Chapter 17 #2
She turned her back to him and reached for her nightgown. Margaret could feel his attention without looking at him, and her courage nearly deserted her.
Nevertheless, she continued, determined not to let him see her falter. She allowed the linen cloth to fall to the floor. She stood there, bare and wet.
Before she could finish pulling the gown over her shoulders, however, his voice stopped her.
"Enough," he said quietly.
Margaret froze, her heart beating far too quickly. She turned towards him and continued to pull the nightgown down her body. She half expected him to cross the room and touch her.
"I’m simply getting ready for bed," she said.
He calmly reached for her hairbrush.
"Sit," he instructed, gesturing towards the chair before her dressing table.
Margaret blinked. "What are you doing?"
"Brushing your hair," he replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
She stared at him. "You came into my bedchamber to reprimand me, and now you intend to brush my hair?"
His mouth curved. "You asked whether I wished to waste my own time. I assure you, Duchess, I am using it precisely as I please."
Margaret ought to have refused, but curiosity defeated indignation. She sat, and Pierce stood behind her, gathering a section of her damp hair with surprising gentleness.
The first stroke of the brush sent a peculiar shiver through her. She had had her hair brushed thousands of times, yet never had she been so conscious of the hand guiding the brush or the man standing behind her.
"You are making a perfectly ordinary task seem absurdly dramatic," she murmured, watching him through the mirror.
Pierce's gaze met hers. "That may be because you are determined to make everything between us complicated."
"You are hardly helping," she replied.
"No," he admitted, his voice quieter. "I do not believe I am." He continued brushing her hair slowly, the rhythmic movement oddly soothing.
Margaret's eyelids grew heavy, and the tension she had carried since returning home began to dissolve.
When he finally set the brush aside, his fingers rested briefly against her shoulder. "Do you still want me to leave?" he asked.
Margaret looked at him in the mirror. She should have said yes. Instead, she heard herself answer, "No."
Something changed in his expression, though he said nothing about it. He moved behind her and placed his hands upon her shoulders, beginning a slow, careful massage that eased the knots of tension beneath his fingers. Then he kissed her neck.
Margaret exhaled softly and let herself relax into the chair. "You are making me lose myself," she murmured.
"I shall try not to let it go to my head," Pierce replied, though the smugness in his voice suggested he had already failed.
His hands worked gently along her shoulders and down her chest, under the neckline of her night shift, until they cupped her breasts.
Margaret gasped. She felt herself melting beneath the steady pressure, her thoughts becoming quieter with every passing moment.
Pierce’s thumbs moved in slow circles over her rosy peaks. "Do you like that?"
Margaret smiled. "I do."
His hands paused for the briefest moment before continuing. "Then I suppose I shall have to continue."
One hand moved lower over her belly. Margaret tensed in anticipation, but she found herself doing something she should not; she spread her thighs wider.
Pierce groaned, low and seductive. She felt his chest press against her back as he reached down between her thighs. She remembered this from before, and ached for it. Something she hated to admit to herself.
"You can tell me to stop if you wish," he said.
"No, she said. Please don’t."
His hand cupped her sweet mound and began to massage tenderly. Margaret threw her head back.
"Oh, Pierce," she whispered.
She felt the pulse growing deep in her belly. She squirmed on the chair.
"You will drive me mad if you do not let me taste you," Pierce moaned.
"I do not understand," she said.
Pierce stopped touching her. He stepped around and faced her. Before she knew it he was on his knees before her.
"Pierce, what are you doing?" she asked.
"Trust me," he smirked.
She waited a moment.
What is he doing? I do not want him to stop… but am I ready for things to go too far?
She nodded her head. "Alright."
He pushed her nightshift up her legs until it sat on her hips. Pierce released a lustful breath as he looked at her. "You are perfect."
His hands pressed into her milky thighs. He moved his head between them. She inhaled a sharp breath, unsure of what was happening.
Then she felt soft kisses on her sacred place. Now she understood what he had meant.
I should stop him. This is too much. He will think I am wanton.
But she did not stop him. Instead, she found herself pushing her fingers into his dark hair.
He moaned. His voice thick with lust. Suddenly she felt his tongue press against her rose bud.
"Oh." She jolted up. He stopped.
"Relax." He said.
She obeyed and relaxed. His tongue flicked back and forth over her sensitive spot. Margaret opened her thighs wider. She lifted her foot and placed it against his thigh. His hand wrapped around her ankle.
She felt thrilled. Like the Goddess Flora, free and lush and desirable.
After a few moments, she could not hold on any longer. He brought her to the brink. She moaned louder.
"Pierce. Oh… Oh, I’m losing myself. Please do not stop."
With those words, she released. Pierce received her with a lustful groan.
When he finally stopped, he stood up and looked at her. Margaret, still feeling pleasantly languid as tremors moved through her, asked, "How can I return the favour?" she asked.
Pierce raised an eyebrow. "You wish to pleasure me?"
"I said I wished to return the favor." She gave him a pointed look.
"I am not sure you are ready for that," he said.
"You still try to tell me what I can and cannot do?" With that, she leaned forward and placed her hand on his trousers. Her eyes grew wide with astonishment.
"Oh. I was not expecting that."
Pierce laughed. "Yes, that is what you do to me, Duchess."
His smile became distinctly roguish. "Very well."
He placed his hand on top of hers. Pierce guided her fingers gently, showing her where to press and how to move in slow circles.
"Like that," he murmured. "Gently."
She followed his instruction, surprised by the warmth beneath her palms and the quiet intimacy of the moment.
He groaned, "Margaret."
She took control and unbuttoned his trousers. She wrapped her hand around his warm member.
Pierce inhaled a sharp breath.
"Is this alright?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
Margaret watched Pierce move his hand over hers again, amusement lingering in his eyes as though he found her uncertainty particularly entertaining.
"Now," he instructed, "wrap your hand gently around it and move up."
Margaret obeyed, her fingers sliding up the firm warmth of him.
"Not so fast," he added, adjusting her thumb with a careful touch. "You are not attempting to restrain me, Duchess."
She gave him a look. "You make it sound as though I have a history of doing so."
His mouth twitched. "I have known you long enough to suspect you might."
Margaret ignored his teasing and concentrated on the lesson. She moved her hand slowly along his thick staff, using her fingers to rub it in gentle circles as he had shown her.
The warmth beneath her fingertips surprised her, as did the awareness that this strong, formidable man had allowed her to take him and instruct her without argument.
"Am I doing it wrong?" she asked, glancing up at him with a touch of concern.
Pierce's expression softened as he watched her. "You are doing perfectly fine," he assured her, his voice quieter than before. Then she slid her hand down and up again.
"Better than fine, in fact." He released a loud groan.
A pleased little smile escaped Margaret before she could suppress it, and she returned her attention to his staff with renewed confidence.
"I knew I had a talent for this," she declared, rubbing another slow circle with her thumb.
Pierce gave a low groan. "Naturally. You have only been doing it for a minute, yet you have already decided you are an expert."
Margaret lifted her chin. "Confidence is important."
"It is," he agreed, studying her face rather than her hands. "Though in your case, it may be excessive."
She laughed, and he smiled before adding, "Your hands are remarkable, Margaret. They are almost magic."
The compliment warmed her more than she cared to admit, particularly when he followed it with, "And you are very beautiful when you concentrate."
Margaret's cheeks grew warm, but she refused to let herself become flustered. Instead, she continued the massage with careful, measured movements, secretly delighted when Pierce grew louder and louder beneath her touch.
For once, she felt as though she had accomplished something he genuinely approved of, and the small victory filled her with unexpected pride.
She moved her hand faster and faster. His moans were her guidance as she learned quickly. Then he stiffened under her touch.
He released.
"There," she said at last, withdrawing her hands with a satisfied smile. "I believe I have done quite well."
Pierce looked at her for a long moment before nodding. "You have."
Margaret smiled even more broadly, pleased with herself despite the strange flutter in her heart.
"Then," she said lightly, "you ought to remember that I am capable of surprising you."
Pierce's gaze remained fixed upon her. "I have already learned that lesson, Duchess.”