How to Catch a Duke by Grace Burrowes (most inspirational books .TXT) 📗

a man with science running in his very veins.” A trickle of science, next to a roaring torrent of lust.

Abigail brushed her sex over his cock, and the roaring torrent threatened to overflow its banks.

Get hold of your damned self, bucko. Show the lady some consideration. Stephen palmed Abigail’s breasts and she ceased sucking on his earlobe. His next foray was to trace the curve of her hip and stroke his hands over her bum. She sighed, her breath breezing past his ear.

She liked to be petted. Thank the heavenly powers, Stephen could work with that.

“Let’s get comfortable, shall we?” He elbow-walked himself over the cushions so the sofa could serve as a proper bed and tugged Abigail down beside him. “There’s a quilt…” He hooked the blanket with his good foot and dragged it up within reach. “Wouldn’t want you taking a chill.”

He’d no sooner arranged the quilt than Abigail had a knee resting on his thighs and a hand drifting across the hair of his chest. She was gently pinning him down—as if he might totter off to do a spot of naked accounting when she wasn’t looking?

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now we get to know each other. I’m ticklish.” He took her hand and placed it right beneath his ribs. “I suspect most people are, but you can reduce me to begging if you tickle me here. What about you?”

“I won’t tickle you if you don’t want me to.”

“Good to know.” She sounded in complete earnest, and Stephen’s desire ebbed the tiniest bit. He tried again. “I like to sleep with a window open on even the most bitter nights. If a window is locked, I can’t crawl out of it.” He’d never told that to anybody. Duncan hadn’t remarked it in all their travels, probably considering a cracked window just one more among numerous eccentricities.

“I sleep with a window open in summer, I suppose.”

The lady who’d been so eager to get Stephen into bed had retreated somewhere behind a locked window. Why?

“Abigail, what’s wrong?”

Her hand remained right where it was, no happy explorations to the south. “Nothing. I like that you use my name.”

Stephen plumbed the depths of that admission and came up with a few possible insights, none of them reflecting well on the late Lord Champlain.

“I like that we are to become lovers, Abigail.” He wrapped his arms around her and wrestled her over him. “Kiss me, please.”

She obliged, and by slow degrees and sweet caresses, he felt the passion rising in her once more. Her breasts were sensitive, and he’d just graduated from teasing her nipples with his fingers to indulging that same pleasure with his mouth when she gave his cock another delicious caress with her sex.

“Whenever you please,” he said, lifting his hips to move with her. “You choose the moment, Abigail.”

She sat back, and he died a little, though the chance to behold her was lovely.

Her expression was thoughtful as she casually circled the tip of his cock with her index finger. “Champlain would be done by now. Dressed and one boot out the door, tossing a string of stupid pet names at me over his shoulder.”

“As a wise woman once said, Champlain was an idiot. Lovemaking with you is worth savoring, Abigail. I will tarry on this sofa all afternoon if you’ll allow it.” All week, all year. Stephen traced the curve of her jaw, then her brows, wishing he could make her smile, loving that she wasn’t pretending jolliness for his sake.

She caught his hand and kissed his palm. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought to bring memories to bed with me, but then…” She curled down against Stephen’s chest, the sweetest gesture of trust a woman had ever bestowed on him.

He stroked her hair, searching in vain for some sophisticated witticism that would ease the moment.

No such witticism obliged him, but he had to give her something. Had to. “I want joyous memories with you and for you, Abigail. If now is not the moment to make them, then please stay with me and let me hold you, for that will be delight enough to fill my heart.”

He let his hands wander, over her neck and shoulders, across her chest, along the individual features of her face. He at first feared he’d made a terrible hash of the situation. What woman wanted a mere cuddle when she’d invited a man to be her lover?

Abigail turned her head the better to move into his touch, though, and hope replaced uncertainty.

She truly, truly liked to be petted. He started there, making a slow inventory of every bone in her back, then moving to her haunches and the firm musculature of her fundament.

“Up a bit,” Stephen whispered, patting her bum.

She obliged and he turned his attention to her luscious, perfect breasts and the nipples peaking so sweetly beneath his fingertips. She moved against him, a slow, sinuous reawakening of desire that was both more delicate and more insistent than her previous caresses.

“I want…” She dragged her sex along the length of his cock.

“Have what you want, Abigail.” A watchful, hopeful corner of his awareness realized that she needed to hear her name. She needed him to call her home to her own joy.

“Please, Abigail.” He took himself in hand and used his cock to stroke her intimately. She closed her eyes, and Stephen glossed his thumb over intimate folds. “Say you’ll have me.”

She opened her eyes, took his wrists, and pinned his hands to the pillows. “Yes.”

The next two minutes were the most hard-fought battle for self-control Stephen had ever waged. Abigail pressed herself down over him in slow, rocking increments as she held his hands fast beside his head. He could have wrestled free—probably—but why on earth would he want to?

“Move, I beg you,” he whispered when she’d hilted herself on his arousal. “However you please, but, Abigail, please move.”

She moved—moved his whole world and the moon and stars beyond. He had the sense she was exploring the boundaries of her own pleasure