Deeply In You Page 12

  He shook his head. “You are so sweet I should send you home at once. But I can’t. So what would you like me to do after the kiss?”

  What would allow her to slip back to his writing desk, where she could look at his journal?

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m ready to—to lose my innocence.”

  “I know what I would like to do, my dear. I would like to watch you come.”

  “Come where?” Then she remembered he had said “she’s coming” when the woman in the club had reached her point of pleasure.

  His broad chest moved with a low, gruff laugh. “You are almost too sweet, angel.”

  “Well, I suppose I am not entirely sweet, for I have figured out what you mean. Anyway, when we kiss, could we do it in your bedroom?”

  “To be honest, Miss Winsome, I hate that damned bedroom.”

  She hated having to try to manipulate him into it. But it was the only way she might have a chance to search. She faced the duke, trying to show only concern, not guilt, on her face. “I know it is because it is your father’s room. Why do you despise him so much?”

  “I do not want to talk about it. You can’t heal me, change me, or teach me, love. But I do want to give you what you want. In return, I ask for one night where you give me what I want.”

  Was she making a bargain with the devil? Swallowing hard, she said, “When? When do you want that one night?”

  “I will allow you to tell me, love.”

  Oh God. “All right, and I thank you for that, Greybrooke,” she said in her firm governess tones. “Now, would you take me to your bedroom again?”

  As she stepped into his bedroom, Helena took a longing look down the hallway toward his writing room. All she needed was that journal and this might be all over. She wouldn’t even have to be his mistress....

  Why did she feel such regret at the thought?

  A strip of white fabric flew over her head and fluttered to the ground in front of her. Greybrooke stood behind her, having closed the door, and she was facing his beautiful bed.

  Slowly, she turned.

  The white thing had been his cravat, and Greybrooke was now working on the buttons of his pale blue satin waistcoat.

  “What are you doing?” No strong governess tones now. Her voice was a squeak.

  “Undressing. I assume this is how happy married people normally have sex.”

  “But we aren’t going to have—”

  “Shh. I know, angel. Not yet. But I do intend to make you come, and just for you, I’m willing to take off my clothes to do it. I’ll help you undress also. It won’t be fun, lying on the bed in stays and that hellish gown.”

  The hellish gown was her very best one. Striped blue and gray muslin, with a scooped neckline and snow-white lace trim, and she had worn it rather than the crimson one he’d sent her. Having him dismiss her dress was a reminder of who she was.

  She was a governess. He was a duke. A completely complex duke, though, with desires she couldn’t even begin to understand.

  Greybrooke undid his waistcoat and jerked his broad shoulders to pull it off. Covered in exquisite embroidery with buttons of black jet, it must have cost a fortune. He balled it up, then tossed it aside, and it landed in a heap on the floor.

  His shirt clung to him, following the wide planes of his back down to the narrowness of his waist. He was . . . simply beautiful.

  He jerked his shirt out of his trousers.

  Her eyes bulged. “Are you going to take off all your clothes?”

  Fire burned in the green depths of his eyes. “That was the idea. Just you and me together naked. Sweetly so. As you wanted.”

  He winked. Next thing she knew, he disappeared behind a screen in the corner of the room. His boots landed on the floor with two thuds. His trousers were tossed to rest over the top of the screen. A garment of white linen followed. Goodness, his drawers.

  He stepped out, and dark blue silk filled her vision. He had put on a robe, but the silk moved, slid open, and she glimpsed the bronzed skin of his chest.

  “You took everything off.” She spoke on instinct, stunned by what she saw. Dark hair. Dark nipples. Tanned skin that looked solid as rock.

  He was so handsome she was almost speared by his beauty, unable to breathe. A melting smile lit up his face. “You know, I’ve never taken off my clothes to make love. You are the first woman who will see me naked. If you want to see me that way.”

  He stepped closer until all she could see was rich indigo silk and tanned skin. Her breathing was ragged, and she felt, if she shut her eyes, her lashes would brush against his chest.

  She glanced down. The stream of bronzed flesh seemed to go on forever. At least, it went on until she saw the defined ridge of his hip, and the dark curls of his—

  She jerked her gaze upward. “I don’t think I’m ready to have you . . . naked.”

  From above her, his voice flowed over her, smooth and deep. “Another kiss?”

  “Yes, that is what I want.” Something relatively safe.

  He caught her hand, lifted her fingers to his mouth. Gently he pressed his mouth to her fingertips. It was heavenly, but what stole her breath was his gaze. Brilliantly green, his eyes glowed as if he were on fire inside.

  His lips brushed kisses to her temple. He was supposed to be a rogue and a scoundrel, yet it was the sweetest thing.

  He kissed at the corner of her eye, making her giggle. Then his lips trailed down the bridge of her nose, so affectionately it had her heart fluttering. Her mouth ached, waiting for the hot magic of his kiss.

  Instead he scooped her into his arms and carried her to his bed. Next thing she knew she was lying on it. Greybrooke’s strong body was leaning over her, and he murmured, “Can I kiss you a little lower?”

  “Lower?” Then daringly, she said, “I think so.”

  Holding her hand, he nestled his head in the crook of her neck and kissed her jaw. She quivered on the bed. It was gloriously sensitive, his stubble tickling her. Intoxicating and rich, his musky scent swirled around her.

  He lifted his head for a moment. “You are a unique woman, Miss Winsome. I respect you, I would not dream of hurting you or doing anything of which you did not approve. It must be the governess in you. Taming me already.”

  Taming him? She didn’t believe it.

  He took something out of a pocket in his robe. Brilliant colored light played over her dress—firelight reflected by the bejeweled shackles. Before she could say a word, he snapped one bracelet around her right wrist. It was cool. He captured her other wrist in his hand. Waited.

  “You can say no,” he said.

  Her heart was in her throat. But she was wet and aching between her legs. She whispered, “I won’t say no. You can do it.”

  Just as in Hyde Park, he closed the shackles, binding her wrists together. Helena had to admit—there was something rather thrilling about this.

  “Now, I’m going to make you come.”

  “Oh! Um . . . what will it feel like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Surprise made her frown. “How could you not know?”

  “I know what it feels like when I come, but I have no idea what it would feel like for a woman. I’ve often wondered if women have stronger, better climaxes, because it’s such a rare treasure for them.”

  “What does it feel like for you?”

  “Like running a mile, followed by having my heart squeezed tight, feeling as if my cock will burst, having a blinding light explode in my head, then blessed, agonizing pleasure.”

  “It sounds frightening.”

  “I suspect you think it sounds wonderful, Miss Winsome, and you want to have one.”

  “But I cannot have one. Not without ruin.”

  “I promise I can show you ecstasy without taking your innocence. It doesn’t take intercourse to make you come, love. I want to be the one to make you scream in ecstasy for your very first time. Or have you made yourself come?”

  She must be sca
rlet. “No, of course I haven’t. That’s wrong.” Or was it? Compared to what happened at that club, it hardly seemed scandalous. Her hips twitched on the bed. She felt even hotter and achier than before. Then she asked, “Why do you want to?”

  “That way, my dear, you’d never forget me.”

  Reaching behind her, he undid the fastenings at the back of her gown. He slid the arms down past her shoulders, and the snugness of the gown helped to imprison her arms.

  She stiffened as he pushed up her skirts and his hand cupped her calf.

  “Relax,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you.” With each word, his hand went higher. His fingers grazed her hip. She bit her lip, closed her eyes, then squeaked as his hand reached the vee between her thighs. His fingers stroked her nether curls.

  She’d never been touched there—she only touched herself there with a washcloth when necessary. Yet it was the most remarkable thing. The ache in her belly became a pounding need. If he stopped right now, she’d grasp his wrist and pull him back.

  “Look at me, love.”

  Helena opened her eyes. Her skirts were in a crumple at her stomach. She could see her thighs, her belly, her hips, and the vee of golden curls. Against skin that had never seen the sun, his long fingers were a copper color. As she watched, his fingers slid between her golden curls.

  The Duke of Greybrooke was stroking her cunny.

  She couldn’t quite believe it.

  He touched a place that sent pleasure streaking through her.

  She squealed.

  That made him smile brilliantly. His finger rubbed softly against that place, and she almost curled into a ball, it was so intense. She batted his arm with her shackled hands. “Oh goodness,” she begged.

  “You like that, little one?”

  “Yes. No. I think—I think you should stop.”

  “I don’t think you really want me to stop. I never would have expected the formidable Miss Winsome would shirk from a new experience. You have courage. Let yourself enjoy this. What harm can it do?”

  He pressed harder, in that secret mystifying place, and she screamed. She hadn’t meant to. It just flew out. He grinned as though deeply pleased.

  “All right,” she gasped. “Do more.”

  His finger made delicious spirals, and she arched up on the bed. Her body began rocking against his hand. She wasn’t doing it. Her body seemed to have taken control, and her wits no longer worked.

  Laughing gently, the duke lowered the bodice of her shift, baring her breast. Lightly he blew, and the swift caress of air made her nipple grow hard.

  His dark head bent, he captured her naked nipple in his mouth. And sucked.

  She pushed against his shoulders, but he didn’t stop. He sucked and sucked until pleasure was rushing down from her nipple and slamming into the delight shooting up from his stroking fingers. She panted. She moaned. Her hips arched, pressing her delicate, aching cunny harder against his hand. He obliged, rubbing faster. She clung to his shoulder with her bound hands, not caring that her fingers dug into his shoulder blades. Not caring that both her breasts were bared to him now—they’d popped out as he tugged on her neckline with his teeth.

  He sucked from one nipple to the other. All the while his hand stroked and played. She lifted against him, racing to pleasure. At last she was going to know what this was like. For once she was a pupil, she was being taught.

  His mouth drew on her right nipple, his fingers ruthlessly pinched the left, and his finger stroked so fast she feared she might burst into—

  Aah!

  Her muscles went mad, twitching and pulsing. Her wits shattered. She wailed. Oh God, it was—

  Wonderful. Pleasure wrapped around her like sunlight, like warm sheets, like sin. Pleasure exploded inside her like streaking fireworks. She gasped “Oh God” over and over until her tongue tangled and all she could do was sob with sheer ecstasy.

  Finally the pleasure ebbed away, leaving her limp and boneless.

  “God, you are beautiful,” he murmured huskily. “You look like an angel when you come.”

  “I couldn’t. I must look a mess.”

  “You look like a well-pleasured lady.”

  She was a well-pleasured lady. She wanted to forget she must lie to him and search his journal, read his private thoughts. Forget she was supposed to capture this man. This was sexual pleasure and intimacy, and it was so intense and sweet she knew she needed more. Another few minutes of hot, damp bliss. Or an hour. Or a night.

  He bent and put his lips to her nipple. For just one kiss, then he looked up, lifting his lips, leaving her on the verge of sobbing with desire. “Enough for tonight, Miss Winsome,” he growled. “If you stay any longer, I will ruin you.

  The duke got off the bed and his robe slid off his right shoulder. While he’d been pleasuring her, the belt of his robe had fallen open. He caught the robe before it slithered down his arm and pulled it up.

  But Helena had seen his naked, muscular right shoulder. And the network of healed scars that crisscrossed his upper back.

  9

  Grey threw himself on his bed. His throbbing erection tented his robe, and he shoved the silk aside. A thread of silvery moisture dropped to his abdomen. Hard and aching, his poor cock couldn’t understand why he’d let Miss Winsome go. He glared at it. “She wouldn’t play with you even if she was here.”

  He had to be losing his mind, trying to carry on a conversation with his prick. God knew it never listened to him.

  Watching Miss Winsome come while knowing he couldn’t do more with her—not yet—had been definitely a knife’s edge. This one closer to pain.

  He could go to the House of Exotic Desires. Ruby would be more than willing to pleasure him, he was sure. This was London, he was a duke, and there were several thousand bizarre and intriguing ways he could get his satisfaction. He could go to his club and indulge in ropes, spankings, manacles, orgies. He needed the erotic anticipation of thinking up the scene, of slowly, deliberately, carefully taking his partner—and him—to that edge of pleasure.

  He closed his eyes, picturing an erotic scene to entice him while he jerked on his cock. But all he could think about was Miss Winsome, her eyes wide with shock as she came for the very first time. How sweet she’d been when she’d surrendered to pleasure.

  When had he ever liked it sweet?

  Not until now, damn it.

  She was getting under his skin. She was changing him. But it was for nothing. He could never have “sweet.” How could he deal with a sweet woman when he was filled with darkness? His darkness had nothing to do with his interest in bondage. His darkness was something else. He had fought for years to display it as cold indifference. It was really a hot, boiling pit of anger and distrust and pain.

  He wrapped his hand around his shaft. Felt his cock swell beneath his grip. It wasn’t accustomed to this. An encounter with his hand was the province of young boys, not of a grown man who shouldn’t have any need for solitary sex.

  But he needed a damned orgasm to blank out his brain. To make him forget.

  Grey gave a hard, ruthless stroke. Fluid bubbled out the tip, soaking the taut head. He rubbed his palm over the crown, lubricating his hand. It didn’t take long before the moisture disappeared and his strokes were rough, tugging the skin. More silvery juices came, making his cock slick.

  He gripped his balls with his left hand, slid his right hand up and down his shaft. While his one hand pumped, he massaged his balls so they spilled over his hand. With lust driving him, he couldn’t think.

  He lifted his hips, thrusting his cock into his fist. Pumped faster. Gripped his balls more aggressively.

  Then, he couldn’t help it: He thought of Miss Winsome’s pretty, flushed face as she surrendered to her first orgasm. She had been so deliciously adorable—

  His muscles exploded, his orgasm burst like cannon fire. A brilliant white light shot through his head, blinding him to everything but raw, harsh pleasure, and a jet of white shot from his cock,
spattering onto his hand.

  Grey sank back, his breathing ragged. It hadn’t meant anything that thinking of her sweet innocence in orgasm had made him explode. He had to have her on his terms. That way he would protect her from his darkness, by ensuring there was nothing between them but sex and pleasure.

  Helena left the children playing on the grass in Berkeley Square and hurried over to Mr. Whitehall, who stood half-hidden by a laurel bush and motioned her to come to him.

  “Well, have you read through the duke’s journal yet?” Whitehall demanded. He was dressed as elegantly as a gentleman, his hands resting on his silver-tipped stick.

  “No, I haven’t had the chance.” She glanced back at the children, afraid they would notice her absence. And, after Michael’s near miss, she was determined to keep her eyes on them.

  She wished she had not told Whitehall about the journal. All she could think of was the horrible scars on Greybrooke’s back. How awful were his secrets?

  “If I am to continue to protect your brother, I need something now.” Whitehall snarled, his lips curling back from his teeth. He looked . . . sinister. “What of the girl, Lady Maryanne? You intimated that she knew something. She trusts you. It should be easy for you to coax her to confide. The girl is blind and half-witted—”

  “That is not true,” she broke in. Her voice shook with anger. “Lady Maryanne is blind, but she is normal and intelligent. But I will not take advantage of her trust.”

  “You are a damned fool,” he snapped.

  She turned, ready to stalk away, when Whitehall lurched forward and grabbed her wrist.

  Helena stared at his clutching hand, horrified. She tried to wrench free, but he wouldn’t let her go. “If you are going to grab me and force me to use a defenseless girl, this is finished—”

  “It’s finished when I say it is,” he snarled. “I hold your family’s futures in my hands. We believe Greybrooke was blackmailed into committing treason. It is your job to find out if that is true, and discover the secrets that the French agents held over him. My superiors require details. You will return to the duke and you will find out what secrets he has. This, might I remind you, is for your country and your king. And if rumors travel that your brother is on the verge of bankruptcy, those gaming hell owners will not take kindly to losing their money. You would not want your brother badly beaten, perhaps killed, if they use him to make an example to other debtors.”