Page 23 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

“For what purpose?” Her voice came out breathy—he wanted her always to sound that way.

“So, I can look at you.”

“Ye’re so far away.”

He grinned at her. This was what he had wanted—her squirming and wanting, desperate for his touch. “What do you want, my little fairy?”

She gritted her teeth. “I think ye know.”

“I think I want you to tell me.”

She shifted again, moving her hips as though searching for pressure that was not there. “I want ye to touch me the way you did before.”

“Mm.” He drew the word out and squeezed himself again.

She looked so delectable in the candlelight, the gold lining her pale skin. Glinting off her hair. Such beautiful hair she had, a riot of color by day and something deep and mysterious by night.

Later, perhaps, he would be irritated by how keenly he noticed these things about her, and how much he appreciated them, but lust heated his blood and desire sang in his veins, and she wanted him to touch her.

He was a gentleman; what else could he do but oblige?

He advanced, crawling up the bed beside her. There, lying on his side, he placed his hand on her bare breast. The peaked nipple stood to attention in his palm, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

“Relax,” he murmured, giving her time to come to terms with the feel of his hand on her. “There we go, my sweet. Does that not feel good?”

“Aye,” she said, her skin flushing under his hand.

He trailed his fingers around her nipple, circling the bud and she squirmed under his ministrations. Then he turned his attention to the other. Sweet breasts, the perfect handful, soft and heavy. Her breathing turned deep and drugged now, her body pliant.

She was ready for him.

“There you are,” he said, bringing his mouth down to hers.

She kissed him back with lazy intensity, and he continued touching her, moving from her breasts to slide a hand down her stomach.

She shifted impatiently, and he broke the kiss to move down her body, kissing a trail down her neck to her collarbones, then lower. Lower. He sucked a nipple into his mouth and her back arched off the bed. Then he did the same with the other.

“Adrian,” she gasped.

He raised his head. “Yes?”

“Ye aren’t touching me the way ye said ye would.”

“Patience. It is a virtue.”

“I have no virtues.”

He laughed then, low and dark, and pressed his face into her stomach. One hand moved to her inner thigh, sliding back and forth.

Oh, she was ready for him.

His body ached to tie hers in place so he might have his way with her. But there were other means of submission, and this was their first time.

Her first time.

Perhaps she would enjoy it, but she ought to know what to expect from a coupling first.

Still. He could teach her some things.

“I like it when a lady is compliant,” he said against her skin, sliding a finger through her slick flesh. “I prefer to take control. Do you understand?”

She tensed under him. “How?”

“I give you commands, and you obey them.” He touched her again, this time for a little longer, and he felt the way the moan slipped from her lips. “And I use your body as I see fit.”

“Adrian—”

“I will not give you any commands today,” he continued, biting at her hipbone.

She let out a mewling sound. “And I will do my best to be gentle. But know this, Isobel.” He looked up, meeting her eyes in the candlelight.

“When I take you in this fashion, it does not mean you are any less mine than when I restrain you to the bed and take my time with you.”

Her eyes flared, and he didn’t miss the sudden flood of additional wetness on his fingers. She liked that, even if she didn’t want to admit it. No matter—he would have time to reconcile her to the notion.

“Yours,” she repeated.

“Yes. You are mine.”

“And are ye mine?”

The question halted him for a second, and he paused, the blunt tip if his finger poised to enter her. “Do you want me to be?”

“Aye,” she said immediately, as though the question required no thinking about. “Even if ye are the one to restrain me, I am the one ye are touching. Ye are my husband. And that makes you just as much mine as that makes me yours.”

He considered that, breathing in the scent of her arousal. The force of his own lust ripped his thoughts into shreds. “Very well,” he said. “If you want me to be yours, then I will be. But you will submit to me.”

In answer, her hips rolled against his, and his finger slipped inside her. Her eyes rolled back in her head.

“If I do anything that pains you, tell me,” he said. “And if you tell me to stop, I will do so.”

The words were difficult to force out, but they were necessary. He liked force, but he liked said force to be pleasing to his partner.

“Aye,” she said. “Do what ye will with me, so long as ye do not stop.”

With such an invitation, he could hardly turn it down. With his free hand, he fumbled with his breeches, pulling out his erection.

A bead of moisture gleamed on the tip, and for a brief moment, he considered how ridiculous it was that such a lady had inspired such a response in him.

He, a man of experience, whose tastes courtesans had catered to for years. And she, an innocent, a Scot—a lady whom he did not even trust.

Yet the evidence of his desire was too much to ignore.

He rolled onto her, pressing her body into the bed. She softened under him, wrapping her legs around his waist.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, and kissed her again.