The Historical Collection 2018: The Duchess Deal / From Duke Till Dawn / His Sinful Touch / His Wicked Charm

Ash swallowed hard. She’d left him speechless. Entirely.

“I know you’re afraid,” she whispered. “I know it because I’m scared, too. Terrified, really. Make love to me. Be brave with me.” She grasped his shirt in both hands and pulled. “With nothing between us.”

“Emma, don’t.”

“Why not?”

He flailed for excuses. “It’s—It’s my favorite shirt.”

“Then I’ll mend it later.”

She found the bit of stitching where the shirt’s neckline converged, caught the fabric in her teeth, and tugged, biting a notch in the fabric. That accomplished, she took both sides in her hands and ripped the shirt straight down the center.

Ash was amazed. And, if he was honest, fiercely aroused.

She smiled. “A seamstress knows how to split fabric. And by now, you should know me. If you issue a command, I’ll only do the reverse.”

He started to compose a good scolding in his mind. But then he decided . . . perhaps he could make her rebellious nature work to his benefit.

“Very well,” he said. “Don’t lift your skirts and straddle me.”

Her eyes questioned him for a moment. Then understanding swept them, and a saucy smile curved her lips.

She gathered her striped muslin skirt and petticoats in fistfuls, hiking them high enough to allow him an erotic glimpse of her calves before climbing atop his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs, and letting that white, flouncy cloud of her petticoats fall around them both. He felt as though he’d been admitted to a temple of feminine secrets. Awed.

God. He was hard already, primed to take her without a moment’s delay. Slip loose the buttons of his trousers and thrust. That was all it would take. But he knew anticipation now would make the eventual satisfaction all the sweeter.

However, he intended to torture her every bit as much as she tortured him. Know every part of her, just as she knew him.

Love her. All of her. The way he yearned to be loved.

He slid a hand down her back, finding the edge of the ribbon that cinched her bodice tight. With a slow, teasing tug, he pulled until the knot gave way. Her bodice fell slack, and her breathing quickened.

“Don’t,” he said in a firm voice, “lower your bodice. And whatever you do, don’t you dare lift your breasts and offer them to me.”

A blush blossomed on her cheeks, in a red deep as roses. He inhaled a lungful of her intoxicating fragrance. She slipped her arms out from her sleeves and wriggled her bosom free of her bodice and stays. Out they tumbled in all their glory. Full and round and dark pink at the tips.

Biting her lip, she slid her hands beneath her breasts, lifting and plumping—and sweet heaven, rolling her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers until they were pert and begging for him.

She offered them each to his mouth in turn, and he kissed and licked and suckled with abandon, drawing on her nipples with rough suction and nuzzling under the soft orbs to lick the sensitive flesh beneath. Each sigh and moan that fell from her lips shot straight down his spine and gathered in his cock. His erection pulsed against his falls, desperate for contact.

He pulled away from her breasts. Gripping the armrests of the chair for control, he gave his next contrary command. “Don’t put your hands under your skirt.”

If she was shy or surprised, her expression didn’t reveal it.

She placed one hand on the back of the chair and leaned forward on it, pressing her breasts closer to his face. Then she reached between them and slid her other hand up her thigh, taunting him.

“Shall I touch myself?” she asked coyly.

God yes, he thought.

But he shook his head no.

She gave him a smile as she worked her hand in naughty circles. He couldn’t view her fingers like this, but just the suggestion of her pleasuring herself drove him wild.

He wanted to see.

He had to see.

He released his grip on the armrests and shoved her skirts to her waist, revealing a view of paradise. Her delicate fingers, parting those dark curls and stroking the pink petals hidden within.

His mouth went dry. Holding her skirts high with one hand, he grasped her tempting bottom in the other, tilting her hips to get a better view.

“Don’t push them inside,” he said hoarsely. “You intractable woman, don’t you dare.”

Two of her slender fingers disappeared inside her, buried in her soft heat to the first knuckle.

“No deeper,” he scraped out. “Not another inch.”

She purred with pleasure, disobeying him again, sinking down on her fingers as far as they would go.

He thought he would explode. “Don’t raise those fingers to my lips.”

At that, she hesitated.

“I forbid it,” he said, bringing forth his sternest, most aristocratic voice.

She raised her hand palm-up, offering it to him.

He gripped her wrist and drew her first and second fingers into his mouth, sucking them down to the webs between her fingers and lapping up every bit of her tart-sweet nectar. The rose-red blush on her cheeks became an erotic bloom of crimson across her throat and breasts.

“Ash,” she whispered. Her dark eyes were pleading.

Teasing her this way was sublime, but even he had his limits.

He reached between them, fumbling with the buttons of his trouser falls and freeing his cock. She moved closer, trapping his erection between his pelvis and hers, sliding over his shaft on the dewy sheen of her aroused sex. Grinding against him in tiny circles to heighten her bliss.

He could have wept with the beauty of it.

Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she wriggled until the tip of his cock fit just where it needed to be, sinking down on him with a breathy sigh. He grasped her by the hips, guiding her up and down his length. She removed his hands and pinned them to the armrests. She didn’t need his guidance, apparently. She rode him in a lazy yet relentless rhythm.

“Don’t stop,” he moaned.

She stopped.

He growled with frustration. “Don’t don’t stop.”

She began to move again, accelerating her pace.