Page 85 of The Duchess Curse

He grunted, his lips twisting.

She put the very tip of her finger between his chest muscles, biting her bottom lip to tame the instant lust that soared through her. His breathing slowed, chest rising and falling with almost careful precision.

“Can I make you”—she drew a line down his torso with her fingertip, circled his navel—“less grumpy?”

His brows lowered, his jaw taking on a mulish angle she knew well, but then his mouth broke into an easy smile. “You can try, lass.”

That deep brogue of his tangled her up inside, and she pressed her lips against the hard ridges of muscle that composed his abdomen. She dragged her tongue lower, right up to where the blankets covered his body, where his body tented the blankets above his hips.

She grasped the edge of them, holding his gaze. “How am I doing?”

“Heading in the right direction.”

She was relatively inexperienced. She’d made love a total of three times in her life. But she wasn’t ignorant. Her shopgirls and guards had made good use of the stillroom and alley behind the shop. She’d found them folded over tables and on their knees. And what did she care if they had a little fun as long as they took the right potion regularly. Indeed, she’d envied their freedom.

Well, now she could have a bit of freedom of her own. So she drew the blankets back, revealing the full, engorged length of his shaft, and she straddled his thighs, and she licked him.

“Fucking Jupiter,” he hissed, hips arching off the bed.

“Now how am I doing?”

“Perfect, Guin, fucking perfect.”

“I’m not sure. You still seem rather out of sorts.” She nipped at him.

He yelped, tangled his hand in her hair. “Absolutely I am. Foul mood.”

She set her lips to the swollen head of his shaft. And hesitated. She knew… theoretically what to do, but practically, specifically, she had no idea. No reason not to try, though.

Well, the size of him might be a reason. He’d never fit, not entirely, but…

She wrapped one hand around the base of his shaft.

He moaned, bucked his hips against her hand.

She was moving in the right direction, and it gave her confidence.

She slipped him between her lips, using her togue, to explore his head, the slit at the tip. His fist in her hair flattened, and he cupped the back of her head, and she arched her neck into it, pulling her lips back up his length.

And—oh—he liked that didn’t he. She liked him, too—the feel of him in her mouth—hard and silky and salty, and she played with him as she mimicked what he’d done to her hours ago in the morning dark. Up and down, in and out, tongue and teeth as he grew wilder beneath her, harder.

Finally, he grunted and ripped out of her mouth, spending on the sheets with a curse.

She watched it all, fascinated, detached, as she wanted to be. As she needed to be.

He rolled onto his back, eyes stunned. “Fucking Jupiter, Guin, you’re going to kill me.”

“No, I’m not, and that’s the point.” She slapped his thigh—which was like slapping a marble statue except for the hair scattered across it—and left the bed. “Get up now, we have much to do.” She rang the bell for Susan.

And Bran lurched to his feet. “I can hardly walk.” He stood in a pool of sunlight streaming through the curtains. He glittered a bit, but the glamour didn’t seem to take hold.

“Interesting.”

“What’s that?”

“Go.” She pushed him toward the bathing chamber, and he groaned but disappeared into it then out of it on the other side and into his room.

Guin was rummaging through her wardrobe when Susan appeared.