Page 16 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

F reddie felt as if another woman had suddenly slipped on her skin and was using her body to carry out her most deeply buried fantasy.

Already she had behaved more openly and freely with the duke than she ever had with any man—or even most of her female friends—but now she was about to move far beyond anything she’d done in the past.

There was something about the duke’s air of reserve that made her want to shake it, to cause a crack or fissure in his smooth veneer and then pry it open to see what was inside. He was just so…self-contained it was irresistible.

Never in her life had she felt that way about another person; it was…exciting.

The duke took her hand—as if he feared she might change her mind—and led her up the stairs.

When he would have turned into the room with the sheetless bed, she said, “No, not that one—this one.”

He smoothly changed course, released her hand, and ushered her inside before closing the door behind him.

Freddie stood in the middle of the room; her fingers laced to keep them from fidgeting.

Plimpton took her face in both his hands, holding her gently but firmly while he kissed her, not deeply and hungrily as he had done downstairs, but slowly, as if she were an ice from Gunter’s, something precious and delicious to be savored.

The kiss was unhurried and not a prelude to something else, but a celebration in its own right, as if they had all the time in the world to explore.

At the start of her marriage Freddie had enjoyed Sedgewick’s kisses. But even back then—before everything between them had turned to dross—he had never taken his time like Plimpton was doing. The duke lured and enticed and coaxed her into pure sensuality like a pied piper of kisses.

She fell into an erotic rhythm, accepting when he gave, and giving when he took. Downstairs their tongues had jousted. This was more of a dance where both partners took turns leading. He taught her new steps, nipping at her lower lip and then soothing it with a light caress. He disarmed her with probing, gentle swipes of his tongue, until Fredie surrendered utterly, rational thought submitting to pure sensation.

“Winifred,” he murmured, bringing her back to earth, reminding her that the man turning her knees to jelly was the stuffy—no, not stuffy, but proper —Duke of Plimpton.

“Yes?” she said in a thick voice that didn’t sound like her.

“I want to see your hair free, darling.”

A shudder of pleasure rippled through her at the endearment. Who would have guessed that such a stern man could sound so affectionate and tender?

“Please,” he added, mistaking her dreaming musing for uncertainty. He stroked the wispy spirals at her temples, those bothersome tendrils that always escaped confinement, no matter how severely she restrained them.

He nuzzled her ear with his cold nose, the unexpected action making her laugh. “Are you mocking me,” he murmured, his breath hot on her ear, his voice amused rather than offended.

“Your nose is cold—just like a dog’s.”

“But not wet and slobbery, I hope?”

Again, she laughed. Could this possibly be the dignified Duke of Plimpton teasing her? Freddie had never before laughed while engaging in erotic endeavors. She never would have believed it would feel so intimate and delightful.

“No. Not wet and slobbery,” she assured him, lightly kissing the sharp line of his jaw.

“Take down your hair,” he said again, nipping her earlobe sharply enough to draw a soft gasp from her.

Freddie reluctantly released his waist, which she had been massaging like a blissful, languorous cat and drew her thick plait of hair over her shoulder.

His rapt attention was both disconcerting and flattering, his pupils swollen and his lips slack with sensual expectation as if she were Salome in the midst of her infamous dance, rather than a rumpled woman garbed in a bedsheet who smelled of lake water.

Freddie nimbly unraveled the three thick strands and then gave her head a slight shake.

A low, entirely masculine sound of approval rumbled through him, and he carded his fingers into the heavy veil of hair and lifted a thick fistful over her shoulder, his taut expression softening as he combed his fingers through the riot of curls. “I never would have guessed it was so curly. It always looks so sleek…so smooth.”

Always ? Just how often had he studied her? The fact that he had noticed her hair, not once, but always was—

“Yes. I have noticed your hair. I have noticed everything about you, Winifred,” he said, making her wonder if she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. “How could I not notice when you attract all the light in any room you occupy?” His hands moved from her hair to her throat and then her bare shoulders, his gaze tracking their journey the entire way. He plucked at where the sheet was bunched at her shoulder. “How do I take this off?”

Still reeling from his romantic words, Freddie reached up with hands that were not quite steady to where the twisted ends of the sheet met beneath her hair.

He set his hands around her wrists. “No, I see it now. I will do it.” His lips began to lift up at the edges, not stopping until Freddie caught a flash of white—who would have believed the duke had teeth! “I need to prove to you that I am not utterly worthless when it comes to dressing and undressing.”

Freddie laughed. “I am not sure that untying a simple knot will convince me of that.”

“A man needs to start somewhere.” He slid his hands beneath the heavy fall of her hair, parted the curtain in the middle and then drew the halves over her shoulders, so that the thick curls draped over each breast. Freddie suspected he had done that for her modesty, and she was, yet again, surprised at his consideration.

His fingers moved gently at her neck while he gazed ceilingward, his face assuming a look of extreme concentration. “ Hmmm , yes…I think I might be able to do this…” The weight of the material loosened, and his eyes lowered to hers as he brought the ends of the sheet between them. “Success.” He paused and lifted his eyebrows, as if seeking permission.

Freddie hesitated. Why was he giving her an opportunity to stop him? Was that what he wanted? Sedgewick had never once—

She firmly curtailed that line of thinking; her dead husband had no place here today.

Freddie wanted Plimpton, and that was more than enough reason to meet his gaze and nod her permission.

The sheet dropped soundlessly to the floor, puddling around her feet. The urge to cover her body with her hands was strong, but she wanted him to see her, even though tendrils of mortification were threatening to strangle her bold desire.

His eyes lowered slowly and so did hers. She appreciated, for once, her unruly curls which covered far more of her than the straight hair she had always coveted.

The duke hissed sharply at the sight of her nipples, which had hardened to points and thrust eagerly through the curls.

He lifted his hands, his movements as slow and measured as if he were approaching a shy woodland creature. His eyes lifted to hers, and when his palms, smooth and warm, slid around her small breasts, it was her turn to hiss in a breath. Her eyelids fluttered as he stroked the sensitive tips, sending shudder after shudder of pleasure straight to her womb.

Her curls fell away to expose her entirely as he caressed. “Exquisite,” he muttered right before his hot, slick lips closed over the aching tip.

Freddie’s knees threatened to give out and she clutched at his shoulders to steady herself, her head falling back and a moan slipping from her parted lips as he suckled first one nipple, and then the other, alternating between them until she shook with the effort of containing her cries.

He paused his torture only long enough to mutter something beneath his breath and push aside her hair entirely. Evidently pleased with the result, he resumed his sensual assault, his hands intensifying the already devastating campaign and stroking the sensitive undersides of her breasts while he sucked each nipple to hardness.

Freddie’s fingers dug into his upper arms, the thick brocade that covered his hard biceps reminding her that she was naked while he still wore his banyan. It had been a long time since she had seen a male body, and she suspected the duke had a fine one beneath the ridiculous robe.

She tugged at the gaudy gold lapel. “Off,” was all she could manage.

He lifted his mouth from the nipple he was tormenting, his lips glistening. “ Hmm ?” He sounded irritated at being pulled from his task.

“Take off your robe.”

He gave a low growl, but his hands disappeared from her body and tugged open the sash. He shrugged his shoulders, sending the banyan to join the sheet.

Before Freddie could even sneak a peek at him, he took her hand and led her toward the bed. “Up you go,” he ordered gruffly, taking her by the waist and lifting her with no apparent effort.

And then she got her first good look at her lover’s body and groaned.

He appeared more muscular without clothing, his hips broader and his powerful thighs heavily thewed. They were the legs of a man who spent a good deal of time astride a horse, the tops of his thighs worn bare of hair from the friction of snug leather breeches.

His arousal jutted straight up from a tangle of light brown curls; the thick shaft wet with his desire. A thin trail of hair led from his groin up his flat, muscled belly to his chest where it grew into a light fleece that spread to encompass his small brown nipples.

His chest and abdomen suddenly shifted and flexed, and Freddie looked up to find that he was watching her. Her face scalded at being caught subjecting him to such intimate scrutiny.

Two warm fingers slid beneath her chin, and he lifted her face—which had dipped in embarrassment—until she was forced to meet his gaze. “You needn’t be shy, Winifred; I like having your eyes on me. Lie back on the bed,” he added more softly, gathering her hair and holding it out to the side while Freddie wordlessly complied.

His jaw flexed as he stared down at her. No curtain of curls shielded her this time and she squirmed to hide herself but suppressed the urge; he had not hidden from her inspection, had he?

His eyes darkened until they were black with a thin gray ring when they finally returned to her face. “I want to pleasure you with my mouth.”

Her lips parted in shock as she struggled to accept that a proper man like the duke would engage in such blatantly carnal activity.

“Do you not know what I mean?” he asked, mistaking the reason for her hesitation.

“I know what you mean. I just—I just did not think that you would er, approve of—” she broke off and bit her lip, feeling rather stupid as his gaze changed from concerned to amused.

He joined her on the bed, caging her torso with his hands and knees, and then staring down at her, consuming her with his eyes. “Oh yes, Winifred, I most certainly do approve.” And then he claimed her parted lips with a hot deep kiss that promised what was to come.

***

Plimpton wondered what it was about him that made Winifred expect such a staid, unimaginative lover. Was it because he was not handsome, but average and boring? Or perhaps his brother’s accusation that Plimpton was cold and inhuman—which Simon usually shouted at him in times of anger—was widely shared?

But Winifred was not the only one laboring under misconceptions. Plimpton was more relieved than he could say that she had not shrunk from either his intimate touches or his unconventional suggestion. He had worried that Sedgewick had ruined her for sensual pleasure. But thus far she had exhibited no revulsion, only the mild embarrassment of a woman who had been without a lover for a very long time.

They kissed until the tension that had built in her slender form leaked away. As badly as he ached to taste her and make her writhe with bliss, it was difficult to relinquish her soft lips and eager tongue and begin kissing his way down her body.

Her breasts provided another sweet distraction, their peaks puckered like dark raspberries. He licked and nipped and suckled her until her back flexed and arched and her hands gripped his head to hold him where she wanted.

Smiling to himself, he resumed his erotic trek, enchanted when her fingers tightened, and she attempted to bring him back.

But Plimpton stayed firm in his intentions, only lingering at her navel to kiss the gentle swell of her belly before moving on to the dark blonde curls that concealed his ultimate destination.

He nudged her thighs apart, drinking in the sight of her flushed, trembling body as he spread her legs, easily overcoming her shy resistance and not stopping until she was exposed and vulnerable.

She shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze.

“You do not like me to look at you?” he asked, stroking a hand up one thigh, firmly caressing the taut muscle and tracing it up to the prominent tendon that pointed the way to her mons.

“It makes me feel immodest and wanton.”

“Good.”

She gave a startled burst of laughter and then cut a direct look at his hips and said tartly, “I can see you do not suffer from the same reservations.”

Plimpton glanced down at his thrusting, leaking cock and laughed. “No, you are right about that.”

“You should laugh and smile more; it suits you.”

“Does it?” he teased, stroking a finger over the seam of her netherlips, the outline of which was visible beneath her pale private hair. Over and over, he caressed, pressing a little harder each time, until he breached her puffy lips and slicked the pad of his finger.

She groaned and lifted her hips when he paused his caressing.

“I will smile more if you make that sound more,” he promised.

She gave a breathy gurgle of laughter that turned into another, raspier, gasp after his next stroke.

“You are so wet,” he marveled, caressing her with two fingers, parting the lips of her pussy to expose the engorged, slick nub. “My God.” Plimpton positioned his torso between her thighs with more haste than grace and lowered his mouth over her.

A soft, choked cry broke from her and her hips lifted for more as he licked from her tight entrance to her swollen bud with rhythmic firm strokes. Only when her fingers slid into his hair and she gently but firmly pulled him higher, did he chuckle and suck the tiny bundle of nerves between his lips, giving her what she needed.

***

Freddie’s climax built slowly and inexorably like an avalanche as the duke teased and tormented her toward the brink of orgasm, his lips and tongue surely the instruments of the devil.

Even in the midst of her bliss she could not help being amused that it was not the thought of herself splayed, hips bucking, and hands buried in his hair that caused her face to scald. No, shameless hussy that she was, her wanton behavior drew no blushes. Instead, it was the sounds the duke made as he feasted on her with abandoned carnality.

Sedgewick at his best had been enthusiastic but always in a hurry. The duke not only reveled in his possession of her, but he appeared content to spend the entire day where he was, teasing her to the edge of her climax and then—maddeningly—drifting away just at the crucial moment.

The first time he brought her to the brink and then shifted his attention, she thought he had miscalculated and gently brought him back. The third time it happened she knew he was toying with her. And judging by the way his lips curved against her sensitive flesh, he was enjoying himself greatly.

Freddie tightened her fingers in his hair the next time he played his trick and angled his head enough that their eyes met. “Your Grace,” she said, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

“ Hmm ?” His shoulders shook slightly and Freddie realized the unrepentant tease was laughing.

“You are being…unkind, Plimpton.”

This time, he didn’t bother to hide his laughter. He fixed her with an innocent look that did not convince her for a moment, and released her with a leisurely lick before saying, “Am I?”

“You know you are.”

“I beg your pardon—perhaps this was what you wanted?” He lowered his mouth.

Freddie cried out, her head tipping back and her eyes sliding shut. “Yes,” she breathed as he gave her exactly what she needed. “Yes… yes, that !”

This time when she careened toward her climax, instead of abandoning her, he eased two fingers inside her, pumping her with firm, deep strokes as the wave crested and finally broke.

“Yes!” she shouted as she arched off the bed, every muscle in her body locked as she trembled with the force of her orgasm.

***

Winifred was just full of surprises. An Ice Countess? More like a fire countess.

Plimpton eased his fingers from her tight sheath and gave her swollen bud a last kiss before rising up on his knees to survey what he had wrought. Not only were her cheeks flushed, but the skin on her chest was passion mottled and a pink stain lightly dusted her belly. She was sleek, delicate perfection, surrounded by a froth of pale blonde curls, her eyes heavy lidded and her expression of slack satiation making her already beautiful face stunning.

Her lips curved slightly as she met his gaze, and he was thrilled beyond words that she appeared to be reveling in her sensuality rather than regretting it.

She raised her hands to him and then—to his delight—she spread her thighs wider, the invitation unmistakable.

Plimpton’s balls clenched hard with the force of his need, causing his cock to jerk and drool even more profusely.

Her lazy smile grew into a grin.

“You are enjoying watching me suffer, are you?”

“Yes,” she admitted without hesitation.

He barked a laugh, but it quickly turned to a hiss when her hand closed around his shaft and she squeezed him, her deft fingers milking the pre-ejaculate from his slit with a confident dexterity that would have brought him to his knees had he not already been there.

“You are not the only one who knows some tricks, Your Grace.”

“So it would seem,” he said tightly, having to force the words through clenched jaws as she thumbed a spot beneath his crown that turned him into witless fool. He closed his eyes and pushed his hips closer, not that she needed any direction from him. Her slender hand worked him with firm strokes, her fingers tightening to near painfulness as she pumped him toward climax. He wanted to stop—to pull away—but it felt too damned good.

The orgasm built slowly, her stroking slow enough that he could savor the sensation, but fast enough that this interlude would end far too soon.

He was still trying to salvage the will to stop her, when she stopped herself.

His head felt as if it were full of lead and it took him far longer than it should have to open his eyes and gather his wits.

She was smirking up at him. “What is sauce for the goose…”

Ah. So that was her game.

“I do not think so, darling.” He plucked her hand from his shaft and pinned her wrists to the bed beside her head while he lowered his hips.

“You teased me. This is not fair,” she pouted.

“I never said I would fight fair.” He prodded the head of his cock against her hot wet flesh, spreading her thighs wider with his knees. She shuddered, her hips canting to take him. The silent, eager gesture of submission sent a blinding wave of lust through him, and he filled her with a hard, deep thrust, not stopping until he was fully hilted.

She whimpered at the sudden stretch, catching her lower lip with her teeth as she slowly stretched to accommodate him. And then her eyes opened the merest slit and she raised her hips to take him even deeper, her inner muscles contracting so tightly his eyes threatened to roll back in their sockets.

Bloody hell. This woman could very well kill him.

And Plimpton might welcome such a death.

***

We fit together like a lock and key.

Freddie was embarrassed by the thought, but only because she had described the perfection of the feeling in such cliched terms. Truthfully, she was too steeped in bliss to think of anything better. And who cared what words she used? It was the feeling that mattered. And the feeling was glorious.

He withdrew slowly and then filled her up again with a savage thrust.

“I beg your pardon,” he said in a tight voice, misreading her gasp of pleasure for something else. “Are you—”

“Perfect,” was all she could manage. Judging by the heat that flared in his gaze, that was exactly the right answer.

Again, he withdrew, but rather than sink back in, he pulsed his hips, his thick crown teasing her entrance as he stared down into her eyes, questions lurking at the edges of his desire.

“What is it?” she asked.

“As this is your first foray into, er, illicit pleasure—"

“I cannot get pregnant.”

He eyed her pensively and then asked, “Are you certain?”

“Sedgewick’s first wife was pregnant four times; I never conceived.”

He hesitated, and then opened his mouth, no doubt to point out the obvious—that perhaps Sedgewick’s first wife had been prepared to slip cuckoos into her husband’s nest—but Freddie did not want to go over the painful subject of her infertility. Not ever. But certainly not now .

She lifted her hips, forcing him deeper, and tightened her inner muscles.

He groaned and his eyelids fluttered, as if he were struggling to resist.

Freddie rolled her hips and Plimpton surrendered with a guttural grunt, sinking deep, until she was almost uncomfortably filled and stretched.

He stayed that way, holding her pinioned with both his brooding gaze and rigid arousal.

“I cannot get deep enough,” he said in a strained voice, his shaft flexing inside her.

Something about that subtle movement struck Freddie vividly: there was a man inside her body.

It was silly to be startled by something so obvious, but the erotic thought caused every muscle in her body to tighten.

Plimpton groaned. “Good God,” he muttered, his hips beginning to move with agonizing slowness.

“Please…Plimpton,” she entreated hoarsely, the need to be taken hard and fast turning her into to a pleading, wanton wreck.

He smirked, clearly pleased and amused by her begging. But his tight jaw and flared nostrils told her she was not the only one barely clinging to control.

“You want more, hmm ?”

“Yes, please.”

His pupils flared, telling her he liked her prim response, and his hips moved faster, his strokes deeper and harder as he fell into a rhythm that gave her every inch.

Freddie tugged at her wrists, which were still imprisoned in his grasp.

He raised one haughty eyebrow, his hips unfaltering as he filled her smoothly and completely, again and again and again.

“I want to touch you,” she whispered, her face flaming at her own boldness.

Holding her gaze, he deliberately released one hand and then the other.

Freddie eagerly raised her fingers to the hard, corded skin of his waist, resting her palms lightly on the fascinating muscles which tightened and lengthened with each graceful thrust.

His eyelids lowered in an expression of animal bliss as she slid her hands around his pumping hips and cupped a taut buttock in each hand. She had felt him the night before, but there had been clothing between them. Who would have guessed they could feel even better—satiny smooth and warm and hard—against her bare palms? She squeezed, digging her fingers into the flexing striations.

“That feels good,” he praised, lowering his torso onto one elbow and then sliding a hand between their bodies, the soft pad of his finger unerringly locating her clitoris. Freddie had been too sensitive only moments earlier, but now she welcomed his touch.

“Come with me this time, Winifred,” he said in a tight voice, his hips pumping harder and deeper as his slick finger commenced the same magic as before, but without teasing her this time.

Freddie explored from his tantalizing bottom over his tight waist to his flared back, and upper arms. She wrapped her hands—or at least tried to—around his biceps as he worked them both toward bliss.

His hips began to jerk, the rhythm breaking. “Are you close?” he asked in a breathy, strained voice.

Freddie spread her thighs wider, offering herself up to him in answer.

He groaned and his hips began to drum, the fierce thrusts increasingly uncontrolled.

“Yes,” she moaned as she exploded, convulsing around his pulsing length as he buried himself to the hilt, the hot rush of his orgasm causing an answering burst of pleasure in her own body. Her contractions seemed to multiply, the orgasm lasting far longer than the first.

A slight tremor shook his arms before he lowered his body over hers. Freddie held him close as his spasms became less violent, the time between each paroxysm increasing until he relaxed with a sigh. He was hot, heavy, and smelled of clean male sweat with the lingering aroma of lake water in his messy hair.

He came back from his small death quickly and she felt awareness invade his body. Rather than leave her, he gently rolled them both onto their sides, keeping their bodies joined.

“There, now you can breathe,” he said in a voice already thick with sleep.

Freddie smiled at this very male reaction to ejaculation. She did not want to talk—nothing good could come of it, that was certain—so she snuggled into his arms and laid her head on his biceps. “I need to rest,” she lied.

“Very well,” he said, the second word made unrecognizable by a huge yawn. “Just for a moment.” He had barely finished speaking before his muscles relaxed and his breathing deepened.

Men. How could they possibly fall sleep at a time like this?

That was the last thought Freddie had before warm, velvety blackness claimed her.

***

Plimpton felt so good that he struggled against awakening. This dream was delicious… His cock was hard and pulsing and it was currently lodged somewhere hot, wet, and tight.

Something soft and warm moved beside him and he forced his eyelids open. Curls—beautiful and ash blonde—clouded his vision. He lifted one hand and carefully moved them aside. Winifred was cuddled against him, her soft breasts plastered against his chest, her head on his upper arm—which had fallen asleep—and best of all, one slender leg was draped over his hip, a pose which kept his cock deeply snugged inside her.

The erection which had woken him pulsed happily at the realization that it had not been a dream at all. Plimpton could not resist flexing inside her, but the rest of his body remained unmoving so that he did not wake her.

But she stirred in any case, her head rolling slightly to the side and her drowsy silver eyes meeting his. And then her full, coral lips curved into a smile. “Did we sleep long?”

“I’m not sure; I woke only a few seconds before you.” He glanced at the window. Rain still pattered softly on the glass, and it was light outside, although muted. “It could be any time of day out there.” He looked down at her, sliding his free hand around her waist and pulling her even closer, until she gave a soft grunt of pleasure, her smile growing when he pulsed his hips. “Are you too sore to take me again?”

She gave a sleepy chuckle. “Strictly speaking, I never stopped taking you, Your Grace.”

“ Mmm ,” he murmured, pulling her closer to claim a kiss. “I am going to take that as permission to indulge.”

She did some flexing of her own to demonstrate her approval.

Plimpton cupped her thigh and pulled her tighter to his body, fucking her with shallow, teasing thrusts.

She brought her fingers to his lips, tracing the smile he hadn’t known he was wearing.

“Do I really smile so rarely?” he asked, not pausing his gentle stroking.

“I cannot recall you doing so until today.”

“It is all your fault,” he accused.

“I can accept the blame for that— ungh. ” Her eyelids fluttered when he when altered his thrusting so that he lightly grazed the apex of her sex.

“Do you like it like this? Or do you want it harder?” he asked in a tight voice, amazed that he could be so close to ejaculating again.

She nodded and murmured, “ Mmm. ”

Plimpton smiled at her non-answer. Her hair was a tangled blonde cloud and there was a sleep line on her cheek from the bedding that had become trapped between her face and his arm, but he thought she had never appeared more lovely.

Potent affection surged through him, immediately followed by raw fear and gut-wrenching powerlessness. All three emotions were rare and unfamiliar, but the last one was especially unwelcome. In the past, powerlessness had always followed profoundly unpleasant occasions—like his wedding night or his children’s illnesses—those times in his life when nothing good had happened.

It worried him that he was feeling it now with Winifred.

He drew her close enough that she could not see his face and read his thoughts. She was pliant in his arms, her leg tightening around him, as if to bring him more deeply inside her.

And still Plimpton needed more . He rolled her onto her back, once again pinning her hands to the bed as he drove into her willing body hard, working her with savage thrusts. The harder he fucked her, the more sinuously she writhed beneath him, taking everything he gave her and opening herself for more, inviting him into her body as deeply as he could go.

“Look at me,” he ordered in a harsh voice, primitive satisfaction flooding him when her eyes flew open; at least there was one way in which he could command her obedience.

Plimpton stared into her longer and harder than he had ever looked at anyone in his life. Even now, in her passion, there were walls he could not scale or see beyond, barriers she had erected to keep out the likes of him.

Having her today would not purge her from his system, it would only work her deeper, like a sliver that became buried in one’s flesh the more one worried at it. Wanting her had settled into his blood like a low-grade fever, and he feared it would only become worse in the days and weeks to come.

But at least I can make her feel this much , he thought as her orgasm overtook her and her eyes grew wide and unguarded in her passion.

Mercifully, his own climax broke and physical bliss washed away the tangle of unwanted emotions.