss Thomas, relax. You’re going to take me quite, quite easily, and it will not be difficult at all. ”

She was frightened, but it was a dull sort of fear, because it was hard to feel frightened in the wake of her release, when the pleasure was still making her entire pelvis feel loose and tingling, and when the press of his hardness was stimulating her in ways that did not even remotely hurt.

He angled his hips and she felt him breach her, just the tip of him, just barely inside her.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“You’re all right,” he said. “Look at me.”

She caught his gaze.

“There, that’s right,” he said, his voice strangled, even as he was sinking deeper inside her, sliding further and further inside, invading her. “Damnation, you feel good. You feel perfect .”