licking. And sucking. Won’t you like it?”
“That’s . . . not in question,” he said firmly. Firmly in many senses of the word. “But we’re supposed to be procreating. I can’t make your mouth pregnant. Strictly speaking, this is outside our agreement.”
“So what will you do?” She looked up at him, amused. “Bring a suit in Chancery? Your Honor, my wife dared to unclothe me. She proceeded to caress my person, with both hands and lips, against our sworn agreement to the contrary.”
“Emma, you . . .”
“And then”—she gave a theatrical gasp—“the disobedient wench did place her mouth on my engorged staff.”
She gave him a slow, exploratory lick.
“Jesus.”
She backed off, lifting an eyebrow. “My, my. Such blasphemy. Is that in Shakespeare?”
He gritted his teeth. “Second Henry the IV, act two, scene two.”
“Really? Interesting.” She brushed a light, feathery kiss to the very tip of his cock.
God. Ash’s hands clenched to fists at his sides. He couldn’t take much more of this.
When she bent toward him again, her lips pursed for another teasing kiss, he grasped her by the hair. “Enough.”
“Enough.”
Emma gasped as he twisted his hand in her hair. His grip tugged on a thousand nerve endings at once.
“Enough,” he growled again.
She understood his meaning.
Enough talking. Enough teasing. She was meant to get on with it.
Whatever “it” entailed.
Emma wasn’t precisely certain what she’d started, but she would have rather died than ask. The basic idea seemed self-evident, even if the subtleties of technique were beyond her experience. Judging by her own responses to his lovemaking, it was hard to go wrong where licking was involved.
Casting her eyes upward to gauge his reaction, she traced tentative circles about the tip of his staff with her tongue. Beneath her hand, his abdominal muscles became washboard ridges. He arched his hips, nudging at her lips with the broad head of his erection. She took her cue from the inarticulate plea, taking him into her mouth.
He moaned, slumping back against the door. “Yes. Just like that.”
She loved the taste of him, musky and male, and the feel of him—stroking against her palm with silky softness, and filling her grip with need that was impatient and hard. She loved the way his breathing changed, and the deep, ragged sound she pulled from his chest as she took him deeper.
Most of all, she loved the power. He was helpless with desire, exposed to her, pleading and vulnerable. At her mercy. Triumph sang through her body with his every gasp and groan.
She glanced up and found him looking down at her, his eyes glazed with desire and his teeth gritted. Since he seemed to enjoy watching, she used her free hand to push aside her fichu and offer him a view of her breasts. Feeling naughty, she trailed a fingertip along the exposed curves, dipping into her cleavage.
“God. God.” His thighs tensed, and she abandoned coyness in favor of a brisk rhythm. She knew he had to be close to his peak. “Emma, I—”
He pulled his cock free of her lips. Putting his grip over hers, he worked her hand up and down in a furious rhythm. His breath came harsh and rough until at last he found release.
In the aftermath, he fell back against the door, gasping for breath. Emma used her discarded fichu to clean her bosom. He reached down to cup her chin in his hand, tilting her face gently so that she looked up at him.
“For that,” he said, “I would have eaten a hundred of those sandwiches.”
She smiled.
He helped her to her feet, then yanked up his own trousers. Together they stumbled to the bed.
“That was . . . indescribable.”
“It was my pleasure.” And that was the truth. She felt quite satisfied with herself and empowered to an unprecedented degree. She rolled onto her belly and propped herself up on her elbows. “So we’ve been to tea. Where shall we go next? It’s your turn to choose.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“There must be so many things you miss doing. Not necessarily with me. Driving in the park with the top of the barouche folded down. Going around to the clubs. You could take boxing lessons at Gentleman Jackson’s and stop making poor Khan serve as your sparring partner.” She arched an eyebrow. “So long as brothels and opera dancers are not on the list.”
“Please.” He flung his forearm over his eyes. “The way you keep after me, I haven’t the stamina.”
“Good. Now about the next outing.”
“There won’t be one. I told you this afternoon that it would be the first and last time we went visiting.”
“We could have a dinner party here, if you prefer. I have a friend from the dressmaking shop, Miss Davina Palmer. I think her father would enjoy making your acquaintance.” She held her breath, waiting on his response.
He lowered his forearm and regarded her with seriousness. “Just what is it you’re angling to do?”
The suspicion in his eyes unnerved her.
“I . . . I hate to see you living in seclusion, that’s all. Once I go to Swanlea, I can’t abide thinking of you sitting in the house, all alone.”
Needles of guilt pricked at her palms. Of course, that wasn’t her only reason. She did have an ulterior motive—to help Davina. But she meant what she’d told him, as well. It pained her to think of him being alone.
It pained her to think of leaving him. It pained her to think of going to Swanlea and raising their child without him being a part of their lives.
She didn’t like their bargain anymore, and she was running out of time to renegotiate.
A few afternoons later, Ash was hard at work in the library, just hitting his stride in a fiery, scathing letter to his architect, when Khan entered.
Terrible timing, as usual.
Ash didn’t look up from his letter. “What now?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but a rather large delivery has arrived for the duchess. Where shall I direct them to leave the boxes?”
“A delivery?” Ash lifted his head. “A delivery of what?”
“I believe it’s a wardrobe. Shall I have them take the packages upstairs?”
Ash laid aside his pen. “No. No, take them to the
