Chapter 39
Rupert pranced into the room looking delighted with himself, dry as a bone despite the crashing rain.
Georgiana scuttled in behind him, also dry but stiff with mortification.
Wolfgang stalked in last, or perhaps he squelched in, because his boots made wet, sucking sounds with every step.
Fat tears of water dripped from his sleeves, his limp coattails, and the blunt and displeased square of his chin.
“Oh dear.” Elizabeth’s face quivered with the effort it took to keep it straight, but Charlotte quivered for another reason entirely.
Wolfgang’s face was slick and wet, the hard planes below his cheekbones gleaming and his messy locks of hair snaking down his temples in dark rivers to trace the muscles of his jaw. The heat of his chest met the cold rainwater and he steamed, like a racehorse after a winter’s morning run.
Something slipped inside Charlotte, as if she’d been clinging too tightly and suddenly her grip gave way.
“Rupert was inside the whole time,” said Georgiana. “I went into the library to look out the window, and there he was, curled up on the rug.” She cast big eyes up at Wolfgang. “I’m so sorry, Wolfie. I sent a footman after you the instant I found him. I can’t think how Rupert got in again!”
But if Wolfgang had opinions on the matter, he was determined not to utter them.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Elizabeth struggled to keep a straight face as she stood, took Georgiana by the hand, and hurried them both out of the room. Rupert streaked out after them, letting out two barks when the hall filled with Elizabeth’s helpless laughter.
Wolfgang’s expression didn’t change. He stood dripping rainwater in the center of the room, unmoving, as the footsteps outside faded and the air in the room thickened.
“My lord duke!” Charlotte began, and it struck her as a good start. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to continue, not when Wolfgang began to unbutton his wet jacket.
He shrugged out of it impatiently, peeling it off his shoulders and then roughly down his massive arms. His cravat was a flat, sodden mess, but Charlotte couldn’t muster up a single teasing word, because his shirt was also soaked and transparent as glass.
It clung to his shoulders and chest, and—her eyes traveled helplessly south—to each swell and sharply cut dip that rippled across his stomach.
Her mouth fell open, a startled O of pure fascination, and even though she knew she ought to close it, somehow her jaw refused to cooperate.
Her lips were on strike as well, because against her strict orders they went big, soft, and pouting.
Much to Charlotte’s mortification, she mewled.
Wolfgang looked up and they locked eyes.
His hands, working to undo the knot of his cravat, stilled and his body went suddenly intent, all his senses turning toward her.
The rain outside dimmed, as did the warmth of the fire, and even the plushness of the pillows surrounding her on the settee.
All of it faded to nothing, until all Charlotte could feel was her blood, heating with every heartbeat.
Wolfgang yanked off his cravat and flicked open the single button at his collar, and suddenly Charlotte was staring at the naked column of his neck, bronze in the candlelight, strong and yet strangely vulnerable where the muscles met at his collarbones and formed a little hollow that seemed to call out for the press of her lips.
“Blast it.” In two strides he crossed the room and was on the settee beside her.
“Charlotte?” he growled, and she nodded weakly, gasping in shock or relief as he pulled her on top of him and his wet chest met her warmth, his big palms rough on her ass, her knees on the cushions on either side of him, her legs splayed apart so she was notched up against the hard length of his cock.
Her hand curled around the nape of his neck and they drowned together as their mouths met, Wolfgang making noises of pain, as if it were crucial to his survival to suck on her tongue, as if he’d blink out of existence if he didn’t fill his mouth with the taste of her.
“This fucking dress.”
His hands were impatient, tugging at every hidden button and ribbon, and Charlotte was vaguely aware that her gown really was terribly complicated.
She gasped with relief when the bodice, damp from his wet clothes, went slack and Wolfgang drew it down, and gasped again at the feeling of his clever hand reaching inside to roll her nipple.
That wasn’t enough, not for either of them, so he pulled her gown and chemise still lower, until night air shivered over her skin and he could mutter desperate praise to her breasts, between the licks and bites that had her head lolling back, her hands fisted in his hair, and her back bowed into the impossible heat.
Oh God, he was glorious, she felt glorious. How could anyone possibly resist this?
His hands were on her ass again, kneading frantically and large enough to swallow each globe as he angled his pelvis and she slid up and down against the length of him, hard as oak and yet so hot that he scorched her even through their bunched clothes.
She ground against him, swollen, sloppy, aching, and—
“No!” she said, though it undercut her point that she panted the word. “No, I’m not—”
“All right.” He stopped immediately, breathing hard against her neck. “But… why not?”
It wasn’t an eloquent argument, and yet Charlotte was in no position to poke holes in it. She paused for an agonized moment. “Yes. Right. Carry on!”
Soon she was drowning again, his tongue sweet against hers, then so hot on her nipples that her mind went blank and her body melted into liquid, the blood rushing to her cheeks, and her chest, and pooling between her legs until she was so slippery that she couldn’t—
Damn it, she couldn’t—
Oh hell yes, she could.
Wolfgang worked a nipple between his fingers while her other breast dragged against the wet cotton of his shirt. He sucked gently on her tongue while his left hand held her pinioned against the bulge in his breeches, so big and so hard and so unbelievably good that she—
“That’s right.” His deep voice slurred with satisfaction and Charlotte shot off into the sky like a firework.
Her head jerked back and her spine cracked as she flew up and up, whirling through the stars, becoming a star.
She swirled around the heavens and when she sank down gently, she was a golden, glowing mess in his arms.
Wolfgang held her through the last of the glimmers, still except for the brief, almost helpless kick of his hips and the hard kiss he pressed onto the top of her head.
The enormous ridge between her thighs kept her off-kilter as the stardust settled, but as a minute passed and then another, her poor brain began to assert itself.
Oh.
Oh Lord.
She was weak as a kitten and she’d mewled like one, too.
Charlotte scrambled off his lap and onto her feet.
“I’ll bid you good night, Your Grace,” she said, with as much dignity and formality as she could when her cheeks glowed like twin suns, her hair chose that moment to fall out of its pins, and her dress held the wet, incriminating print of his body. “I’m dreadfully tired and I’m off to—”
“Bed?” His eyes were rich, gleaming, wrecked. “Think of me.”
His laughter followed her out of the room.