The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,63
requested was powerful.
“Consider it a competition, Your Grace. One you’re likely to win, as the odds are heavily stacked in your favor.”
He shouldn’t ask, but he did. “Competition? What sort?”
“Who can make who arrive first.” She drew a promissory cross on her chest, her cheeks flushing as her gaze pinned him in place. “No kisses. In fact, we’ll say that mouths are off-limits.”
He released a rough sigh, her daft challenge the most erotic thing a woman had ever said to him. Wind raced over the orangery, rattling the windowpanes and sending a dash of air swirling around their ankles. “You’re a virgin.” He shoved his hand in his pocket and urged cloth away from his erection. “How do you know about arrivals?”
A husky puff slipped past her lips, lips that were, as of now, off-limits. He was being handily seduced. He recognized this fact. And he wasn’t stepping in to stop it. Not with such an awakening, when he’d been dead inside for years.
“I’ve read a lot of books.” Delaney trailed her finger down his shirt, pausing to circle each bone button, her nails scratching and setting him ablaze. By the time she hit his waistband, he was in physical pain. “And…experimented.” She swallowed, her lids fluttering, finally showing a tremor of nervousness, vulnerability he was thankful for. “Alone, I mean.”
“Hands only,” he heard himself say, knocking her arm aside before it traveled lower and made him lose the wager before they’d even started. He was mad, acceding to a moment of insanity, but if he acceded, he could have one sweet taste of Delaney Temple. Without admitting to anything more than a blinding obsession with the girl.
Obsession being basic arithmetic for an addict, not much of a confession at all.
As long as it wasn’t love. Not because he couldn’t love her, but because he wasn’t going to let himself.
And, really, how intimate could this get without kissing?
“Hands only,” he repeated, “and clothes stay on.”
She scowled and, ah, bloody hell, did he want to kiss the stubborn tilt off her lips. Her gaze strayed to his trouser placket. “Is there room for negotiation?”
He held up two fingers, then worked to free this many trouser buttons, leaving the material partially open.
Her pupils expanded, spilling into the pale beauty of her eyes.
“This is what we’re gambling. You can change your mind, call off this ridiculous bet. I won’t hold you to it.” He ran the heel of his hand over his cock. “I can take care of this myself. I have before, quite a few fevered times now, with you firmly planted in my mind. Not the same, not as good as touching you, or God above, you touching me, but it would protect you.”
She threw a frantic glance over her shoulder, locating the sun-faded settee and set of armchairs in the corner. The estate's previous owner had used the orangery as a parlor, hosting tea parties among his citrus trees. It was one of the many elements of this place that had charmed him enough to purchase it.
“Perfect,” she whispered, and grabbing his hand, dragged him in that direction.
Naturally, she would love this space, too.
When they got to the darkened alcove, Sebastian halted her before she chose where to sit. Or worse, lie. That was more than he could risk and keep it simple. He took a handful of her skirt, lifting it to her waist. “We can do this standing up.” Holy hell, he reasoned when he looked down, blowing a rough breath through his nose, he was going to lose this wager. Silk garters. Lace. Tiny pink bows. When he’d have pegged Delaney as a woman who wore plain cotton everything. Astounded, his startled gaze met hers.
She chewed on her bottom lip with a satisfied half-smile. “I prefer pretty underthings.”
He moved his hand to the curve of her lean, tight buttock, drawing her against him. It had been a year since he’d touched anyone.
And he’d never touched anyone like her.
She went willingly but slipped her hand between their bodies before they got too close to allow it. Over his chest, belly, hip, thigh. Her touch was bold but uncertain, awkward but flawless. When she reached his throbbing length, she made a tentative effort to learn the size and shape of him. Her hoarse gasp, of surprise or delight, nearly brought him to his knees.
He tipped his head back to keep from kissing her, his lids sliding low. He couldn’t watch this and hang on. It was enough to feel.