The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires (27 page)

Long after she came, he stayed there between her lovely thighs, kissing her, stroking
her as he fought for control over his eager cock. Did he dare ask her to do again
for him what she’d done in the carriage? Could he keep a grip on his control if she
did?

Because having her just pleasure him with her hand was no longer enough. It could
never be enough. As soon as he finished, he’d want her again and again, until he made
her his. Which was why he should leave the bed right now.

Yet the temptation to have her hands on him was
too great to resist. Lying alongside her, he shoved off his drawers, then closed her
fingers around his cock.

To his surprise, she resisted. “No,” she whispered. “I want you inside me.”

“I won’t do it,” he choked out. “If you don’t want to pleasure me, that’s fine, but
I’m not going to take your innocence.”

Stubbornness flared in her face. “You think not, do you?” She scooted close enough
to cradle his cock against her belly. Then she undulated against him.

“Damn it, Lisette,” he gritted out as his cock went from hard to stone, “you’re playing
with fire.”

“I’m not playing. I’m fighting. I
want
you to take my innocence. Only you.”

When he tried to pull away, she grabbed his hips and added desperately, “I swear,
Max, that this is the only thing I will ask of you. I don’t need a promise of marriage—I
know that you can’t offer that. I only want this one time with you. And you want it,
too. I know you do.”

“You deserve better,” he said hoarsely, thrusting helplessly against the satin skin
of her belly. “You deserve everything.”

“But are you sure I’ll get it? Even if I find another man to be with me, how can you
be sure he’ll treat me well? I might lose my innocence to a man who proves heartless
or cruel.”

He closed his eyes against the words, but that only made it worse, because now he
could imagine it in stark detail. He could see her with some arse who at best would
take her for granted and at worst might hurt her. Who would almost certainly never
appreciate her as he did.

“Then again,” she added in a wounded whisper, “perhaps that doesn’t matter to you.”

His eyes shot open. “You bloody well know that it does.” And leave it to her to fight
with logic, not tears. She knew how susceptible he was to a reasonable argument. “You
don’t play fair.”

“I play as fair as you, who taught me to desire you and now expect me to forget that
I ache for you, that I
need
—”

He kissed her hard in an attempt to blot out her words, but it didn’t work. Because
he needed her, too. And she knew it, his tempting minx.

Rolling atop her, he growled, “Damn you, Lisette.” He kissed her roughly as he parted
her thighs with his knees. “Damn you,” he rasped against her lips as he found the
entrance to her silken passage. “You won’t rest until . . . you have me utterly in
thrall to you . . .”

“Yes . . .
mon coeur
 . . .”

With those sweet words ringing in his ears, he slid inside her.

Lisette’s heart soared. Hardly able to believe she’d won, she gasped her relief against
his mouth. She’d won and he hadn’t left her, which meant he cared. It meant that no
matter what he said about what they should or shouldn’t do, no matter what his conditions
and his rules, he had deep feelings for her.

She had him at last.

But she seemed to have a tiger by the tail, for he was
thick and hard inside her, much larger and more intrusive than she’d expected.

“Oh, God, Lisette,” he murmured, “you feel bloody wonderful.”

“So . . . do you,” she managed to choke out, telling herself it was only a little
untrue. It did feel wonderful to have his body surround her, his strong arms bracket
her, his hair brush her cheeks whenever he kissed her brow or her lips or her throat.

He stopped inching inside her and drew back to stare at her, an unholy amusement in
his eyes. “You haven’t lied to me yet, minx. Don’t start now. I know that it can’t
be comfortable for you.” He bent to whisper, “So, imagine us alone together on my
private yacht on a beautiful summer day in the Mediterranean.”

She relaxed a fraction, and he slipped deeper inside her.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Imagine the sun warming our skin. Imagine us lazing away
the day, feeding each other oranges and drinking wine.”

Closing her eyes, she pictured it, and she relaxed a little more. He settled his
braquemard
farther in, but it felt less . . . uncomfortable somehow.

“Better now?” he rasped.

This time she told the truth. “A bit.”

He nodded. “Hold on to me, dearling. It’ll be rough sailing at first, but once you
get your sea legs, it’ll be better than you expect.”

“I certainly hope so,” she said archly, making him laugh.

Then he plunged hard. Her eyes shot open and she gripped his arms. But the pain was
really only a pinch and it didn’t last long. It wasn’t even as bad as Maman had described.

He stayed motionless, kissing and caressing her until she stopped gripping his arms.
“All right?”

She swallowed, then nodded.

That’s when the real lovemaking began. As his mouth dragged hot, sweet caresses down
her neck, he slid in and out of her in long, slow strokes that seemed at first awkward,
then interesting, then rather warming.

It was the most deliciously intimate experience.

His smoldering gaze on her made it even more so, although looking away didn’t change
that, for she could still hear his sharp breaths, still smell the faint scent of eau
de cologne beneath the musk of pure male beast . . . still feel the hard thrusts of
him inside her that quickened and grew more enjoyable by the moment.

He was panting now, and so was she. Some instinct made her arch up against him, and
a promise of pleasure shuddered through her that made her do it again and again.

“Ah . . . dearling . . . yes . . . like that,” he rasped against her throat.

She’d thought nothing could equal having his mouth arouse her, but having him inside
and around her, making her ache and yearn, was even more enchanting. His flesh teased
a storm up from below that rapidly grew into a tempest and then into a whirlwind that
tossed away every barrier between them.

And as his thundering thrusts quickened and she dragged her fingers down his back,
as his labored breaths twined with hers and their bodies moved in tandem, they became
one being, dancing in the whirlwind until they vaulted into a glorious sky.

They hung there together for one splendid moment as she felt him spill himself inside
her. Then they tumbled to earth and he collapsed on top of her.

Tangled with him, spent and warm and content, she felt like she could lie forever
in his arms.

As she held him close, pleasure still quaking through her body, he whispered, “Ah,
my dangerous temptress . . . You slay me.”

If anyone had done any slaying, it was him. He’d slain her resistance to him, to her
desire to be independent, alone. Yet he’d also slain her bad memories, her insecurities . . .
her fears. For that, she’d always be grateful.

Now it was her turn to slay
his
fears and bad memories. She wanted him for her own, and the only way to have him
was to banish the past and teach him to embrace the future. But she wasn’t sure how
to go about it. Max wasn’t like any man she’d ever met.

With a ragged sigh, he rolled off her, pulled her close so that they lay together
spoon fashion, then nuzzled her neck. Her languid contentment returned. At least he
cared. She knew that much for certain.

“You always smell so good,” he murmured.

She laid her arm over the one he’d draped casually around her waist. “So do you.”

“Not at present, I fear. I do hope your brother has a tub somewhere.”

She turned her face up to him and grinned. “Missing your dukely comforts, are you?”

“A few of them,” he admitted, smiling down at her and brushing a kiss to her lips.
Then he cast the room a quick glance. “This is quite comfortable, though. Not nearly
what I would have expected of a bachelor’s lodgings.”

“We are indebted to Vidocq for that,” she murmured.

“Is Vidocq responsible for the décor as well?” he asked in a teasing tone.

The duke was actually teasing her? She was making progress already, and without even
trying. “You can blame that on me. Lavender is my favorite color.”

He propped his head up on one elbow as he gazed about him more slowly. “I would never
have guessed,” he said dryly. “But I wasn’t actually commenting on the wallpaper or
the embroidery everywhere. It’s the African carvings nestled among the flounces on
your dressing table, the ivory tusk propped against your ormolu clock, and the ebony
dagger atop your flower-embellished chest of drawers that provide a somewhat exotic
note.”

She laughed. “Oh, those came from Papa. He always brought something back from his
trips for me. And of course I have to display them all.” She regarded her treasures
wistfully. “They’re a reminder that one day I hope to gather some foreign treasures
of my own.”

His gaze grew thoughtful. “To me, they’re a reminder that you’re a study in contradictions.”

Turning to face him fully, she ran her hand over the heavily stubbled cheek that represented
his own contradiction—the rigid, proper duke with two days’ growth of beard. “Tristan
says my room looks like a princess’s castle that a pirate has invaded.”

“Does that make me the pirate?”

“Certainly not. It makes you the prince who has come to slay him.”

Though he was certainly built like a pirate—muscular and masterfully put together.
The very idea of his going mad seemed ludicrous, when he lay there supremely healthy
and hearty, looking like some dashing, notorious corsair with a lust for princesses.

“Of course, you’ll look more like a prince after you’ve had a bath and a shave and
a change of clothes.”

“You don’t need anything to look like a princess.” He ran his fingers through her
hair. When she smiled, he added, “Or a duchess.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Max—”

“You know that we have to marry. Today, if possible, but certainly as soon as we return
to England.”

For a moment she exulted in his offer, which was more than Papa had ever given Maman.
Oh, and how she wanted to accept! To be his wife—she couldn’t imagine anything more
wonderful.

If
it was a real marriage. But she could tell from the way he’d said it that it wouldn’t
be a real marriage. “No,” she answered. “We don’t.”

He searched her face. “Don’t you want to marry me?”

More than life. “Only if you forget about your conditions. The ones that say I must
not care too deeply for you. That I must leave you to suffer alone in your final days.
That I must abandon you when the situation grows too hard.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then, muttering an oath under his breath, he fumbled for
his drawers, which lay tangled in the coverlet, and left the bed. “I’m sorry, but
those conditions aren’t negotiable.”

Despair gripped her as he dragged his drawers on over his exceedingly firm behind.
“Then I won’t marry you,” she said softly. “I will not be a wife by halves. Not to
anyone, but especially not to you.”

He stood a moment with his back to her, saying nothing. Then he turned to her with
a determined look. “You don’t understand.”

“I do. You want to control your future.” She sat up and pulled the coverlet over her
breasts, tucking it under her arms. “But you also want to control mine. And I won’t
be controlled.”

He stared at her, then jerked his head to indicate where her blood stained the sheet
beneath her. “You have no choice. I’ve ruined you.”

“At my bidding. I’m certainly not going to punish you for it by making you adhere
to some rule of conduct that even my own mother flouted.”

“It would not be a punishment, damn you!” he said, and the fire in his face briefly
gave her hope. Then he turned his back on her again to hunt for his clothes.
“And it’s the only choice we have. Unlike your father, I believe in behaving honorably.
I mean to take care of you now that I—”

“Only if you let me take care of you in return,” she said softly. “I hold you blameless
in this, Max. I know that a wife like me was not in your plans.”

“Plans change,” he bit out.

A lump stuck in her throat. “You have enough things changing in your life right now.
This is no time for hasty decisions.”

“You mean, you don’t want to marry me if I turn out not to be the duke after all,”
he said peevishly.

The sheer ludicrousness of that made her laugh. “You know perfectly well I don’t care
if you’re the duke. But there is nothing we can do about it at the moment, anyway.
It’s not as if we can marry today—we’re not even French citizens.”

“Trust me,” he snapped, “I could get it arranged.”

He probably could, too. “Ah, but then the press would find out and be gossiping about
you marrying some nobody, and they’d start digging for information, and everything
you were worried about in the first place when you refused to travel with me would
come to pass.”

When he swore under his breath, she added, “We’re better off remaining incognito at
the moment. I don’t think we should act on anything until we find out what’s going
on with your brother and mine.” A thought suddenly occurred to her, and her stomach
clenched. “Besides, you might not want to marry me after we learn the truth about
that.”

His expression softened. “Whatever your brother is up to has nothing to do with our
future together. Not for me, anyway. That much you can be sure of.”

That gratified her enormously. Perhaps they might still have a chance together. One
day. “All the same, we should wait to make a decision until your life and future are
settled.” Until she could be sure that his feelings ran deeper than mere passion.
That he was willing to be together in sickness and in health, till death they did
part. She wouldn’t accept anything less from him.