He shot her a yearning look before striding from the library. As his retreating footsteps grew fainter, she pretended to examine the bookshelves on the chance that the footmen might peer into the chamber and see her.
It was imperative to maintain the illusion that she and the duke had simply a polite relationship, yet the truth was she’d never wanted anyone as badly as she wanted him.
Cecilia slipped into the corridor, careful to shut the door to her room quietly. She shared this wing of the staff quarters with Mr. Vale and Mrs. Baines, as well as the girls’ nanny and the duchess’s maid, and while none of them kept the later hours of the footmen and kitchen staff, she had to be as careful as possible to ensure no one was about. She had an excuse at the ready—she’d forgotten some papers in the schoolroom—but hopefully she wouldn’t encounter anyone while creeping through the house at eleven thirty in the evening.
Her heart pounded with each step, and her stomach fluttered with a combination of excitement and nervousness. More than anything, her feet demanded she run the distance between her room and the gamekeeper’s cottage, but until she left the actual house, her steps had to remain sedate and, most importantly, quiet.
I cannot believe I am truly doing this.
Yet she could believe, because yesterday’s encounter with Owen in the schoolroom had embedded itself deep within her. Her first affair with Georges had ended by mutual agreement, and after they had parted ways, she used what she’d learned from him, including understanding the measure of her power in seeking her own pleasure.
She’d been so brazen, so bold—but even in her most sophisticated trysts, she’d never behaved so audaciously as she had with Owen.
For all their sophistication, the men she’d fucked had still wanted her to receive their amorous, erotic attention, and not be the instigator and pursuer of her own pleasure.
Owen was different. He’d been with her every step of the way, gladly following where she led, and in the process, giving her the most incredible pleasure of her life.
And if their meeting in the library was any indication, he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
She hurried down the narrow back stairs, keeping her footfalls light so the steps didn’t creak. Fortunately, her vision at night was good, and she didn’t need the betraying light of a candle to illuminate her way. When she finally reached the ground floor, she eased into a hallway. This was part of the house where she might encounter not just staff, but members of the family.
The girls always went to bed early, as they were active young ladies and wore themselves out with their energetic activity during the day. The duchess hadn’t lost her Neapolitan habit of keeping late hours, but since the late duke had passed, she mostly kept to her rooms after supper.
Cecilia herself occasionally indulged in a late-night ramble. It was hard to lose the free-roaming habits she’d acquired on the Continent, and she was somewhat familiar with the house at this late hour. But now every spill of moonlight threatened to expose her, and every shadow could hide an unwanted observer.
Finally, she was outside, down the terrace, and onto the long, sloping lawn. Dew soaked the hem of her skirts, and cool air tried to weave its way under the shawl draped over her shoulders. She ignored these slight discomforts as she took long strides across the grass, pausing briefly to look over her shoulder toward the house.
There was no sign of anyone on the terrace, or standing at their window watching her, so she hurried on. A carefully tended wood bordered the lawn, and as she slipped into the shelter of the trees, she permitted herself a sigh of relief. No one would be able to spot her now.
The cottage was quite private, and it took Cecilia a good quarter of an hour to reach it. She caught sight of a single light ahead and headed toward it. When she emerged from the trees, a lone candle burned in the window of the snug little house, and her heart leapt.
He was here, waiting for her.
It was unseemly how much she wanted him. And yet she didn’t try to slow her steps as she raced forward, and up the short set of steps. When she reached the front door, she hesitated. Should she knock, or simply go right in?
She opened the door.
He stood on the other side of the threshold. His gaze on her was ravenous, yet he held himself still. Barely leashed excitement poured out of his body in invisible waves.
As she entered, he took a step back. She shut the door behind her.
His chest rose and fell, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides. The force he used to restrain himself was palpable, and she thought of the farthing in his pocket, and the hold it had over him.
“Kiss me,” she said. “Show me how much you want this.”
Her words seemed to break the tether he had on himself. He pressed his long, solid body against hers. His mouth on hers was hungry and searching, and she sank into the limitless depths of his kisses. She didn’t care about the rigid door at her back—all that mattered was the way he kissed her, as if she contained his next breath, and the one after that, and the one after that.
Her hands roamed over him, soaking in the heat of his body and its delicious strength. She could spend hours, days, years learning all the ways in which he was fashioned, discovering taut muscles and how they shivered beneath her touch.
She arched, snug against him, the hard length of his cock curving into her belly. It wasn’t enough, not with all the fabric between them.
“I want your cock in my hand,” she breathed, and he shuddered with desire.
Their fingers tangled and snared as they fumbled with his clothing. Impatiently, she tore open his breeches and plunged her hand down to wrap her fingers around his cock. Her mouth watered at the feel of him, thick and eager.
He growled in response.
“Touch me,” she instructed, gasping with arousal.
He skimmed his hands down to gather her skirts. His fingers stroked along her bare thighs, and he made another animal sound of approval to touch her.
As she pumped his length, he brought his hands higher, one palm curving around her arse while the other hand found her soaking quim. She gasped as his fingers delved between her folds. The smallest smile tilted her mouth.
“You paid attention to our lesson yesterday,” she murmured.
“Memorized every word, every touch.”
With incredible skill, he caressed her, knowing exactly where she needed softness and where she needed more intensity. He circled her clitoris, sparking sensation, and stroked around her inner folds before sinking two fingers into her. She moaned, hitching her thigh up to give him better access.
There was no hesitancy in him now as he fucked her with his hand. She sensed his restraints falling away, his thrusts sure and demanding. Yet she wanted more. “Fuck me.”
He glanced back toward the bed.
“I can’t wait,” she panted. “Fuck me against the door.”
His brows climbed. “Will that be comfortable for you?”
“I’m not seeking comfort, but pleasure.”
“And it will be pleasurable for you?”
“Oh, yes. The question we should ask is, are you suitably motivated?”
“I am motivated,” he said roughly. “Tell me what to do.”
“Keep holding my leg like that. Tilt your hips forward and fit the head of your cock at my pussy’s opening.” Arousal flowed along her body as she instructed him. She loved using plain, coarse language.