those words, Greystone rolled over her. Lucy struggled, but the duke had parted her legs with his, and he had her wrists pinned to the bed. She was his captive. And she didn’t like it.
“Trust me,” he murmured. “Your fiancé was a monster, my dear. You cannot judge all men by his vicious behavior. Even the scoundrels.”
With soft, relaxed lips, he kissed her. An openmouthed, hungry, shocking kiss. His tongue slid into her mouth, forcing her lips to part. Twining with her tongue. Exploring her mouth. She’d never had a kiss like this. It was so wet. So ... undeniably hot. Steam seemed to rise from her body, perspiration dampened the valley between her breasts. He lowered his body against hers. She felt him, the rock-hard length of him, the lean muscles, and the length of his erection pushing against her belly. Lucy panicked.
No ...
The duke bent to her nipple, his long golden hair spilling over her bare chest. She gouged her fingers into his arms, determined to push him away, even though she had promised him this. Even though she knew she had no choice. But he suckled her hard, dark nipple so tenderly. Heavens, it did feel good. It stole her strength. Her fingers softened against his hard muscles. His sucking made her body feel floating, lazy ... good. It made her feel as though melted chocolate ran through her veins.
She was so mixed up. Greystone was a rogue. He had ruined her brother. He was a villain. But he was kind to his maid, unlike Mr. Ferrars who had thought a servant was there for his taking, willing or not.
She had been so wrong about Mr. Ferrars. She had thought he was wonderful and perfect.
The duke’s large, long-fingered hand skimmed over her stomach. Then he stroked between her thighs again, touching her most private place, and she moaned, “Yes.” She had no idea she would feel the roughness of his fingers—that her skin would be so sensitive. She loved the scratch of them over her delicate flesh. Her skin there was so soft and his hands were so sensually rough.
Dimly, she wondered how his hands could be so rough when he was a duke.
Oh goodness, he had flicked that most sensitive place—the little bump that lay between her nether lips, and she almost rolled her eyes back into her head at the pleasure. Her hips arched up. As if he could read her thoughts, he stroked her a little harder, as if he had known the rocking of her hips was a wordless signal that meant: I’m begging you for more.
How had the duke done this? How had he made her want, when she’d thought she would never feel desire ever again? How could she want him, when she knew nothing about him, other than he wanted to ruin her brother? But she sensed he had been serious of his offer to kill Allan Ferrars at Chalk Farm. She had believed him when he had gazed deeply into her eyes and called her brave.
It was only one word, yet it had made her heart quiver more than any of Mr. Ferrars’s many compliments.
Oh goodness, Greystone was kneading her breasts now, his touch firm. She felt as though she was in the middle of a fireworks display, with things exploding around her everywhere.
Then he slid his finger inside her. Between her nether lips, parting them gently. Goodness, he was inside her. She was doing the most intimate thing possible. With a man she did not like, did not know, and should not want.
“Open your eyes.”
As if he commanded her, she did it and the first things she saw were thick, velvet-soft black lashes and gorgeous green eyes. Eyes that glittered at her in the firelight. “Is it good?” he asked. Greystone looked truly concerned.
Then his finger slid deep inside her, and she gasped at the sudden sensations—an intense quiver that rushed through her. Lucy heard a shocking wet, sucking sound as his finger thrust in and out. It was the sound of her arousal.
“Good?” he coaxed.
Biting her lower lip, she nodded. She didn’t want to speak. This was wrong. Sinful. Naughty. But she wanted it, and the best way to deal with the war in her heart and her head was to do it quickly, not say a word, and never, ever think of it after it happened.
His hand moved and he stopped stroking the little nub that vibrated with such intense feeling. She gasped in frustration.
He wrapped his hand around the shaft of his erection—she could feel the brush of his fingers against her stomach as he took hold of himself. Then, with his hand tight around it, he stroked the head of his erection against her nether lips. They had stuck together, resisting him, but he gently eased them apart.
Her arms were splayed on the bed, pressing hard into the soft mattress. Her hands were clenched in tight fists. Her toes curled. But she bit her lip so she couldn’t possibly let a “no” slip out from between them.
His hips arched forward in slow, easy strokes as he pushed his penis inside her. For the first time, she knew what it was like to have a man’s thickness inside. He didn’t go in far. Just enough that shock turned to need, and tension melted like ice beneath a flame. Just like his mouth on her nipples, this was good.
“You are a brave woman,” Greystone said gently. “Very brave to face fears to save your brother.” He rocked his hips as he spoke and the movement was as soft and relaxed as his words. It pushed him further inside her. Astonishing sensations ... squishiness, warmth, wetness, pleasure ... her fingers tightened on his arms. Her hips lifted.
His face came to life in great detail. Blond hair fell across his brow, glinting with strands of pale gold. His eyes truly sparkled. They were large, beautiful eyes, green and flecked with silvery-gray—so much, they shone. Astonishing, unusual eyes. Lines framed his mouth, lines of strain, which seemed to come out when he showed desire.
He drew back, withdrawing until she felt just the tip of his erection touching her and she moaned. Now, she just wanted him deep in her. “Perhaps I am brave and foolhardy?” Her voice was husky, hoarse, as though she hadn’t spoken for years.
His lips curved. “Not foolhardy.” He tipped his hips, going deeper inside her. Instinctively her arms slipped around his neck, her leg around his. She shouldn’t behave so intimately—she didn’t know him. He was a stranger to her. This was not about love. Yet she wanted it to be intimate. She wanted to feel close to him. To hold him. His body was so warm and strong in her grasp. She loved the weight of him against her. Her fingers touched hard muscle, velvet skin. Her leg lay against legs with muscles that felt as hard and solid as iron.
Deeper he went, and his penis stroked a place inside her that made explosions of light in front of her eyes. Then a twinge of pain rushed through her and she gasped in shock.
His fingers traced the curve of her cheek. “Shh,” he whispered. “Easy. It will hurt, I’m afraid, when I go past your maidenhead. I wish it didn’t, love. But after that it will be very, very good.”
“No—”
He thrust. She squealed. She clenched. She tightened. She wanted to back away. But she couldn’t vanish into the mattress. Nor could she push him off.
Greystone pressed against her, seating himself all the way inside, and he didn’t move. He stayed motionless, and he rained kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. It was hard to feel pain with such glorious kisses stealing her breath. And little by little, the stinging sensation ebbed.
She whispered, “It’s better... .” Then she saw his expression. He looked like a man in great pain. He looked raw, ravaged, tormented. His eyes were wild. His mouth was a slash, bracketed
