The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [89]
When she brushed her fingers over his nipples, a hoarse grunt broke from his lips. She glanced and saw that his eyes were shut.
“Keep your eyes closed,” she ordered, feeling a flash of courage. If his eyes remained closed the entire time, it would be as good as having curtains in a decently dark bedchamber.
He nodded obediently. She felt more confident when he wasn’t looking at her; she needn’t worry about how much that ridiculous chemise was revealing.
She managed to pull his shirt over his head, discovering that his torso was beautiful, with a narrow, taut waist. She caressed every bit of his chest and then—glancing again at his still-closed eyes—leaned in close and placed her mouth where her hands had been.
A low noise broke from his lips. “No opening your eyes,” she warned. His lips tightened, but he nodded.
She bent to him again, kissing him, tasting him, dusting little kisses over his entire chest. And she kept coming back to his nipples because every time she rubbed her lips across them he responded. It was like champagne, that little sound he made. It was power, and she was drunk on it.
She forgot to keep an eye on his face, reassuring herself that he wasn’t watching. Instead she came closer, squirming onto his lap so that she could rub more than her lips against him.
“Olivia.” His voice was soft, liquid with passion.
Startled, she looked up, to find those gray-green eyes gazing at her. The moonlight frosted his thick lashes and he looked otherworldly: a fairy king, not a mere mortal. “You were to keep your eyes closed,” she said, giving in to temptation and running a fingertip along his lashes. “You’re so beautiful, Quin. Too beautiful for me.”
He laughed at that. A third laugh, in the space of an hour.
She trailed her finger down, across his full bottom lip, leaned forward and carefully followed that line with her tongue.
“May I touch you now?” he murmured against her lips.
“Mmmm,” she whispered back, loving the taste of him.
Big hands came to her back and pulled her against his naked chest. Olivia gasped as her breasts were pressed against him; they felt plump and wildly sensitive.
One hand held her against him while another slid down her back, slow and sensuous. “Aren’t you going to remove the rest of my clothing?” He said it low and soft, like a dare he knew she couldn’t resist.
She almost tumbled off his lap, turned to face him. “My breeches have a placket,” he said, making no move to undo it himself.
Olivia leaned a little closer and found what he meant. She fumbled, her fingers trying to manipulate the buttons, aware that his breathing was fast and ragged. Once she saw how he trembled at her touch, she slowed down, caressing just inside the band of his breeches, loving his swift intake of breath as her fingers dipped lower.
Slowly, slowly, she eased the breeches over his lean hips, down powerful thighs. Once they were at his knees, he swiftly removed them and tossed them to the side. Now he wore nothing but smalls, which did very little to conceal what lay underneath.
No limp celery this—though Olivia instantly pushed away the thought as disloyal to Rupert. She may not be marrying him, but she would always be his true friend.
She was slow and careful working Quin free from his smalls, trying not to show awe at the size of him.
He threw the smalls after the breeches and came back to her, kneeling, hands quiet at his sides, but she could sense the leashed power in him, waiting to spring free. To spring on her.
A wave of anxiety flooded her again, sent her eyes skittering from him, from all that perfection, down to her thighs—only to find that blasted chemise had caught again and was emphasizing the fleshiness of her upper leg. Heat rushed into her cheeks as she plucked it free.
He said not a word. She looked up to see that he was regarding her with such a tender expression that she cringed. “Don’t you dare pity me,” she snapped.
Surprise flooded his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” Olivia said. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood. Well . . .” To her dismay,