Page 47 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
Still, she did the best she could, grazing her lips over his neck, his chest, his arm, while she explored him, fingers traveling up and down his back, then slipping one hand to his front, where she cupped the heavy length of him through the front panel of his breeches, then moved up and down, squeezing gently.
He pressed his forehead to her shoulder. “God, Jo,” he whispered. “Do that again.”
She did, and this time he growled softly. Then, he grabbed her bottom in his palms and lifted her slightly, pushing her back against the tree.
“Again,” he rasped against her lips.
She did it again, loving how he gasped and bucked against her. Then, he stilled. “Stop.”
Instantly, she pulled her hand away. “You don’t like—?”
He silenced her with a kiss, then murmured, “I love it. Too much. If you keep doing that, I’m going to forget myself and take you under this tree, to hell with whoever might see us.”
No one had ever said anything so erotic to her, and she trembled against his hard body, her eyes closing with the promise of it, of the idea of him taking her right here, against this tree trunk.
“But I promised I’d return you to the ball before the dance ended. We need to stop.” Gently, regretfully, he lowered her legs until they were firmly planted on the ground. She came back to earth, in more ways than one. She looked frantically around.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “No one saw.”
She looked up at him, wanting to thank him for kissing her again, for touching her, for allowing her to explore what the hard body of a man felt like under her hands… But she bit back the words. She’d sound silly, wouldn’t she? And awkward, and probably needy, too.
He gazed down at her, then shook his head as if in awe. “You are a spitfire, Joanna Porter.”
“I am?”
He gave her a brilliant smile, and she melted a little inside. She loved making him smile. “You didn’t know that?”
“No,” she admitted. “Not really.”
He touched her cheek reverently. “A lovely, sensual spitfire. Do you know what I’d love?”
“What?” she whispered as he bent down until his lips brushed over her ear.
“I’d love to see you come. To make you scream my name. To watch your face while I give you pleasure.”
“Oh.” She swallowed hard. Then she added, “I’d…I’d like the same from you.”
He sucked in a breath, but he didn’t pull back. Instead, he bit down gently on her ear, and her knees went so weak, she clutched his arm to steady herself.
“Next time.” He finally pulled back, and his eyes went soft for a minute as he tucked away strands of her hair that had fallen out of her chignon. He straightened her dress, and she reached up and smoothed the wrinkles in his cravat. Then, she brushed her fingers through his ridiculously soft hair to tame it.
When they’d finished helping each other look presentable, they stared at each other, hands at their sides. Then, the duke glanced back toward the house. “The music will end soon,” he said. “It is time to go back.”
Side by side, they returned to the ballroom, Jo wondering if she’d ever feel the same about anything ever again.
Chapter Fourteen
“I find it unfair,” Matthew said to Jameson, “that you refuse all invitations to those routs, and yet you expectmeto attend them.”
In the two days since Lady Campbell’s ball, Jo had consumed Matthew’s thoughts. He’d come to the boathouse today to divert his mind to other matters, but it wasn’t doing much good—thoughts of her smiling lips, her soft skin, and her intelligent gray eyes pushed in at every opportunity. He knew he had to stop, but she was like a decadent dessert he couldn’t stop craving. Delicious and addictive.
“I am a free man.” Sawing a plank of wood, Jameson looked over his shoulder at Matthew and added pointedly, “You are not.”
Matthew scowled at the other man from his spot on his knees, where he was measuring another plank. “I’m free as you are.”
Jameson snorted. “Come on, man. You know that isn’t true. I have no need to ingratiate myself to society. You do. I have no need of a wife. You do. I have no bloodline I need to preserve.Youdo. And I care not one whit about producing an heir.” He finished sawing, and the small piece he’d cut off dropped to the sawdust-covered floor of the boathouse. “Alas,” he said, picking up the piece and depositing it onto the small pile of discards they might be able to use later, “you do.”
Jameson wasn’t wrong. Matthew scowled down at the measuring rod and marked the next spot to be cut with his pencil.
