Eliza Lloyd Read Online Free Page B

should be.

Chapter Three
     
    John had peeled off his mask to watch Lucinda Aversham,
Duchess of Wallingford, submit to his caresses. Once his palms were full of her
breasts, he leaned in for their first kiss. One for which he had waited nearly
eight years.
    What he wouldn’t have given to be kissing her sweetly under
a large oak tree in Hyde Park on a rainy afternoon, caught in the open by a
sudden storm and taking shelter in each other’s arms.
    Gawd, he was a romantic fool.
    Fool foremost.
    Instead his task was to swive the delectable duchess as if
she were a common trollop. Not only would he get to service her but Madame
Dupuis was going to pay him most handsomely at the end of the evening.
    Her lips were plump and soft and, for once, not coated with
the reddish hue of paint. Already his cock had firmed up, pressed against the
feminine curves of her body. She might hear the sound of his yielding moan and
think it part of his practiced seduction but his breathlessness was real. The
rapid beating of his heart was the result of years of yearning and the final
fulfillment of those much-anticipated dreams.
    One night to hold her body, kiss her lips, her skin and the
honeyed caverns of her woman’s center. One night to fulfill his darkest
fantasies in a way that pleased her.
    No, not pleased her, fulfilled her. He had this one
opportunity to give her things of which she could only dream.
    But no matter what he could do to her physically, it would
still lack the ultimate in fulfillment. There would be no love to bind them.
    When he left the whorehouse behind, he had not been tempted
to seek that sort of association with any other women. Sex had been a job, a
way to fill his belly and earn his keep.
    It had been surprisingly easy to avoid such entanglements
after he’d fallen in love.
    He plundered, slipping his tongue into her mouth and feeling
the receptive greeting of hers, skilled but tentative, as if she waited to
learn from him. There were benefits to her marriage—he could see that now. But
while she had been married to the veriest scoundrel, John had to endure the
scandalous stories of the duke’s conquests and affairs and abuses. How much
more must Lucy have suffered?
    After Thomas Aversham died, John was not sure who had
mourned other than his young son. Lucy, dear Lucy, had been faithfully,
faultlessly proper during her mourning.
    Since then, it seemed no man had tempted her, least of all
him.
    But come tomorrow morning, when they would part as
strangers, she would at least remember him. She would remember riding his cock,
being full of him and experiencing the joyful gratification of multiple
releases.
    There were so many things he wanted to do to her. So many
things she could do for his cock.
    Her lips were succulent and his hands had never held such
lush flesh. It was agonizing to pull his lips away, but her nipples were a
reward for his sacrifice. He suckled them until they were distended nubs, hard
little pebbles that rasped against his tongue. And of course, Lucy’s soft moans
seemed a symphony to his ears.
    She thrust her breasts toward him. Her body gyrated against
his, proving what he had always believed about her. She was a sensual creature.
Her husband had never recognized it or taken advantage of what might have been
a highly rewarding connection. Wasn’t that why she had approached Madame
Dupuis? Because she had never been fulfilled? She might have had an affair with
any rogue about town—enchantment came naturally to her.
    But she was also proper—a vision of virtue and femininity.
There was also her son—now the duke. John did not know all that motivated her
in regard to his upbringing and their respectability.
    John believed he’d understood her physical motives. Her
husband had done nothing to make her feel like a woman who was desired and
cherished.
    If all that Alice Dupuis had said about the duchess was
true, she was ready to test the limits of her need. He was prepared to