Page 66 of Notorious

“Not . . . afraid, but perhaps—” Perhaps what? She didn’t even know herself what she felt—how could she describe it? “A little anxious. But I do not wish to stop.” The words came out in a garbled rush. “I understand my duty.” She expelled a careful breath. “I know what a wife owes her husband.”

His eyebrows jumped up, and his white, even teeth flashed briefly. “Does your duty include letting down your hair?”

The playful question left her speechless, so she nodded.

He removed her cap, his full lips pulling down at the corners as he stared at it and then tossed it to the floor. “I do not care for that.” His dark eyes met hers. “My sisters and mother do not wear such things. Why do you?”

Drusilla had no idea why. She’d been raised by her aunt and governess, both of whom had made it plain that a virtuous woman covered her hair. But she could hardly say that as it would imply his mother and sisters were not virtuous and—

“You are giving such serious thought to the matter.” His mouth twitched, and that was when Drusilla noticed the small freckle just on the curve of his upper lip. She had a mad urge to reach out and touch it, to—God save her—taste it.

“You have beautiful hair and I would like it to be unbound when I come to you.”

His words rocked her, sending shock tremors through her body. The realization that they would do this again and again made her stomach quiver and the area below tighten, the sensation that echoed outward so intensely pleasurable she felt ready to slide to the floor in a boneless heap.

She began to lift her hands, but he shook his head.

“I will do it.” He turned her around, her back to his front, and she felt his hand moving on the heavy braid that hung down her back. “Hold out your hand.”

Her hand shot out before her brain had approved the gesture. “Do you never say please?”

He gave a soft laugh and placed the ribbon that had held her braid in her hand before lightly grasping her shoulders and pulling her back, hot breath fanning her neck. “I will say please for you, my wife.” He kissed her beneath her ear, and Drusilla swayed, grateful his hands and body were propping her up. She’d had only one glass of champagne and had barely sipped her wine at supper, but she felt as though she’d come unmoored from her body.

“It is like fine silk,” he murmured behind her, his low, intimate growl vibrating through her back and shoulders.

“It is too c-curly and impossible to control.”

“And my sisters complain theirs is too straight.” He began to unbraid the rope of hair. “This must be a heavy crown to wear.” He combed out the braid with his fingers and kissed her temple again. “A crown for my queen.”

She swallowed; she should say something—anything—but she was empty of words and thought. His chest was warm and hard against her shoulders; had he moved closer, or had she?

He spread the froth of curls over her shoulders. “Would you like me to tell you what I am doing? Do you wish to know what is happening?” He buried his face in her hair, his nose pressing against her throat as he inhaled deeply. “Or would you like me to shut my potato hole?”

A laugh broke out of her at the unexpected words.

“That’s better,” he said, the words a caress against her skin. “This is not serious business; this is pleasurable business.” He inhaled again. “Mmm. You smell delicious.” His voice roughened. “I wonder how you taste.” He flicked a tongue over her, and she jolted. “You taste of flowers,” he whispered, his mouth leaving a chain of hot kisses that encircled her throat like a warm embrace, his words turning her legs to jelly.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against the hot length of his body, nuzzling her neck. “Can you feel how much you excite me, Drusilla?” He pressed against her, and she felt the truth of his words. He turned her and held up her chin to look in her eyes.

She couldn’t stop swallowing—her mouth seemed to be producing an unprecedented amount of saliva. And looking at him made her eyeballs hot—actually made her vision blur and waver—as if she were staring through steam from a boiling pot. His body was big—far bigger than he looked in his clothing. She’d seen him nude once before, of course, but he had been a mere boy—seventeen or eighteen. He was a man, now, and there seemed to be muscles on top of muscles, surrounded by more muscles.

His skin was a velvety bronze and heat was coming off him in waves.

“Will you touch me? Put your hands on my shoulders?”

Drusilla jumped at the sound of his voice, forgetting this broad expanse of chest belonged to an actual man. She reached out shaking fingers, the silk of his robe smooth and hot. Her heart pounded—so madly and loudly she just knew it must be obvious by looking at her. He made a low humming sound and leaned closer, just like a dog pushing closer for a pet.

That was it: she would just think of him as a big dog. She’d never had a big dog, but there were loads of them at Exham Castle. They were always lolling all over the place, underfoot, on furniture. The marquess and his family apparently enjoyed them.

He stepped even closer, and her arms slid around his neck, her body pressed tight against his. The soap he used was unusual—a blend of spicy smells she could not identify. It evoked images of amber and exotic music and perfumed smoke.

“Are you sniffing me, Drusilla?”

She hadn’t thought her face could become any hotter. “II’m sorry.”

His hand came beneath her chin and tilted her face up again.

“Don’t apologize for your curious nature.” His mouth was stern. “You needn’t be ashamed of anything you wish to do—anywhere you wish to touch, or have me touch. It is only we two together, and we should feel comfortable to explore each other’s bodies.” His mouth flexed into a smile. “That is part of the joy of becoming one.”