Page 18 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

Chapter Twelve

“ W hat?” The duke stilled as he watched her.

“Ye said ye would have kissed me if ye had not been interrupted. And I wish ye could—” Isobel swallowed, doing her best not to regret her words, or the impulsiveness of them. “I have thought about it since.”

He cursed under his breath, and then suddenly his mouth was on hers.

Fierce, just as their first kiss had been. Only this time, his hands came around her and he picked her up, placing her on his lap. His hard thighs pressed against hers, and she shuffled closer, so her chest pressed against his.

Her blood pounded in her veins. Her face felt flushed, and when he brushed his tongue along her lower lip, she opened her mouth, granting him access.

He made a low, gravelly sound of appreciation and approval, one hand sweeping down her spine to rest right above the curve of her backside. It felt as though his hand trembled, as though he wanted to touch her more, but he was holding back.

Ever since she had arrived, she felt as though she had been fighting the fear of what she had been running from, and the fear of what she was now to do. Giving her future over to a strange gentleman was no easy task—and one she did not relish.

But this—this made her feel alive. As though she could finally breathe.

Sensing that despite the passion she could feel in him, every muscle vibrating and echoing through her, he was reluctant to touch her, she took his hand and pressed it against her breast.

“You little minx,” he moaned as he caressed her full curves through the fabric of her dress.

She didn’t want to feel like glass, as though she might break. She didn’t want him to feel as though he could not touch her.

She was a lady accustomed to wanting the wildness of life, to feel as though she could live without being stifled, and he made her feel like that.

“Ye make me feel alive,” she said, breaking from his mouth long enough to say the words.

He stared up at her with unreadable dark eyes.

“ You make me feel alive, Isobel,” he replied, and pushed her closer using the hand at her back.

Her core pressed against something hard, a bulge between his legs he made no effort to hide.

The friction, that slight press, was so delicious that she rubbed herself against him again, making his breath hitch.

Something primal rose in her.

She needed to see this through.

“Ye taste of the fresh mountain air,” she said bending her head to kiss him again.

The hand on her back turned into a steel band holding her against him.

“And I—” She shuddered as he thrust up against her.

“You are a fairy,” he told her. “A pixie. A sprite. Something fey.” He nipped the delicate skin of her neck. “And you make me want to taste more of you.”

She gasped, moving her skirts so she could better access the ridge between his legs.

This, she knew, was not the behavior of a lady, but in this room, they were not a lady and a gentleman. Not a duke and his esteemed guest.

They were a man and a woman, and she wanted the way she had never wanted before.

And he, now, like this, could give it to her.

“Please,” she said, permission and an entreaty.

“Please what?”

“Do what ye will with me.”

A smile spread across his face, dark and frightening and lovely. “You will wish you had not asked me to do that, Isobel.”

She rolled her hips, enjoying the way his gaze unfocused and his fingers tightened on her breast. In return, he bent his head and kissed down her neck, biting and licking away the sting as he went.

“Do what ye will,” she repeated.

“Then you must promise to be quiet.”

“Aye, I can do that.”

“Silent.” His teeth grazed across her pulse. “No matter what I do to you. Can you do that?”

“Aye,” she whispered.

“Then spread your legs for me, fey girl.”

She did as he commanded, widening her legs. He bundled the material of her skirts in one hand and with the other cupped his fingers around her bare knee.

Her heart stuttered at the contact. Skin against skin—and he was a man who fenced, a man who despite his gloves, had calluses that scraped across her softness.

Every single one of them went to her core.

She felt hot and tingly, liquid and tight all at once, as though her body did not know how to process all of these confusing sensations.

He looked at the contact, and at the creamy shade of her skin. The darkness of his hand against it. That contrast struck her as one of the most erotic things she had ever seen.

Slowly, he moved his fingers, tracing along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Up higher, where she had spent few enough times exploring herself, and where the center of all the heat in her body lay.

His gaze flicked to hers. “Silent,” he warned, and then his fingers slid past her damp curls to the very center of her.

He sucked in a breath, and she frowned at him, her hands locked around his neck, just in case she fell off. Her knees, where they pressed into the cushions, felt weak. All of her felt weak.

“What is it?” she whispered.

He groaned a little. “You are already so wet.”

“Is that?—”

“It means you are aroused.”

Aroused , she thought drowsily, as his fingers traced a whole new line of fire through her. She ached from the light touches, the pleasure that sparked from them too much and not enough.

Her arms shook around his neck. She brought her mouth back to his.

Between her legs, his hand shifted, fingers drawing small circles across her slick, sensitive flesh. She gasped into his mouth and felt his lips curve in a smile.

“Quiet,” he warned her, in such a low voice it traveled through. “Quiet, sweet. And patience.”

She wiggled against him, the opposite of patient. She did not want to wait for him—she wanted everything he could offer now. Immediately. As soon as he could.

That was why she had asked him to kiss her—so she could forget.

So, she could have something else to remember .

And when the pleasure melted inside her like this, she could find no reason to hold back, no reason to delay. She would do anything he asked, so long as he kept making her feel like this.

So long as he kept giving her more.

Was it possible for a woman to dissolve? She felt as though she was seconds away from melting into a puddle.

His tongue pressed between her lips, dancing with her own, demanding that she yield to him, and she did just that. His one hand pressed between her legs, drawing those small circles, and the other hand dug into her hair, holding her head against him.

“ Yes ,” she whispered, breaking away and pressing her face into his neck to muffle the noises that sprung to her lips no matter what she wanted.

He moved then, picking her up and placing her on the sofa so she lay there, blinking and staring up at him.

“Adrian—”

His eyes gleamed at her in the firelight as he leaned over her, claiming her lips once more as he touched her again. This position—her lying on the sofa, him kneeling beside—allowed him better freedom of movement, and the blunt tip of his finger pressed against her entrance.

There, he hesitated—but she didn’t want hesitation.

Rolling her hips, she encouraged the tip of that finger inside her and then gasped at the sensation that followed. The stab of pleasure was so intense that it distracted her from the almost glazed expression in his eyes, and the feral, wild sound that left his mouth.

Then his mouth was on hers and he was sinking deeper inside her, tight but not enough. Her hips arched off the sofa, and he swallowed the moan that sprung to her lips unbidden.

Yes, this . This was what she wanted. What she needed.

“You’re so tight,” he said, maybe groaned, and she reached up, palms on either side of his face.

“Shh,” she managed, and he almost removed the finger then inserted it again.

“Even now, you’re telling me what to do?” He shook his head, but she felt his smile once again.

So many smiles this evening, he had let his walls down for the first time. But his finger moved in her again, the pleasure shattering her, disrupting all her other thoughts.

“You are a fey girl.”

She snapped her jaw together, nostrils flaring as she fought the urge to let out a sound.

“More?” he asked wickedly, plunging inside her again. “Is that what you want, sweetheart?”

“Aye,” she whispered.

“Then keep quiet.”

The pleasure inside her felt as though it was coalescing into something still more precious—more intense. Like she was going to burst into tiny pieces, as though her body was too fragile, too small, to contain the sheer depth of pleasure that beckoned.

How could she keep quiet during this?

He pressed his thumb against her and pressure sparked. Her back arched.

“You are close,” he informed her, his nose brushing hers, and she gripped his shoulders, not entirely sure she was not about to drift off into the ether or the unknown.

Not sure if she would not break into a million pieces—and not sure if he would be able to put her back together again.

And yet she didn’t want him to stop. In fact, she felt as though she would die if he did.

“Adrian,” she gasped.

“Say my name again.” His eyes looked so very dark now.

His hand moved to his trousers, and when she looked down it seemed as though he was touching himself. Squeezing. Even so, his fingers didn’t falter on her as he drove her closer and closer to that peak.

“Say my name,” he commanded.

A wave of pleasure crashed over her, so intense her thoughts splintered. His name fell from her lips just as he had instructed, and her back arched off the sofa again as she chased that feeling.

Adrian bent over her, holding her down as he worked the last of the pleasure from her. Every last drop, until she lay back against the cushions, depleted and curiously content.

Adrian’s eyes landed on her as he brought his fingers to his lips and sucked. Despite her newfound exhaustion, that sight sent another bolt of lust through her.

He’d said something about tasting her—but this was not what she had expected, and…

She liked it.

“Adrian,” she whispered.

He looked at her again, and his hand fell against his thigh. “Isobel,” he said, his voice rough. “We should…” He released a long breath. “You should go to bed.”

“To bed?”

“Alone,” he reiterated.

She frowned. “Why?”

“Because I have done—I have done enough. I don’t want to ruin you.”

Isobel opened her mouth to say she didn’t care—she wanted a marriage of convenience, nothing more, and she did not think her husband would notice or care if she had been with a man before. But then she closed it, the reality of her situation settling through her.

If Adrian had wanted more, if he had wanted to take her, he would have said so.

This was his way of releasing himself—and thus, him as well.

Perhaps it was for the best. However little she cared about the man who would become her husband, no matter who he was, it would be better if she saved herself for him.

It would be.

Even so, hurt built in her breast, a pressure that she did her best to ignore as she sat up, flicking her skirts down her legs.

“Thank ye,” she said as primly as she could to the duke.

The duke . He would not be Adrian to her again—not now and not ever.

He rose to his feet. “I think it would be better if I did not walk you to your room.”

Of course . And so, she would have to make that cold, aching journey on her own.

“Goodnight, Yer Grace,” she choked, pausing only to light a single candle before fleeing the room upstairs to bed.

Adrian sat in place for a long time, staring into the fire that had all but utterly slumped into nothing.

He could still feel her on his fingers, still hear the muffled gasps and moans she had made. His little fey sprite, captive by his hands, and so very willing. That had been obvious. If he had asked her for her virtue, she would have handed it to him.

But after everything she had revealed to him about her situation, the idea of taking something like that from her repulsed him. He had more honor than that, even if his body throbbed with frustrated lust.

Yes, his cock wanted her. But it would not be sensible. Already, she had disrupted his life enough. If he took her to bed, how much worse would it become?

He couldn’t. Not only did he owe it to her future husband, whoever that might be, but he owed it to himself . Distractions were unwelcome. He would not allow her to get under his skin. Getting invested would be a weakness he could not afford.

He was the Duke of Somerset, and he could not forget it.