“Não?” she whispered, leaning her cheek into his touch. Duncan seemed to have always known Ines would respond to his touch this way. He hadn’t been surprised at her response to his kiss. She was a sensual creature, one who craved connection, touch, passion. He recognized that part of himself in her. “What else does she not appreciate, senhor?”
“Duncan. Nae senhor.”
She smiled, probably at his poor accent on the term.
“What else does she not appreciate, Duncan?”
He liked the way she said his name. It sounded exotic and foreign. The English always seemed to make it flat and squish it together. He preferred the lilt of the Scots brogue for his name, but if he had a second choice it would be Ines’s soft way of breathing it.
“She is a woman who is always skeptical. She doesnae trust anyone. Ye, ye trust easily. Perhaps tae easily.” His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer to him.
“I can trust you. Benedict trusts you.”
“Aye, ye can trust me. But only so far, lass.”
“Can I trust you here?” she asked, gesturing at the space between them.
“Aye.”
She scooted closer. “Here?”
“Aye.” But his voice had grown gruffer and deeper.
She moved onto his lap. “Here?
All but gritting his teeth, he said, “Aye.”
“What else does Lady Charlotte not appreciate?”
“Passion,” he said above the pounding of his heart. He wanted to pull her the last few inches until she was pressed against him, her mouth on his. “She says tae much passion makes a man—or woman—unpredictable and...dangerous.”
Ines’s mouth curved slowly into a smile. “Dangerous. Do you think I am dangerous?”
“Oh, aye. Ye are a hazard, lass.”
“Oh? Am I?” she whispered, wriggling closer. That made his cock sit up and take notice. Just a little further and she’d be warm and cozy over it.
“A hazard tae my good intentions.”
“I detest good intentions, Duncan.”
“So do I.” His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, where he grasped a fistful of her disheveled hair and drew her mouth to his. He hadn’t intended to plunder her, but as soon as their lips touched, the craving he felt for more of her, all of her, gripped him and would not let go. She opened to him without protest, and her tongue met his with a fervor that nearly drove him over the edge. He yanked her against him so she straddled him, that warm place between her legs resting over his hard cock, which strained at his trousers. He resisted the urge to lift his hips and press his erection into that warm spot, but he could not resist allowing his hand to trail down over the swell of her bottom. He’d pulled her forward, and she was lifted just enough that he could run a hand over its roundness and firmness. It was high and tight, a good bottom for a playful slap or where a man could grab a handful and hold on.
Her arse moved under his hand, probably testing the feel of it, and he could not resist sliding his hand lower until he slid between her cheeks for a moment. He thought she might stiffen or gasp in shock, but instead she gave a moan so wanton that he almost came. Duncan couldn’t think clearly any longer. He just knew he needed to hear that moan again. He needed to see her face when she climaxed. She was the kind of woman who would burn bright and so hot a man might incinerate if he came too close.
Duncan was a man who liked a risk like that. Releasing her hair, he slid both hands to the middle of her spine and eased her back. Much as it pained him to break their kiss, to tear his mouth from her warm, inviting one, he did so. She drew in a breath, her back arching and her small, round breasts close enough to his mouth that he could kiss them over the fabric of her gown. Instead, he anchored her with one arm and slid the other down her neck and between her breasts. “Can I touch ye, lass?” he asked.
She looked down at him, eyes unfocused, expression one of confusion. His hand moved down further to her belly and then lower, and her eyes widened.
“Can I touch ye, lass?” he asked again.
“Please,” she said, and the word was barely a puff of air. He tugged up her skirts until he had the hem then slid his hand underneath. The warmth of her thigh met his flesh, and he cupped it, allowing his hand to heat to her temperature. Their eyes met now, her expression clear to him in the growing lightness. How long had they been sitting here? A quarter hour? An hour? Three? Where was Stratford?
And why did he care when she was looking at him like that, like a lioness watching her prey, waiting for the hunt, the catch, the pleasure of the kill.
His hand slid higher and there was that moan again. Her slim body trembled beneath his touch, her knees gripping his thighs tightly as if to hold on and anchor her. He inched higher, closer to her heat, to the core of her. Her breathing grew rapid, her tongue wet her lips, and Duncan’s own breath rasped in his throat.
His fingers brushed moist hair and she made a sound like Oh. He brushed against her again, and her hips rocked so his fingers slipped over her outer lips. Her entire body shivered, and she moaned.
Christ and all the saints, he’d never heard a woman moan like that. It was the sort of sound that came from somewhere deep within, a well of passion he did not think most women, nor most men, even possessed. And he’d barely tapped it.
His fingers caressed her now, learning the shape of her sex, the creases and folds and the heat of her.
And then he found the wetness. He drew it along a finger and slaked it over her, making her flesh slick and slippery. She was gasping, soft little moans, but she went silent when he found her channel. She tightened with anticipation as he moved his fingers up until he found that wet, hard bud just waiting for him.
“Oh!” Her exhalation seemed to echo about them, and Duncan had a fleeting thought of Stratford again, but one look at Ines’s face and he could think of nothing but her. She was an attractive woman, no one could deny that, but the expression of pleasure he saw on her face made her absolutely radiant. He could hardly breathe at the sight of her.
Somehow, he knew she possessed a short fuse. If he stroked that tight bud, she would climax quickly. He wanted to give her more than a quick burst of pleasure. He slid his finger back to her wet channel, entered it a fraction, and stroked. She was mewling now, moving against him. He tried to keep her hips steady, but she managed to take more of him inside her—one finger to the knuckle. He felt her tighten around him. He slid his finger out and then back in again, and her mouth opened soundlessly. She wanted more, and he wanted to give it to her—two fingers, three, his cock. But someone had to be in control here. Later Duncan would be amused that he was the one to hold back, to keep from rushing in. It was so utterly unlike him.
Duncan tightened his grip on her waist, pulled her close enough so that their eyes were mere inches apart. “Look at me, lass,” he said.
Her unfocused eyes landed on his then her gaze flitted away as her body reached for pleasure. He stroked her, slid his finger to that tender nub, and pressed lightly. Her gaze fastened on him.
“Duncan,” she breathed.
“That’s right. Look at me, lass.”
He rubbed the nub again then slid away and entered her.
“Não! Sim! Por favor.”
“I’ll give ye what ye want, lass, but ye have to give up control. Do ye trust me?”