There was an explanation for it, she knew. Something to do with heightened emotion, terror, and physical relief. It was the reason that every time she did a job in London for Wentworth, she had to do something to get the coiled energy out of her body. A ride on her horse, if it wasn’t too late, or a very long, hot bath, followed by a personal release in the privacy of her bedchamber. There was never any shame in it.

There was no shame in this now. They were two consenting parties.

Bronwyn squeezed her thighs together, clenching on emptiness. Nothing would ever compare now. Not to the substantial length and girth of him or the expertise with which he’d worked her inexperienced body. She hadn’t seen him, but she had certainly felt him inside her in multiple places. Her sex. Her mouth.

Cringing in mortification, Bronwyn nearly tripped over her own feet. She’d done the thing. The brazen, fascinating thing she’d once read about in a gothic novel and wondered what could ever drive a woman to taste a man there.

Well, now she knew.

Lust derangement. It had to be a medical condition. Because why on earth was her pulse galloping anew and her stupid mouth salivating at the mere thought of the act? The salty-sweet taste of the bead of liquid she’d found had made her nipples tighten to taut, painful points. If he hadn’t yanked her up, she would have quite happily stayed on her knees.

“Cat got your tongue?” the duke asked, making her jump.

“A girl isn’t allowed to think?” she shot back, horrified that she’d been in the middle of reminiscing about the feel of his male organ in her mouth. Silky and hard. And utterly delicious.

Oh, shut up.

“There she is. The imp we all know and love.”

“Oh, you poor thing. One game of pully-hawly, and you’ve gone and tumbled head over heels in love. I thought you were more worldly than that, Your Grace.”

Her companion laughed, the sound humorless. “I would never be caught in such a noose.”

The reply left her oddly bereft, not that she was looking for love either. Maybe one day, and most definitely not with a man like the Duke of Thornbury, who would probably welcome a wife with the same frigid disdain he had for everything else.

He wasn’t frigid half an hour ago.

No, he’d been hotter than a brush fire. Her cheeks heated anew and Bronwyn pressed her chilled fingers to them. A bone-deep shiver ran through her, and she was hard pressed to say whether it was due to the memory of what they’d done or the fact that her body felt numb from the night air. She wished she hadn’t discarded her topmost layer in her haste to escape.