Page 80 of The Duke Undone

“You don’t know a cow from a horse,” he said, voice smooth again, mocking. “But you do know your arse from your elbow. So. Lucy.” His eyes dared her. “What do you decide?”

He wasn’t laughing any longer. His expression was hard, focused. He wanted her to say something, but his look scrambled her language. She shut her sketchbook and half rose, leaning into him, sliding over him. He’d dared her to be the one who decided, and, in deciding, she was all daring, straddling him, the wool of his trousers prickling the skin of her bare inner thighs.

She felt the hardness straining at his fly and bore down, the soft heart between her legs beating faster. He made a low noise and caught her face in his hands.

“You want more?” he asked. His eyes had narrowed, just a green shimmer between jet lashes.

He’d said it, yes, the word a rasp. She could say it.

“Yes.” She pressed her mouth to his, pushed down on his arms, guiding his hands to her hips. He suckled her lower lip, her tongue, and tore his face away.

“Yes, Anthony,” he prompted, fingers digging into her hips, and that large hardness—nothing like a classical nub—ground against her. Oh God, she was well scrambled now.

She took a breath, managed: “Anthony, yes.”

He lifted her from him and she almost cried out in disappointment, but before she could gather her senses, he’d closed the distance between them, his weight on top of her, his fingers picking through the ribbons lacing her drawers. She bucked as his finger slipped under the fabric, parting the curls, delivering a slow stroke that pushed the air from her lungs in a low moan.

“Say it again,” he said, finger rubbing in time with the beating, louder now, harder, faster.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Anthony,” she gasped, shuddering as he pressed his whole hand against her, rolling in circles. His mouth slanted over hers, stilling her head. His tongue slid into her mouth, and his finger slid into her quim.

“Oh, oh.” Her breath was stuttering in her throat. She reached again for his collar, desperate to rip his shirt open, to touch the muscles straining under the skin, but he was out of reach now, backing over the end of the bed until his knees hit the floor. He held her hips and pulled her forward, and her sudden awareness of where he’d positioned himself, of what he could see, made her press her thighs together.

“Bashful?” His voice, low and teasing, collected her wits. She thought she might laugh, but the sound she made was closer to a gasp. She found her words.

“I told you.” She sighed at the pressure of his hands on her hips. “I’m not . . .” She gave up on speech. She wasn’t bashful, not here, not now, and she knew how to show him. Slowly, she opened her legs, wide. Wider. She heard his intake of breath.

“Ah,” he said, his tone rich with appreciation. “I remember now.” He nestled closer, nudging her legs ever farther apart, bowing his head. He slid her hips another inch, and oh Lord, she was against his mouth.

At the first stroke of his tongue, she bolted upright. His hands stroked down her thighs. She saw through a haze, his wild black hair, the piercing green of his eyes, and then she fell back. He licked into her, heat and moisture concentrating, the sensation radiating out from that exquisite juncture. She’d never imagined it, that part of the body, and this one, but it made sense, a perverse, gorgeous sense. And then nothing made sense. She was mewling, coming undone, her thighs falling open, shameless, exposed, spread for him.

Take me.

“Will you . . .” she moaned. What did she want? She wanted him to take her, like she’d seen in alleyways, that hasty jerking up and down. Once the sight had horrified her, like the word. Fucking. Now it seemed imperative, his cock thrusting into her, a cruelty not to have it.

“Please,” she said. “Take me.”

He pushed his fingers inside her, knuckles revolving, churning her, as his mouth made the liquid fire.

“Anthony,” she whimpered, and she broke, heaving, grabbing at his hair, pushing his head into her, crying out, heedless of her noises, heedless of anything. He rested his head on her thigh, stroking her hip as she shuddered.

Shame, fear, joy, surprise, and something like a laugh, like the richness of a belly laugh, bubbled inside her, warm bubbles popping. Gratification flickering in every nerve. She wanted to tell him, but as her breathing steadied and slowed, it became regular, sleep carrying her away. Cool air rushed in to fill the void he left as he rose, before he lifted her up, settling her head on her pillow, spreading the blanket over her.

• • •

He saw almost no one on the streets. Even the rats slumbered at this hour. But the bars and dram shops were open. He didn’t look back at the building he’d exited, even though he could feel the tug of her.

He walked quickly. The night was eerie in its clarity. A wind pushing away the bilious London air. The moon shone down. He was burning in its light.

A sign creaked in the wind. Before he could think, he’d pushed through a door beneath.

The men in Hogg & Shirey’s leaned on the long counter, still as statues, and the proprietor, a thin man with a sulfurous complexion, was himself too listless to expel them. The gin he served was sweet and weak, as much sugar water as spirits. Anthony ordered glass after glass. Lucy was sleeping and couldn’t see his shame. Was he failing her? Failing himself?

He drank and imagined his father at the bar beside him, staring with that familiar mixture of shock and rancor.

The young idiot. That had been his father’s nickname for him, uttered without a trace of affection.