Deeply In You (16 page)

Greybrooke prowled around the bed with the same easy, dangerous grace as a black panther. Helena had seen the magnificent animal once in a menagerie. Lying over the palm of his large, gloved hand: three long, black ropes.

Goodness, this was it. She was going to be tied up, like the women in his private club and the brothel. She began to giggle—a funny, hiccupping sound she tried to hide. Greybrooke had insisted she have sherry to calm her nerves. After two glasses, it appeared her nerves had entirely evaporated. A wild courage had come over her—she was ready for anything he could do to her.

Now she lay on his bed, still fully dressed.

He touched one of the ropes to her ankle, below her hems. It was soft, made of velvet. She watched how focused Greybrooke was on his task as he looped the rope around her right ankle and made a snug circlet. Her slipper tumbled off her foot. Then, using the rope, he gently drew her leg to the side, slid the rope around the bedpost, and tied it tight. She tested by tugging at the black velvet cord, but she couldn’t make it give an inch.

It proved surprising thrilling to feel the rope against her skin.

With a ruffle and a whoosh, he pushed her skirts up and a breeze flowed over her thighs.

She had one moment to comprehend that her legs were bare when his warm hands lightly touched her thighs and he parted her legs. Wide.

“Oh,” she gasped, forgetting everything but shock, but he ignored her squeak of protest and he wrapped another black rope around her left ankle.

He expertly tied the knot, then stretched the rope to the bedpost and secured it. His eyes glittered. “Something simple for now, angel. I can’t wait long enough to get fancy tonight.”

The duke caught her hands in his and lifted them above her head. Her breasts lifted, pushing against the cups of her corset. He twined the last rope around her wrists, binding her hands together. Stretching his back, he slid the rope through a ring on his headboard and tied it.

Then, before she could say a word, he got off the bed and dropped to his knees on the floor. Bending forward, he lightly brushed his tongue over that sensitive place between her legs.

He really
was
doing that wicked thing he’d said.

How could he do this? What did she taste like? She smelled so ripe and aroused, she knew her cheeks were scarlet. This was beyond naughty—

She squirmed wildly against the ropes binding her. Exposed. Embarrassed.

The duke stopped and gazed at her over the golden curls that covered her pubis. “Relax and enjoy it,” he said huskily. “Lose yourself in this, love.”

It came out soft but firm, a definite command. Then he blew a warm breath over her quim that ruffled her curls and tickled her nether lips. She fell back helplessly on his silken sheets. Pleasure shimmered through her.
Yes, do more. Do anything.

His tongue went
everywhere
. He licked around her nether lips, his tongue tangling with them, his lips tugging on them. Sometimes she felt a pleasure that made her squirm and grow so wet. Then she’d feel something so intense, she tried to curl up to escape. Too much!

But the ropes kept her in place.

His tongue dove into her, into her wet passage, and she gasped as she felt so slick and full. He went lower, flicking on the bridge of flesh between her quim and her bottom, and each stroke of his tongue made her want to scream in delight.

All her world fell away and there was only this—his mouth on her and everything she felt. She felt like a goddess. She felt adored.

She felt she was going to come.

He settled in to a rhythm, a delicious rhythm that was taking her to bliss, just as his fingers had done. This had to be the most intimate thing possible. Her hips rose to his mouth seeking release. It was there, just within her grasp, and she
wanted
it. More . . . just a little more....

Oh, she thrashed, and bucked, and sobbed, and moaned beneath him. He never stopped licking her, even as she came, even as her hips jerked wildly, even as her body thrust up and she smacked her quim into his jaw. He grabbed her hips, held her steady, and his tongue kept sweeping over her with long, rough strokes.

She came again, the pleasure so sharp and intense she cried out—incoherent babblings of “Your Grace” and “Heavens” and “I can’t!” even as she did. She exploded so fiercely in orgasm, she felt as if she would fly to pieces.

It was a maelstrom, and when it ended she was spent, damp, exhausted. She flopped back on the bed. Her arms were sore. In all that thrashing, she’d pulled hard against the rope. Sweat glistened on her breasts. The soles of her feet tingled. Her cunny still throbbed and pulsed.

Her gaze met his. Delight filled his green eyes, and she felt so close to him.

He moved over her quickly and his chest filled her vision—his elegantly, simply tied cravat, his snow-white shirt, his silvery-gray waistcoat. Deftly, he untied her hands. She wiggled her fingers, reached for him, but he moved away to attend to the ropes at her feet.

He didn’t like to be touched.

Was that because of the scars?

She should ask about all of that, but if it was part of his secrets, he wouldn’t easily give them up. For a fleeting moment, she thought of her sister Margaret.
How I understand why you fell! This is irresistible.

“Feel better?” he asked gently. “The fault is mine you were put at risk, but I assure you it won’t happen again. And don’t ask me questions about this business. It’s my private problem to solve.”

He helped her sit up. Helena knew exactly what he was going to do. Send her home.

She had to find a way to stay. Quickly, she blurted, “I—I want to do . . . um, that to you.”

Before she could lose her nerve, she did the most daring thing she’d ever done. She grasped the falls of his trousers and undid the buttons with haste. She slid her hand into his linens, bumped her fingers into his erection. Fumbling wildly, she wrapped her hand around his thick shaft.

His lashes dropped, he took a sharp breath, and her heart leapt as she saw his mouth grow tight with desire. He looked gorgeous. Sensual.

And she knew she was not just doing this because she wanted to stay in his house.

G
oodness. He was
huge
.

Her fingers didn’t meet around his girth. Helena tightened them gently around his erection, feeling the ridges, the prominent veins beneath hot, silk-soft skin. His penis was utterly rigid, pulsing in her grip. Yet the skin was so velvety, she could imagine stroking the full, taut head against her cheek.

She met his heavy-lidded, brilliant green gaze and felt her cheeks get hot. She felt shy, but wild too.

She tried to slide her hand up, but she tugged at his skin. Afraid to hurt him, she skimmed very gently until she reached the end of the shaft and the rounded crown at the base of the head.

“Lovely,” he said softly, and her heart tripped at the heat in his gaze. He gave a tense-looking smile, pushed his trousers down to his thighs and his linens down to join them. “Do it as hard as you want,” he said huskily. “It’s accustomed to taking a fair bit of abuse. I’m never gentle when I do this myself.”

“When
you
do this?” She knew men did, but only because they were desperate for sexual release. It was supposed to be sinful. He admitted to it as if it were the most natural thing.

“Sometimes I have to. Especially when pursuing a stubborn governess.”

Her heart gave another little flip at his teasing tone. “How could
I
make you do that?”

His eyes sparkled. “I was aroused for you, and it becomes painful for a man after he’s experienced several unfulfilled erections in a row. So I closed my eyes, dreamed of you, and pumped my cock into my hand until I exploded.”

She didn’t know whether to go scarlet again with embarrassment or feel flattered. But he made her feel comfortable. She felt so . . . intimate with him right now.

“Is that how I should do it?” she whispered.

“Fondle the head, love. It likes that.”

She did, and he dropped his head back. “That’s good. Now slide our hand down the length, bring it back up, and squeeze the head. It also likes that.”

He spoke as if it were a part detached from his body. She kept stroking him. His thick lashes shielded his green eyes, but she could tell when she gave a caress he liked—he would take a sharp breath, or moan softly, and his hips would rock toward her hand.

Each time she drew her hand up, fluid bubbled out of the tiny hole at the tip. The head was sloped and smooth, and so swollen, it was taut and shiny. The crown ringed it, then the long tapered shaft fell away beneath it to disappear into the thick nest of black hair.

He was letting her touch him. Playing with his lovely, earthy scented, fascinating “cock” was the first time he had let her do it.

His breathing came faster, more ragged. He must be close to his climax. He made expressions almost of pain, but he muttered, “Good, good,” so she knew he must be enjoying it. Watching the agony on his face made her ache in her cunny. She could make him feel like that. It felt . . . special.

But her arms were tired from gripping him and pumping. She had to stop, so she lost the rhythm. And he fell back from the peak.

It happened again and again. Was he getting frustrated? She wanted to give him pleasure and now she felt she’d never do it. She had no experience, no skill. But she couldn’t stop now, could she?

His hand closed over hers.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“The fault is with me. It takes me a long time to reach orgasm now.”

“Why?” It had been very fast for her.

“Unlike you, Miss Winsome, I can only have one. Then I need to rest for a while before another. So I trained myself to delay climax. Now that I’m getting old, I think I was too diligent.”

“Old? I thought you were not yet thirty. Oh dear, I can see all your gray hairs.” She teasingly brushed his hair.

“What gray hairs?”

He looked so genuinely worried she had to giggle.

“There’s only one or two, you know.”

He sighed. When he did, his rock-hard cock bounced. “I’m almost thirty. The traditional age where everyone worries about a gentleman, and suddenly tries to push him into marriage and children.”

He had told her he had no intention of ever falling in love. But she could not let it rest. “You don’t want those things, I know. But I cannot understand why.”

She had pushed too far. He reached for his linens and began to draw them up, struggling to push his enormous erection down. She didn’t want to go yet. She couldn’t go yet.

But it was more than her mission. She wanted to stay with Greybrooke. She didn’t want this wonderful intimacy to end.

She knew it was dangerous, but she couldn’t resist. She’d never felt so alive, so daring and wild and deliciously wicked as she stilled his hands, bent forward, and kissed the head of his cock.

The skin was moist, dewy, and tasted ripe and earthy. What had he done to her? Things with his tongue. Sticking hers out, she licked the head, washed her tongue over it. Juices bubbled out, giving her a sour taste.

She glanced up. He stared at her in amazement.

She flicked her tongue over the head of his cock, just as he’d done to her private place. She couldn’t thrust her tongue into him. What else could she do? He’d sucked her nipples and she’d liked it.

Opening her mouth, she took him inside. Tightened her lips around him and she sucked hard. It took her a while to understand she could draw him in and out at the same time.

“To see you with my cock in your mouth . . . it’s the most erotic sight I’ve seen,” he rasped. He tensed. “God, you have to stop—I’m going to come.”

He tried to push her back, but she wanted to make him have pleasure. She felt his cock swell, felt a rushing sensation beneath his skin—

He exploded into her mouth.

Shocked, she didn’t move. He was coming into her mouth, and she tasted the sour, lush, rich flavor of his seed. It was rather . . . intriguing. It was his, and she liked it. She sucked while he was still shooting.

“No, gorgeous, you have to stop. Too sensitive,” he groaned. “I’m too sensitive.”

It was so tempting to torture him playfully, but he wanted her to stop, so she did. She watched him have his orgasm while she held him in her mouth. He collapsed finally, his chest lifting with harsh breaths. His cock softened in her mouth. She let it drop out.

It was so intimate, her heart pounded. A little with fear, though she didn’t know why.

Eyes glittering, Greybrooke let out soft laughter. He gave her a tug, forcing her to fall on top of his chest. Her breasts were squashed against the firm muscle under his chest.

“Was it . . . good?” she asked shyly.

He laughed again, husky and low. She’d told him couples should find happiness in bed. He had teased her then, but she felt—she felt they had been happy together.

“Beyond good,” he said. “Life-altering.”

“Truly?”

He pulled her closer and his lips softened, and she knew he meant to kiss her.

She tried to draw back. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

When he looked curious and inquisitive, she saw he looked very boyish. Even more gorgeous than usual. She blushed. “I—I was just kissing you down there. I must . . . um taste like you.” She was so embarrassed.

But Greybrooke grinned. “I want to taste myself on your lips, angel. It’s the most erotic thing I can imagine.” Softly, his mouth claimed hers, his lips light and teasing. Showers of sparks raced from her lips, tingling through her whole body.

It was wretched. She couldn’t enjoy the kiss. She must think about her mission again. She must calculate a way to get to the journal. Could she pretend to go to the water closet? No, she needed longer than that....

“I’m too sleepy to go home.” Simple words, but they implied so much. If she spent the whole night here, there was no returning to the Winterhaven house in the morning, resuming her work as a governess. Staying out all night would get her the sack.

Yet she had no choice.

“You can stay here if you wish. You’re mine now anyway.”

He said it carelessly, but her heart pattered. She wished—

No, wishing was foolish. Wishing led to disaster. She was only “his” temporarily.

He helped her off the bed. “Let’s get you undressed.” His hands moved skillfully over the fastenings of her gown, and he drew it off over her head as she stood in the middle of his bedroom. She was breathless. She had never been naked in front of him. Not completely and all at once.

Helena saw her reflection in the cheval mirror. Sensible stockings, plain garters, a simple muslin shift. She looked very ordinary.

“Beautiful,” he said.

Her heart almost shattered.

He dropped to one knee. Her heart fluttered as he took off her slippers, the ruched garters, her stockings. “Do you want to leave your shift on?” he asked. “Or do you want to be bared to me?”

A part of her wanted to be wanton and take everything off. But she had to sneak around his bedroom. Wearing her shift would be more practical. “I’ll leave it on.” How she hated this dual life she had to lead. “For tonight,” she added.

He didn’t take off all of his clothing. He stripped to his shirt and his trousers, carelessly tossing his coat, waistcoat, and cravat to hang over the corner of a dressing screen.

“I saw your scars the other night when you were wearing just your robe. What—what happened?” It was tactless, but she had no time. She had to learn as much as she could.

He looked up. She couldn’t read his expression.

“What do you think happened?”

She blinked. Blushed. “You were struck.”

“Yes, by many things.”

“Why? Why did someone beat you so cruelly?”

“Why do you think they did?”

He wasn’t going to answer directly, she saw. “For punishment.”

“Exactly. That’s all there is to it. I was punished. Regularly.” He pulled the covers down on the bed. “You know, I’ve never slept with a mistress before.”

Grey never slept with his mistresses. Once, when he was young, he’d smuggled a girl into his bed, never guessing that she had been paid to betray him. After that, he kept sex separated from sleep, and ensured he was never in a vulnerable position.

Miss Winsome lay on the other side of the bed.

He remembered how she’d said she’d dreamed of marriage. How she’d said she wanted to do what married people did.

What he was doing was damnably wrong. She was sweet and innocent. He was dark and bitter. Ultimately he would hurt her.

He knew he would be unable to sleep. Not with her, not in this bed. His instincts never let him sleep with anyone else, knowing that in sleep he was vulnerable. “Roll on your side, love. With your back to me.”

She obeyed. He moved close to her, pressing his chest to her back, his groin to her voluptuous arse. He wrapped his arm around her.

Hesitantly she snuggled back, cuddling tighter to him. “I like this,” she said, her voice soft and sleepy. It was so endearing, it almost broke his heart.

He stroked her hair. The gentle motion should soothe her into sleep. “This is the first time I’ve slept in this bed,” he said. A lie, since he knew as soon as she drifted off, he would leave her. Go sleep on a chair.

Helena woke in a panic. She blinked into darkness until her eyes became accustomed to the faint light thrown by the few coals in the fireplace. She’d gone to sleep with her derriere pressed against Greybrooke’s strong, lean body. His warmth was gone.

She sat up.
He
was gone.

Had he left the house? Was he perhaps in his study, drinking?

Pushing back the sheets, she slipped out of bed. The floor was cool, but she padded in bare feet. A soft rasping sound came to her from the adjoining dressing room. She looked in. Sprawled on a narrow daybed was Greybrooke, feet hanging off the seat, arm beneath his head. Fast asleep.

He hadn’t been able to sleep in the bed. Or with her. Her heart gave a pang.

Before she went to the writing room, she returned to the bed. Hauled the heavy coverlet from it, dragged it to the dressing room, and arranged it—as best as she could—over the duke. It was foolish, worrying about his comfort just before she betrayed him.

Her stomach literally churned with guilt. They had been so intimate, and when he’d laughed, kissed her, it had been dazzling. Yet she had to lie to him.

What if she found out he was a traitor? What would she do?

She didn’t know.

And if he was a traitor, would she still feel they had shared something special?

This time her heart gave a twinge of pain.

But she padded silently to the writing room. Inside, Helena opened the curtain as she’d done before. Holding her breath, she eased the drawer open. She did it without a sound and drew out the leather-bound journal.

Her tongue ran over her lips. She still tasted the lush, ripe flavor of Greybrooke’s warm skin and his thick white come.

Feeling like Pandora, she flipped open the journal. The paper was beautiful—smooth as silk, pristine white, edged with gold.

It was also blank. Every single page was blank.

A childhood of being hauled out of bed to be punished had taught him to stir at even the slightest sound. Grey woke and fought the weight pressing on him—