Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Amelia had seen the nude male form.
In many iterations.
Paintings…statuary…even as a child when she and her siblings would run around naked for entire summers at a time.
She’d known the basics of the male anatomy.
But what greeted her eyes now…
Nothing that came before was anything to this.
To Ripon’s, um, anatomy.
Muscles everywhere—arms, shoulders, chest, thighs, stomach—rippling beneath skin with a light dusting of dark brown hair. And then there was that part… Nothing in her life had properly prepared her for its…girth, for lack of a more fitting word.
Neither had anything in her life prepared her for her body’s response to the sight of him. While she hadn’t the faintest notion of what to do with a man like him, her body seemed to be entertaining ideas, as if she’d been sat to a seven-course supper after thirty days in the desert.
From the pit of her stomach heat expanded within her, as if seeking a way out and finding none. She hadn’t the least idea of how to rid herself of it.
But the man inciting this feeling?
He did.
Instinct bade her shift back, to put distance between herself and the naked man who sat not four feet away and appeared utterly unbothered by his nakedness. In fact…was that a glint of challenge in his eyes?
Right.
She noticed the paintbrush in her hand. She was to use it, if only she could remember how.
Again, instinct took over as her brush began to move, starting with the defined line of his clavicle, the subtle indent at the base of his neck, the dusting of hair across his chest, dense muscles beneath, and lower still the eye followed down the packed ridges of his stomach…and lower still…
She left that space blank, for now. She needed distance from that—and the curious feeling it lit inside her—to do what they were here for.
Her gaze lifted and followed the long line of an arm, the way shadow and light played against his skin and the bulk of the muscles beneath. In classical statuary, he wouldn’t be the David. He would be the Goliath.
A creative passion like she’d never felt ran rampant through her, as if she were infected with a fever that she never wanted to cool.
“Shift your chin down and left just a hair.”
A smile that held a hint of wickedness tipped about his mouth as he obeyed. She was commanding him—a duke—and he didn’t mind all that much.
“Keep the smile,” she said. Some part of her understood there would be a day when she would want to see his smile again. That smile hinted at the essence of the man she was coming to know—the man he truly was. A little bit grouchy. A little bit playful.
Without thinking, she shifted forward and grabbed his wrist to turn it. A second later, it hit her, and she froze in place. She’d breached the distance between them and was touching him—this nude man.
She didn’t startle. In fact, her hand seemed to refuse to move away from him. As if it would shrivel into nothingness without the feel of him—his skin, muscle, and bone…his heat…his substance… All she wanted was to keep feeling him.
His gaze captured hers. He saw into her, she knew in an instant. These unnamable emotions rioting through her, he knew their names.
And he knew how to satisfy them.
Of its own accord, her hand began tracing up his forearm, banked strength dormant beneath her feathery fingertips.
He reached out with his other hand and caressed her cheek, calloused fingertips a light scratch against smooth skin.
Oh, she liked the feel of his rough skin against her.
She could remain here, inside the spell this man had cast, forever.
Except her body ached for more—more of his touch, more of him.
Perhaps all of him. Whatever that entailed.
Well, she had an idea. She wasn’t a complete dolt.
This man had beguiled her, that was all. No longer was it enough to paint him.
She must feel him.
She must have him.
“Are you certain?” he asked, his voice the deep velvet rumble that ever sent a shiver purling up her spine.
“Certain of what?” she asked, breathless. She was certain of nothing.
That wasn’t true.
She was certain she wanted him.
“Certain of this.”
He didn’t need to explain. Inexperienced she might’ve been, but she knew what this was, and she’d never wanted anything more in all her life.
“I’m not lushy tonight,” she said, suddenly awash with nerves. Might he refuse her again? She wouldn’t survive it, as it was entirely possible her body would combust into a ball of flame. “You can kiss me.”
“Then we shouldn’t.”
Her entire world dropped out from beneath her. “What do you mean?”
How desperate could she possibly sound? She cared not. She might just beg, if it came to it.
His gaze burned, refusing to release her. “I could never be satisfied with a single kiss.”
“Last night—”
He shook his head slowly. “Last night doesn’t count.”
He needed her to say something…to prove something. Something that would allow him to relent and give over to this desire pulsing between them. She opted for the truth. “And what makes you think I could be satisfied with a single kiss?”
His gaze searched hers, and something unlocked within those silvery gray depths. “It would be ungentlemanly to leave you unsatisfied.”
An arrow of pure, carnal, triumphant lust shot through her as his hand reached out and caught the back of her head and drew her forward.
She inhaled a tiny sip of air just before his lips met hers.
Unlike the rest of him, which was hard and unrelenting, his mouth was soft and tasted of spice and possibly oranges.
The man was delicious, and she wanted more.
His tongue skimmed her lips. It was the most erotic sensation of her life and sent a streak of desire straight through her center.
Tempted forward, her tongue met his, testingly at first, soft and firm and slick and—oh—intoxicating.
Then her tongue was in a tangle with his as she fell deep into his kiss, which had the power to turn her into nothing more than a greedy hoyden as she pitched forward on her chair, perched on the very edge for fear of losing contact.
Then it was one inch too many and she slipped off the chair and to her knees in an ungraceful tumble.
Yet, somehow, she managed not to break contact as she clutched his shoulders.
He smiled against her mouth, and a laugh rumbled deep in his chest, and she wasn’t in the least offended.
Let him laugh. She rather liked its contrast with the very seriousness of the moment.
Because it was a fact. She very seriously desired this man.
He pulled back, his mouth breaking from hers, and a whimpering sound escaped her that would fill her with unbearable shame on the morrow, she hadn’t a doubt.
But, tonight, she cared not as he stared down at her.
He reached out and with a few expert flicks of his fingers, he’d pulled the pins and had her hair tumbling about her shoulders.
His hands moved lower and another few flicks had her dress going slack.
With the knowledge of Eve, she met the dark flare of his gaze and knew what to do.
His wasn’t the only power in this room. She unfolded her too-tall body and stood before him, allowing her dress to fall to the floor.
She reached around to untie her stays—she never had them bound tightly—her breasts thrusting forward, her taut nipples showing through her silk chemise.
She’d always thought her breasts too small to be attractive.
But the look in his eyes indicated the opposite. Hunger.
He shifted back against the settee, his gaze raking over her. “Your chemise.”
She lifted the garment over her head and let it join dress and stays on the floor, unregarded. She only awaited his next command.
“The stockings can stay.”
Stockings or not, Amelia wasn’t sure she’d ever been so naked in all her life as his gaze roved across her from head to toe with a slow deliberation. She trembled with awareness and anticipation. No longer could her gaze hold his, not from shyness, but from a corresponding curiosity.
If he was to know every inch of her body, wasn’t it only fair that she know every inch of his?
And she knew exactly which inches she wanted to know.
Her gaze drifted down the planes and angles of his body until she found what inches she sought. Him…thick and ready…
For her.
He reached for her waist and tugged without force, giving her the option of turning away, of changing her mind. No. That wouldn’t be the story of this night. Again, he tugged, and this time she swayed forward.
His face angled up, the hand at her waist growing firmer in its hold, more intent, his other hand skimming lightly up her thigh. “You have the longest, most beautiful legs in all creation.”
His hand kept moving, over her hip bone, the flat of her stomach, until it cupped one breast. He pulled her forward, and before she knew what he was about his mouth had replaced his hand and his tongue was lazily swirling around her nipple.
Lightning sparks of pleasure streaked through her as she grabbed his shoulders to steady herself before her knees gave out from beneath her.
Eyes closed, her head tipped back and a long, slow moan escaped her.
She’d never known a mouth on her breasts could create such a commotion of raw need in her body.
The hand clutching her waist moved to her bottom. “Perfection,” he murmured against her breast.
A thrill raced through her. She’d long made her peace with the fact that she was more angles than curves, but this man thought some part of her perfection. The idea seduced her as surely as his hands and mouth.