The Duke's Perfect Wife
“Very commendable. A sound mind in a sound body. I think these will look quite nice in a photograph.”
Heaven help us, he was blushing.
“Are you that worried?” she asked.
“I was a young man when I was courting you.”
“And I was a very young woman. Although, you do have wrinkles.” Eleanor touched spiderweb lines at the edges of his eyes. She liked them, because it meant he smiled a little, at least.
“You don’t,” he said.
“Because I’m a bit plump. Were I a slender woman, I’d be an old stick by now.”
Hart touched her face with gentle fingers. “I’ve never seen you more gloriously beautiful.”
Eleanor’s heart sped, but she knelt back before the treacherous warmth he stirred might make her say something she’d regret. Slanting him a smile, Eleanor flipped the kilt up past his hips.
She stilled. “Oh.”
Hart’s eyes went dark. “What’s the matter, love?”
“I thought you would be wearing flannels. It’s rather cold.”
“I haven’t gone out this morning,” he said.
Hart’s shyness was gone, he once again turning the tables. He rested his head in his cupped hands and waited to see what she’d do.
Between his thighs lay the tight spheres of his balls, and above those, the length of him arced back against his abdomen, cradled by plaid.
“I wish I had the photographing apparatus now,” Eleanor said.
“Do you, naughty woman?”
Oh, yes. Hart would make a heady portrait—him lying back, his kilt crumpled around his hips to reveal his wanting while he watched her with warm eyes.
She’d learned his body a long time ago, becoming familiar with the scar that snaked up the inside of his right thigh, the way his hair curled along his legs, how one knee was not the perfect mirror of the other. The photographs didn’t show these small details; they were known only to the woman who had the privilege of gazing at him this close.
Hart said nothing, did nothing.
Eleanor touched the scar, finding the little ridge smooth and cool. Something sparked in Hart’s eyes as she traced the scar upward, but he remained still.
His skin was warmer closer to the join of his legs. His scar ended halfway up the inside of his leg, but Eleanor let her finger continue along the trail until she found the crease between ball and thigh. She caressed there a moment, the last safe place, and then moved her fingers to the shaft.
Hart’s body jerked the slightest bit. His gaze fixed on her, waiting.
Eleanor’s smile widened as she drew her finger up the length of him to his tip. His skin was smooth, hot, and at the same time, silken soft. Strength encased in a firm package.
“The male’s organ stiffens,” she said. “So that he might penetrate the female’s softest place and enter her for his purpose.”
“Bawd,” Hart said, voice rough. “Who taught you such talk?”
“A scientific journal.”
Hart’s laughter shook him, but not enough to make Eleanor’s fingers slide away. “I hope you damn well don’t whisper such things to any other man, especially not in that sweet voice.”
“Only to you, Hart. Only ever to you.”
He stilled. “Eleanor, you are killing me.”
She lifted her hand away. “Shall I stop?”
“No!” Hart grasped her wrist, grip biting down, then he stopped himself, deliberately uncurling his fingers. He tucked his hand behind his head again, but she saw it shaking. “I don’t want you to stop,” he said. “Please.”
It was very difficult for this man to say please. Eleanor put her finger to her lips, hesitating as though pondering what to do. Hart watched her, his entire body tense.
Eleanor rested her hand on him again. Again he jerked, Hart trying to contain his reaction.
She glided her palm up the length of him, exactly as he’d showed her that long-ago day in the summerhouse. Hart sucked in a breath, body rigid. Eleanor brushed her palm over his tip and then slid her hand back down.
“Oh, God, Eleanor… lass.”
The groan nearly undid her. Eleanor stroked him again, this time a little faster. Hart grew even harder under her touch, and Eleanor warmed with the power of it.
“El. Sweet El. Holy Christ.”
Hart’s hands tightened to fists, as though he stopped himself, with great effort, from reaching for her.
In the summerhouse and the bedchambers, they’d undressed before intimate touching had commenced. Eleanor had not known how exciting things could be when they both remained fully clothed. What a delicious discovery.
Hart, for his part, was making all kinds of discoveries. That Eleanor was more beautiful than ever, that he wasn’t quite dead, that her touch was incredible. Despite Eleanor’s assertions, she was innocent, and her little smile opened up every devilish part of him.
The wild feeling in his c**k spread down his body and up again into his heart. Hart was going to die of this. Hart the master, the all-powerful, surrendered to his lady’s touch.
God, it was glorious.
“Eleanor,” he said breathlessly. “You undo me. You always have.”
“Shall I stop?”
Look at her, playful and challenging, utterly innocent and wicked at the same time. He’d let her walk away from him, because he’d been stupid, and young, and too bloody arrogant. He’d never let her walk away again. Even if he had to lock her into this chamber with him for the rest of their lives, he’d keep her with him, always.