Page 56 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke

“Shoulders,” he murmured. He wrapped the tape beneath her arms, the cold metal brushing just beneath her breasts.

She stiffened. His fingers lingered there far longer than they ought.

She stared fixedly ahead. “I do hope the dressmaker appreciates the detail.”

“I am certain she will,” he replied gently. Only the rough edge of his breath betrayed him. His hands slid lower to her waist, fingertips grazing the hollow there before drawing the tape in snug. “Waist… narrow. Irresponsibly so.”

“I shall endeavor to consume more breakfast rolls,” she said.

“I shall endeavor to serve more,” he murmured, shifting closer. “If you would permit me, I should need to measure across the front.”

One hand dipped lower, a subtle gesture of shielding she made no apology for. Then, she nodded.

He moved around her, standing before her now, bare from the waist up. The firelight painted shadows across the broad plane of his chest, the pale scars vivid and strangely beautiful. She tried not to look. She failed utterly.

“This… will require arms lifted,” he said, his tone maddeningly mild.

Emma frowned. “I might object to that.”

His silence was deliberate. Then he moved, passing by her to the hearth. With his bare hands, he dimmed the firelight until the room was wrapped in a gentle gloom. The flames still flickered, but their glow barely reached the corner where she stood.

When he turned back to her, his voice was gentler. “There. The shadows will do most of the work. The rest… you may trust me with.”

Her arms slowly loosened, though her fingers still trembled. Her head ducked ever so slightly in coyness.

She bared herself.

He stepped close again, holding the tape, but not using it just yet. His eyes met hers first. Then dipped—slowly, reverently—taking her in not as a thing to be devoured, but something to be memorized.

When he did lift the tape, his hands brushed the curve of her breast. It was barely a touch, only enough to anchor the edge, but it seared through her like a brand. He measured across her chest with infuriating calm, though his breathing was far from steady now. Then, down her neckline to her waist.

“Are you—certain the dressmaker needs this much precision?” she whispered.

He regarded her once more. “Quitecertain.”

He didn’t move. Nor did she.

Her fingers curled.

He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face upward. “You are beautiful in the light,” he murmured, “but in shadow, I think you might be unbearable. You ought not ever be shy.”

Emma didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

His hand dropped to her hip, then traced the curve of it. “Hips,” he said, as though he needed to announce it. As though his thumb wasn’t pressing into the softness there in a way that made her legs feel rather uncertain beneath her.

“Does this meet your standards for statistical accuracy?” she asked, breath catching.

He looked up at her lips. “Not yet.”

He rose. Gently, his mouth found hers—slow, warm, utterly consuming. There was no performance in it, no showmanship. Just heat. And longing. And the slow slide of his palm across her ribcage, then the soft weight of it over her breast. Her hands tightened above her head, but she didn’t pull away.

His thumb brushed her peak, coaxing a gasp from her lips. She leaned into him, unsure if it was desire or instinct—or simply relief at being touched without pain, without shame. Her body moved without her permission, aching for more.

But just as the kiss deepened, something shifted between them. A flicker of clarity, of sense piercing through want.

Emma’s hands found his chest and pressed—gently, but enough.

Damien broke the kiss. His forehead rested briefly against hers. The space between them pulsed with everything they hadn’t said. Everything they nearly had.