Page 56 of How to Tempt a Duke

Her hips strained toward him and she opened her eyes. “Please, Charles. Please.”

He leaned over her and captured her mouth in his, while his fingers found their way back to that delightful spot. His shirt teased against her nipples, his tongue tangled with hers, and his fingers moved and moved and moved, until Eleanor’s entire body drew tighter, like a clock being wound to the point of breaking.

And break she did. Into splinters of color and light and heat and everything wonderful. She cried out with the overwhelming euphoria of it and her hips bucked upward. The sounds of her pleasure were muted against Charles’s mouth as he continued to kiss her while his fingers worked, until she was too sensitive to stand another moment.

Charles pulled back slightly, his eyes intent on her. “That was beautiful, Eleanor.”

This time a blush did heat her cheeks. “That was...incredible.” Her voice trembled slightly. “I never knew...”

He gave her a lazy half grin and her heart flipped. “And now you do.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “And now I do.”

The hardness of his manhood rested against her thigh, and called further attention to her curiosity. If his fingers could procure such delight, what might the organ made for pleasure accomplish?

She released her hold on his shirt, where she had apparently crumpled the fine cloth in her fist during the mindlessness of her climax, and let her touch wander toward his shaft.

“No.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “Eleanor, do not tempt me.”

Oh, but she wanted to tempt him. She wanted him to be as hopelessly lost in her as she’d been in him only moments before.

“I want to do for you as you’ve done for me.” She continued her path downward. The bulge was hot to the touch.

“Eleanor.” He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her hand away. “I cannot—”

Steps sounded outside the door. Footsteps muted by carpet until they were upon the wooden flooring in their last step before the door.

Eleanor and Charles stiffened as one in surprise, but both were too late even to attempt to move. The doors flew open and Lottie filled the doorway, witness to the full extent of their incredibly compromised position.

Chapter Eighteen

Charles had the presence of mind to shield Eleanor—at least as much as was possible in their precarious position.

Lottie stared in shock, her hand still poised on the door she’d thrown open. Her mouth hung agape, and her eyes were wide enough to indicate that she’d seen it all.

With a gasp, she jerked back from the room and slammed the door shut. The echo of the impact rang out for a solid second before either of them could move again.

Charles immediately turned to Eleanor and found her face as red as her brilliant hair. Her eyes caught his, sharp with guilt, before sliding away. He eased off her and reached to help her adjust her gown, but she brushed him aside. She quickly put herself to rights and stared regretfully toward the door. He didn’t blame her. He wished to be gone from the room as well.

“Forgive me, Eleanor. I should never—”

He should never have what? Kissed her? Touched her? Wanted her? Were such things even possible to avoid?

“I should never have compromised you,” he said at last.

Though she faced him, she kept her emotions masked beneath the sweep of lowered lashes. Her right eyebrow twitched upward. “I encouraged you.” She pulled in a shaky breath. “I wanted you to do everything you did. So, you see, there’s no transgression to forgive—except perhaps on my account. Forgive me for pressing you so firmly to...” She gave a shuddering exhalation.

He caught her under the chin with the tip of his forefinger. “Eleanor...” He hated seeing her like this, her pride bruised, her face colored high with shame.

“What’s worse is that I do not regret what we’ve done, but only...” When she finally did look up at him, her eyes were wet with a sheen of tears. “Only fear the result of our being caught might mean Lottie will not allow you to meet with me again.”

“Eleanor—” Damn, but words were hard to get out.

She lifted her brows.

“You should marry Devonington.” He ground the words out as though they were glass splinters passing over his tongue. It was what he should say, he knew. For her sake.

A look of confusion puckered her brow, followed by a veil of emotionless apathy—the shield firmly lodged back in place. The knife in his heart twisted.