Sex scene Saturday : So it begins.
For the rest of the month I’ll be participating in Sex Scene Saturday with a lovely group of ladies. So hop on in, read my scene and hop on to the next blog for some more sexy times.
Gideon took himself in hand—and not at all gently. His tension mounted every time he thought on the girl in his manor. Francine. He had done his best to avoid her, and the fact that she was unable to wander from her rooms and the private parlor certainly helped in that endeavor.
Nonetheless, he found himself searching her out in the depths of the first floor balconies whenever he left his study, or walked the stairs, or went to the dining room. She had touched a nerve in him he never knew existed, and he was having a most difficult time in quelling his rampant need.
There was more. Certainly his cock twitched whenever he thought of her, but there was a knot in his chest where she was concerned as well. His position in the peerage, and her status as an unknown, drove him like nothing had in all his years as the Duke of Roxleigh.
He shifted in the bath. Water hit his chest like a waking slap and he released himself. What was he doing?
Bloody hell and damn. He finished the bath and toweled himself off, then wrapped it around his waist. Standing by the fire, he felt the heat singe the hair on his shins, the crackle dissipating his reverie and backing him up against the chaise. He fell into it, the towel falling open as he stretched out long, his ankles hanging from the end. He threw one arm over his eyes.
“Supper, Your Grace,” Ferry said as he entered with a tray. Roxleigh couldn’t even be troubled to grunt a response. Instead he left Ferry to his duty, listening to his footsteps slide across the floor, then become muffled by the rug. The delicate clink of china followed as he arranged the tray in front of the fire before leaving the way he came.
Roxleigh glanced at the tray and saw a missive set by the terrine of soup. He closed his eyes and returned to his thoughts.
Better not to think of her by name. Instead she would be this girl. This unwanted bit of distraction. That was what she was, that was how he had to think of her. No more, no less. She would be gone from his life soon enough, with all of her spit and fire with her.
He thought of the shock of her pulled up against him, neck to knee. Her indecision as her hands drifted between them, unsure whether to touch his chest or curl her fingers in retreat. He remembered the fight in her eyes, stolen by shock when she turned and glimpsed herself in the looking glass. He would have it destroyed. She had been moments from deciding to set him down good and proper, he was sure of it, and nothing in his life had stoked his passion as the anticipation of that set-down.
He felt his grin against his arm. This girl, this girl. God help him with this girl. How was he to survive in his own household? Part of him wanted to catch her somewhere she should not be, only for the chance to reprimand her, to see if he could get her to fight him again.
He growled. Picking fights with a girl? What was he, still in short pants? But she wasn’t a girl; she was a woman, and he a man. One leg slipped off the chaise and he anchored himself, planting his foot on the floor next to him.
The fire warmed and dried his skin from the bath, and he felt it soak in through his inner thighs and up though his groin. He really should move. He really should eat his supper. He really should read the letter. At the very least he should cover himself like a proper gentleman instead of laying here in his glory for all his furnishings to see.
His jaw clenched.
He took himself in hand. This time, a bit gentler. His thumb notched the base of his manhood and he palmed himself in one long stroke. He smoothed his hand down, then back up again, and he spread his legs wider, pushing into the floor as his thighs tensed.
Her hair was the color of toasted butter and cinnamon, her eyes the varied colors of the sky, and her demeanor was just as changing. He’d felt her watching him ride across the valley to the wood, each of his nerves striking the hairs on the back of his neck as it took all of his concentration to stay his course and not turn toward her. The launch into the thick forest was a release as much as it was a disappointment to no longer feel her awareness prickling his skin.
When he returned to the manor to find her on the balcony, her breasts straining the fabric of her nightgown, the garment pulled tight as she leaned into the wind above him, he nearly lost himself on his mount.
He pulled at the favorite memory, his stomach dampening with the early proof of his desire as he shifted and strengthened his grip.
His other hand found the towel half beneath him and tangled in it, pulling and grabbing the soft fabric until the muscles of his arm strained.
He gasped at the rough gritty edge to his own voice and pushed his head against the cushions, his back bowing out from the seat.
Sweet Francine. Her eyes were like windows to the world, lips as softly tinted as the blush on a rose. Her sweet, terrified face interchanged with that fierce vixen who prodded his chest, demanding to know who he was and how he was going to help set her to rights.
This was not normal. This should not be happening to him. This was something he should easily be able to avoid. His life was beyond controlled, ordered, set, decided, simple.
He felt the knot in his abdomen tighten, a frisson of electricity coursed down his spine, and every muscle stiffened, then release washed over him as his hand stroked feverishly, working to his end.
He collapsed into the spasms, his jaw and fingers flexing as he pulled the towel from beneath him and threw it across his belly.
As he settled before the fire to sup he picked up the note from Dr. Walcott that had been brought with his tray. Roxleigh never liked receiving news that someone in one of the shires was injured, and this one in particular was terrifying. There was no reasonable explanation for the girl’s injuries and no one could account for her whereabouts, leaving them no idea as to what had happened to her. He made a mental note to send a man to Kelso.
A woman out of time.
A man stifled by propriety.
A nemesis determined to take her away.
A brother to the rescue.
How will a powerful Duke deal with a woman who doesn’t know her place? How will a woman used to the 21st century survive in time where she is considered property?
THE RAKE AND THE RECLUSE Part one brings Francine to the world of the Duke of Roxleigh, clashing worlds in first installment of the completely revised novel, with all new material.
Francine Larrabee woke up on the wrong side of the century. She was fairly certain she went to sleep in her own comfy bed, but she doesn’t quite seem to be there now. Only adding to her problems is that she has no voice, is constantly being glowered at by a large, stunning man who is obsessed with propriety, and she is apparently betrothed to another horrid little man, determined to ruin her, and any other girls that get in his way.
How does she find herself in the past, when she couldn’t even find herself in her present? How does a self sufficient businesswoman survive in a time when women were still considered property for the whole of their lives and what is she going to do with this man who draws her to him so fiercely.
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