Chapter 8
Honoria
The knock at the door stopped Dermont’s fingers in their tracks.
It did not however stop the thumping of Honoria’s heart that was so loud she thought the neighbors could hear it.
To put distance between them, Dermont stealthily retreated several steps and answered the door with his voice, inviting his sister inside.
Meanwhile, Honoria was distinctly relieved not to answer his question about pleasure.
Pleasure?! Really. Of all things. She was not here to be ravished by the God-structured duke. Was she?
A sinking pit fell into her stomach with a plop.
“How’s the painting going?” Phoebe asked with a sheepish smile, hands caressing her pet ferret as she entered the room.
“I rather think it’s going quite well, though Honoria won’t let me look at it.” He almost sounded a bit cross, but Honoria shook that interpretation of his tone from her observations.
Feeling scattered from the near—whatever it was that had just about happened only a moment ago—Honoria looked around for something to cover her work.
There hadn’t been a kiss. There wasn’t going to be a kiss.
Yet…she felt so vulnerable. So exposed. “I’ve hardly got anything done—” But Phoebe was already at her side.
She cooed, “That sketch is an incredible likeness. It looks quite like the miniature—”
“Thank you for the compliment,” in desperation, Honoria cut her off.
“You’re quite talented, Honoria. Please tell me this will be hung somewhere for the public to enjoy.”
“The plan is to secure a spot for it in a gallery,” Honoria replied, working maniacally to focus on the present set of questions and not the past-posed question about pleasure that was still sending rivulets of sensations down between her legs.
“A large one, I hope?” Phoebe asked encouragingly.
“Well—”
“Whichever gallery Honoria wants it in, I’ll see it done.”
“You will?” Both girls looked at Dermont incredulously.
“Yes.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, then must have thought better of it and shooed Phoebe out of the room. Well, not so much shooed as pointed to the door and canted his head in its direction, expecting her to heed his silent command. As only a duke could do, Honoria noted.
“Fine. I’ll leave,” she huffed. “But I must see it when it’s complete.” Then, mumbling to her ferret she said, “Come along, Ferris. We’ll leave these two. Alone.”
Honoria watched as Dermont used his body to usher his sister out the door and swore she heard Phoebe mumble something to the effect of, “Don’t do anything I would do,” followed by a little snicker.
And then the door was closed again. And she was almost positive she heard the lock click into place. And she was just shy of absolutely certain that she did not feel relief over having missed out on a kiss earlier.
“Where were we?” He stood there in the middle of the room, eyes scanning the settee where he had posed, then landing on her—still seated in front of the easel. Waiting.
She had a choice. Both of which had potentially damning consequences. Pick up the paintbrush and continue her work, thus forgoing the kiss.
Or.
Kiss the duke.
A smattering of paint launched itself in her mind like a veritable explosion. None of which she could make sense of.
But the pull on her heart was strong. And hadn’t that been at the spirit of the task from her father anyway? Follow your heart. Pursue your passion. Live your life. Be free. Experience the world around you.
But who was she to claim that for herself?
“W–we were painting,” she mumbled in frustration at herself. She thrust a hand toward her paintbrush ready to recommence her work.
But then he was standing behind her before she had a chance to settle her nerves. And his voice startled her, “Show me.”
Her paintbrush flew back, coating a long smear down his cravat and his jacket.
“Oh!” One hand flew to her mouth.
In shock, they stared at each other through thick, charged air.
Without a word, Dermont tugged on his cravat, slipping it from around his neck, exposing a small v-shape of his chest to her.
And she did the first thing that came to mind. It was wanton. Wicked. Delicious.
She took her paintbrush, paused with a long inhale, and then drew paint on him with one long, languid stroke. Down.
His breath hitched before he responded by unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his full chest and abdomen. Muscles stacked on muscles. A small curly tuft of hair led downward and she lost sight of the trail as it was hidden by his breeches.
With a steadying breath, she pulled the paintbrush further down his body, eliciting a small tremor and a fluttering of his eyes.
Down.
Down.
Down.
His hands stopped at his breeches and he jutted out his chin in question.
She nodded.
And to her immense pleasure, he undid his falls and the fabric dropped to the floor. Only in smallclothes with a large bulge, Dermont faced her with heavy lidded eyes.
And the paintbrush kept going down. Down over his smallclothes. Over the bulge. Slowly.
He shuddered at the same time she clenched her legs together.
Slowly, she forced her legs to make her stand.
“You had asked me about pleasure, Dermont?” Black, smoldering eyes caught hers, and her heart had not let up on its heavy drumming.
Her breaths were coming in fast. Her corset felt tight.
Far too tight. Her nipples rubbed against the inner fabric. Sensations rushed to her head.
“What do you know of pleasure, Honoria?” His hands were on her waist, softly. And her breasts were now heaving against his partially exposed chest.
Nerves clenched, toes curled, she had to respond. Had to try and shoot this shot. Because perhaps it would never come again. Her mouth opened to speak words she didn’t know she was brave enough to utter, “Only…only what you might show me.”
His eyes dropped to her lips as one hand slid around to the small of her back, pulling her closer to him. The line of paint on his body soaked into her gown.
“Drop the brush, Honoria.”
It clattered to the floor just as his lips met hers. He guided her hands around his neck and shrugged out of his layers. Naked before her.
“Do you want this on?” he murmured into her ear, referring to her gown.
“D-do you want it on?”
“Hell, no. I need to see all these curves for myself.” His fingers dug into her hips, loosing a small mewl from her mouth.
“You really want to see them?”
“See them. Lick them. Bite them. Worship them.”
A quick nod later and her gown, along with all her layers were haphazardly tossed to the ground.
She had never stood naked in front of a man before and wanted to hide herself as his eyes took her all in.
When he backed away, she looked around for her gown, and she bent down to pick it up.
An animalistic groan filled the room, followed by, “Fuck. Me.”