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Well, as far as she was concerned, he’d done something very right.

With another whimper, Olivia threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was crude and inelegant, driven by need and not knowledge, but from the rumble in his chest and the way his hold tightened on her, she’d done something right.

This was the second time she’d reached up to put her arms around him; so very different from the formality of their wedding ceremony, where he’d kept his hand atop hers where it rested on his forearm.

She’d spent that time thinking about the muscles under her gloved fingers and the faint scent of her husband’s soap, rather than the solemn words the vicar had been spouting. Then after, when Alistair had leaned beside her to sign the marriage license, she’d inhaled deeply, trying to imprint the moment in her memory.

All she had done, however, was managed to make herself more attracted to this man. As though that were a hardship.

Without warning, one of her husband’s large hands rose to cup her breast through the thin linen of her fine nightgown. For the briefest of moments Olivia stiffened, wondering if she should be embarrassed to be caught without a corset.

Then he caught her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and she completely forgot what she was worrying about.

Suddenly Alistair stepped back, releasing her and causing her to stumble slightly, disoriented. He didn’t pause to comfort her, but reached down, gathered her nightgown in one hand, and pulled it over her head. In a single moment, she was naked in front of him.

Her husband.

His gaze swept over her hungrily, lingering on her wide hips, then returning to her breasts. She’d noticed he’d seemed to fixate on her torso, especially in that purple gown. The realization made her…proud of her curves.

The way he watched her…it made her feel powerful.

Wanted.

Wicked.

Hesitating only slightly, Olivia placed her hands on her hips, the motion forcing her chest outward. Something flashed in his eyes and Alistair sucked in a breath, even as he reached for her.

He cupped her breasts, one in each hand, then hefted as if testing their weight. She couldn’t decide if she was aroused or shocked by the action…but then he lowered his mouth to one nipple, and her body made the decision for her.

Dear God in Heaven!

She’d thought it felt good when he’d put his lips on hers? When he put his lips on her palm? The way he teased her nipple now put all that to shame. Olivia gasped and arched backward, presenting herself to him.

The Duke snaked one hand behind her back to support her, as he bent her over backward. Oh Heavens, this felt—this was…

Olivia’s hand crept toward her curls, needing to touch, to stroke. There’d been times she’d explored her own body, of course. No woman was ignorant of her own body, unless she kept her eyes shut while bathing and hummed loudly to block out all thoughts of reproductive organs.

And now…and now, Olivia knew what she needed.

Luckily, so did Alistair.

Alistair.

It felt so right to call him that.

Her husband.

Gently, he bent her back further. It was disconcerting, to be suspended in the air like this, and she had a flash of memory; The Dark Knight had thrown her over his shoulder, supporting her easily. She’d been surprised at the time, that a man could hold her that way…but here was her husband, doing that and more.

When her shoulders hit the mattress, she scrambled backward in breathless anticipation, pushing pillows out of the way, pleading silently for him to join her.

But Alistair straightened and stared down at her. His gaze raked her, and she realized her hands were fluttering over her thighs, uncertain if she should cover herself. But the look in his pale eyes …desperation?

She also wanted him to look. He had that right, now. To take it all in.

This is what you want, remember. You’ll have security for your newspaper, and you’ll have him.

The former suddenly seemed so much less important than the latter.