A Duke of Her Own - Page 61/82

Her little cries were an aphrodisiac like no other, so he knelt again before she had a chance to protest and pulled her legs apart even farther.

She was so exquisite that he was shaking like a lad experiencing his first woman.

“I’m not sure,” she cried. “Oh Leo, you can’t—”

“Of course I can.”

“It’s not proper,” Eleanor cried desperately. “I can’t think that it is. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” She looked around wildly, apparently remembering again that they were outside. “And we’re—”

Her voice broke off because he had dipped his fingers into the chilly water and stroked them over the hottest part of her body. Her mouth fell open and she made a choked noise. He smiled against her leg and let his fingers dance.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he said, when he had her trembling.

She managed to say “Leo,” but it was a weak protest and he knew it. He put his mouth on her, delicately, in the sweetest kiss of all. It took only a moment. Her hands twisted in his hair, her hips arched, and she broke in a cry, a quaking, muffled cry that was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

He straightened slowly, knowing he was just barely in control. “You look like a virgin sacrifice, waiting on the rock for a dragon to sweep by,” he said, hearing the growling tone in his own voice.

She opened her eyes. “I’m no virgin,” she whispered, pulling him closer.

“And I’m so grateful for that,” he whispered back. “I just need to find my breeches.”

“Now,” she cried, pulling him to her. “Oh God, Leo, please, please…I want you.”

“Not as much as I want you,” he growled. He couldn’t even let his body touch hers. If he allowed himself even a touch, he would lose control, plunge into her sweetness, take her right there under God’s sky and with no shame.

Eleanor couldn’t think lucidly. She was leaning against a rock in the sunshine. She was naked. She was about to make love with a man to whom she had no formal attachment. She was…

All the considerations that should have made her run shrieking into the woods seemed inconsequential, when she could instead watch Leopold’s beautiful haunch as he leaned over and pulled a French letter from the pocket of his breeches, throwing them toward the riverbank.

“Do you carry those with you at all times?” she asked.

He straightened and turned around. His body almost took her breath away: it was so powerful, muscled and beautiful…so very different from hers. She wasn’t prone to feeling dainty and feminine, though she felt just that as she stood there in the sunshine, waiting. But she didn’t move, afraid that she would break the spell if she moved. That one of them would regain some common sense and reach for clothing.

“Are we going to make love standing up?” she asked shyly a few moments later. “Oh!” Because they clearly were going to do just that. His big hands cupped her bottom and he pulled her up a bit and then…

And then she opened her thighs and he was sliding in, and it was different—so different—than she remembered. His hands were curled around her bottom but her entire being was focused somewhere else. He was slow and she needed it. She could feel every inch.

It was enthralling—a bit painful—exquisite. Her nails dug into his shoulders.

“Too much?” he whispered, his voice a growl. “You’re so tight, Eleanor.”

“Just go slow,” she said in a gasp. He took another inch and the pleasure of it streaked like fire down her legs. She bit his lip.

He growled at her and took another inch.

She meant to tell him something else, but what she said was, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

“I’m not planning to,” he said, and nipped her ear. Stole another inch. Waited, let her feel him, adjust to the invasion, his thickness, his possession.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gasping again.

“Princess, you have nothing to apologize for.” There was a kind of raw truth in his voice that made her feel so ecstatic that she arched, and he came home. All the way. His groan ripped from his lungs, and she would have done the same but she couldn’t breathe; it felt that good.

And then he was sliding back, and it was like silk, easier the second time, better the third, dizzying the fourth…she lost track. He was braced against the rock on either side of her, kissing her deep and sweet, and all the time his hips were pumping back and forth.

Little thoughts floated through her mind and then were lost in a sea of pleasure. This was what it was like making love to a man, rather than a boy. It was all different: the heat, the strength, the—

She couldn’t even count the ways it was different.

They were both sweaty now, and flames were licking at her legs, her stomach. She was arching against him, feeling every time he pushed back, but it wasn’t quite happening.

Not quite.

And yet she couldn’t—she didn’t want to say anything. To direct him. To be—to be what Gideon thought she was.

But then he said, “Eleanor,” and his voice was harsh and pleading at once, and she suddenly realized how ridiculous she was being.

“Here,” she said in a gasp, and hooked one leg around his hip so she was just a bit higher, so that when he pumped it wasn’t just pleasurable but pure, unadulterated paradise. “This way,” she said, flinching because she was doing what she swore to herself she would never do again.

But it was Leopold, and he didn’t look scandalized, or insulted; he just thrust. She actually cried out.

She heard him grunt with satisfaction but she couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, because he was hard and fast now, and a tidal wave of pleasure curled her toes and swept up her legs and threw her back onto the rock.

Her cries floated into the high blue sky and disappeared. His growl probably frightened some sleeping forest animal.

And then…

And then she found herself standing in his arms, her knees weak, her breath harsh in the quiet air.

“God damn,” he said quietly. He had his arms around her but his forehead against the rock.

After she and Gideon had made love, all ten times, they had both been riddled by guilt afterwards. He would swear that they would never do it again, not until he was of age and they were married. And she would know that she had lured him to it, and feel guilty and slightly sick.

With Leopold there was none of that.

He finally lifted his head off the rock, and the look on his face had to approximate the grin on hers. “We’re good,” he said. Then, “You’re good.”

She felt the smile fall from her face. “No,” she said, “I’m not good at this. It’s not a skill that I’ve developed. I just—”

“Hush,” he said, putting his lips against hers. “I wasn’t implying you were the Whore of Babylon. I was just saying that it was the best sex I ever had in my life.”

It was a flat statement.

“Really?” she asked, hearing the incredulity in her voice. “Isn’t this what—” She waved her hand.

“What I have all the time?” It was his turn to grin at her. Had she ever thought his eyes cold? They were full of laughter now, laughter and something else, the echo of desire.