Page 45 of A Duke's Keeper
When he saw her, his smile was dazzling.
“Hello,” he said.
Managing to catch her breath, she smiled back and said, “Hello, yourself.”
“Were you sleeping?”
She shook her head. The breeze on this side of the building was strong with the alley tunneling the wind between buildings. She shivered through her thin dress, having forgotten her shawl on the hook next to the door.
Renard sloughed off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders along with the smell of his bergamot and lemon cologne.
She pushed her arms through the sleeves, his body heat lingering in the fabric. “Now you’ll be cold,” she said.
“What cold?” he asked, his teeth chattering.
She bit her lip and did her best not to smile. “I hate when you’re charming, remember?”
“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten.” His brows pushed together in a more charming-than-grumpy furrow. “I do say, chivalry dictates a man share his coat with a freezing damsel, but it’s damn uncomfortable.” His face smoothed. “How was that? Gruff enough? Should I have used more profanity?”
Her smile came full force. “I can’t believe you fit in the alley.”
“It was a bit tight,” he said. “I find I have more sympathy for a woman’s hat box now. Speaking of boxes.” He nodded to his coat pocket. “There may be a small something in there I couldn’t wait until tomorrow to give you.”
She startled. A present? She reached into the outer pocket and pulled out a lovely, velvet box. Opening the lid, she found a slim, glass vial in the box’s plush lining, delicately decorated in white swirls that reminded her of the waves crashing the shore where the Thames met the North Sea. Tears pricked her eyes.
“You don’t like perfume!” He shut the lid and took the box from her hands and hid it away in his trouser pocket, his expression fallen. “I should have known. I’m sorry. I’ll find something more suitable next time. My first instinct was a box of coal, but black cinders hardly seemed like an appropriate offering to a woman—”
Camille pressed a finger to his lips. “I’ve never had anything so fine.”
His shoulders relaxed. Taking the box back out of his pocket, he offered it on his open palm. “You like it, then?”
She placed a firm kiss on his lips. “Does that answer your question?”
“It makes me feel less like an idiot,” he said. “Not to worry. I’m sure I’ll say or do something to prove myself an ass and all will be right with the world again.”
She frowned at his words, not the first time he’d said something self-derogatory. Hardly acquiring the skills, or historical desire, to set a man at ease, she drew him closer and whispered in his ear, “Not to worry, Your Grace. I like a man part fool.”
He chuckled low and grazed a searing kiss along her jaw. “Good to know, Miss Forthright. Then I shall state with pride I am your fool and no one else’s.”
Her mind coiled around his words as her hips naturally pressed against his body in her growing desire. “I like that.”
His hands fell to her hips to press her more squarely against his hard erection. “What else would you like, my lady?”
He ground against her core in a melting friction of heat and steel.
She gasped and clutched him tighter. “You. Now.” She had no idea where the wanton words had come from. His masculine smell enveloped her, addling her thoughts until they narrowed down to the single ache between her legs.
He growled and pushed her into the dark alley with her back against the wall. His hands were already under her skirts and parting her petticoats. His thumb ran around her intimate lips once, twice, infinitely in a tortuous circle that had her shredding her nails on the stone at her sides.
The knowledge of what they were doing, out here in the street where anyone could stumble upon them, was scandalous, provocative, further pushing her towards that sweet oblivion. It felt as if a tight string pulled, tighter and tighter, until she’d snap.
“Renard! I need you.”
He fell to his knees then and lifted her skirts to the bitter night air.
She had the mind to grab his head for support before his mouth clamped down on her.
Her nails dug into his scalp. She clung to him, urging him to suck harder. He was unparalleled in his skill. Camille needed no other experience to know he was unmatched. He threw her leg over his shoulder for better access. The way his teeth nipped at her sensitive skin, or how his hands kneaded her hips to keep them wide, she moved and opened with the slightest of direction.
