Page 25 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

Chapter Eighteen

I sobel didn’t wake for dinner. In fact, she didn’t wake until dawn light spilled through the heavy curtains, and then she only woke because an obnoxiously heavy body was pushing her into the bed.

An arm fell over her waist, and his chest pressed against her back, almost flattening her.

Yet for all that, the sensation wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

She shifted, her bottom encountering something else that wasn’t strictly unpleasant. He muttered something into her hair, and his arm tightened around her.

She was his wife. He was her husband.

Lord Moreton had returned to London.

Her body tensed at the remembrance, and Adrian stirred, this time waking a little more thoroughly. He pressed kisses against her neck, the arm around her waist rising to find her breast.

“Like peaches,” he slurred, still only half awake, his erection stirring against her backside, eager to find its home between her legs.

“Adrian,” she whispered.

“Mm?”

“I’m—”

She didn’t know how to phrase what she wanted to say. On the one hand, she did not want to deny him—not in the slightest. On the other, the tender flesh between her legs throbbed from his attentions the previous day, and she didn’t want more pain than strictly necessary.

He drew back slightly, more clarity entering his voice. “Ah,” he said. “You’re sore.”

She rolled to face him, tracing his features in the early dawn light. All the things she knew about Adrian the duke she was now learning to reframe as Adrian the man.

He looked different like this in the morning, stubble grazing his chin and upper lip, his hair messy and tossed over his forehead. There was a crease in his cheek where the pillow had left lines.

Suddenly, unaccountably fond, she reached out a hand to touch his face. He allowed her to, watching her curiously. The other evening, she hadn’t had the opportunity to explore his body the way she’d wanted to.

“A little sore,” she admitted.

“Then we don’t have to do anything.” As he watched her, his eyes glowed with heat like coals. “Or,” he said as she trailed her fingers down his neck, exploring his collarbones, “we can do something else.”

“Else?”

“There are other things.” His gaze fell to her breasts, partially hidden by the sheets covering her. “That don’t involve what we did yesterday.”

“Oh?”

He slid the sheet back to expose her naked body to the cool morning air. Sunrise had yet to fully penetrate the room, and the fire had died, leaving nothing but dim light and still air.

“Yes,” he said, his gaze falling to the apex of her legs.

Despite her soreness, liquid bloomed in her belly ahead, hot and wanting. There was something about the power of his attention—like he was a tiger ready to pounce. He the predator and she the prey.

“Will ye want it to be like last time?” she asked, searching his face. “Where you’re in control?”

His gaze flicked back up to hers. “Didn’t you like it?”

“No.” A shudder ran through her. “I did.”

“Then yes. That’s how I always want it to be.” He took her hand and brought it to his body, encouraging her to touch him. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t get your pleasure too, Isobel. It’ll just be on my terms.”

“In the bedchamber,” she stated. “Nowhere else.”

A smile curled his mouth as he leaned forward, hovering a scant inch above her lips.

“Now why would I think I have any chance of ordering you around anywhere else?” he murmured, before kissing her again.

“Ye tried to order me to dinner.”

“And you refused.”

“I didn’t like your tone.”

He chuckled, pressing hot kisses down her neck. “You never do.”

“Not true.” As his mouth reached her breast, she let her head hang back, overwhelmed by sensation. “I like yer tone now.”

“I’m not asking you for anything.”

“Aye,” she gasped. “Mayhap that’s why I like it.”

“In the bedchamber,” he said, his voice a growl as he spread her legs—though didn’t touch her there, and didn’t press his fingers inside her, as though he knew her flesh was too sensitive for such things. “You are mine and you will obey my commands.”

“And outside?”

“Outside,” he allowed, the words against her stomach now, “I’m perfectly certain you will speak your mind and expect to get your own way.”

She threaded her fingers through his hair. “What are ye doing?”

“My tongue will be gentle where you’re sore,” he said, glancing up at her, eyes like liquid tar. “And I would like to taste you, Isobel.”

Was there a statement more erotic than that? She could think of none, and he took her silence as acquiescence as he continued his path down her body, fingers gripping her thighs to give himself space to fit his shoulders between them.

The first brush of his tongue felt like a supplication. The second felt like the answer to all her prayers.

She fisted the sheets in her hands, her head twisting on the pillow as he subjected her to an onslaught.

Yet, just as he had promised, there was nothing but gentleness to be found in his touch.

He did not employ his fingers; just his tongue, hot and wet, finding the nub of her pleasure and flicking across it.

So many sensations—the flat of his tongue, the tip of it.

Long, languid strokes, quick flicks and brushes, then another surge of pleasure as he sucked her into his mouth.

Isobel arched her back, her climax coming over her in waves. Adrian stayed with her until she collapsed back on the bed, limp, before climbing up beside her.

“Your first lesson,” he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his erection. Even wrung out as she was, she marveled at the velvety, hot skin under her fingers. “I will not make you use your mouth yet.”

Her tongue darted out to the corner of her lips. “My… mouth?”

“Just as I did, but on me.”

“What if… I wanted to?”

His eyes glimmered with a dark hunger, “You do?”

She nodded.

He ran his hand through her hair, toying with the reddish curls.

“Take me in your mouth,” he instructed. “Leave your hand there for now. It will limit how deep inside you I need to be.”

She did as he asked, and felt a small thrill at his groan when she let him past her lips.

He tasted salty and musky, like skin and man and sweat and something else—an almost sweet flavor that sat on her tongue.

He throbbed against her lips and hand, folded around his base, and his breath came quickly. With the hand in her hair, he guided her, and she let herself be guided. Although she did not like the idea of him taking such control in any other aspect of her life, she didn’t mind it here.

No, she liked it. The way he used her.

She, a vessel for his pleasure.

His breath came short and fast. She felt the flush of arousal between her legs once more, but didn’t stop as he pushed deeper in her mouth.

Her hand kept her from choking on the feel of him down her throat, but she sensed intrinsically that it was what he wanted—for her to choke on the size of him, for him to dominate her utterly.

Maybe she didn’t mind that, either.

So, she removed the hand around the root of him and took him in deeper. Deeper. Until he pressed against the entrance of her throat and her eyes stung and he made a tiny sound of appreciation, and she felt that rush of heat all over again.

“Isobel,” he groaned.

It was a rush, this feeling of power. He had control over her, his hand still in her hair, his manhood in her mouth, but she was the one with the power over him. She could make him groan, bring about his pleasure, undo him utterly. And she wanted to.

The hand in her hair tightened, guiding her faster. Faster. He rocked into her mouth, using her just as he said he would, and she concentrated on keeping everything lax so he might do as he would.

It did not take long. All too soon, he thickened in her mouth, and cursed, withdrawing and expelling himself on her breasts, hot and sticky.

“Next time,” he said, looking at her with dark, dark eyes. “I will do that in your mouth.”

A tremor rocked through her. But again, she felt nothing but curiosity. Intrigue. Deep-rooted desire to discover what that felt like.

So, she nodded.

Once again, he moved to the washbasin and brought back a cloth, bathing her with the same gentleness as he had before. Then he took his place beside her in the bed. A crack of light now speared through the curtains, and she ran a hand along his skin.

“Adrian,” she said, as her fingers encountered a scar. “What’s this?”

“That? Oh.” He shrugged. “I can’t remember precisely. Probably from escaping the greenhouse.”

“What?”

“My father used to lock me in there when I misbehaved. No one was allowed to let me out; I had to break free of my own accord.”

“But—” Her jaw dropped. “That is… callous, cruel.”

“Well.” He gave a shrug that seemed to her distinctly uncomfortable. “Perhaps. For my father, it wasn’t. He believed in stern punishment, and he was very keen to deliver it.”

She ran her finger along another ridge across his skin. “And this?”

“I have many scars, Isobel,” he said, gathering her against his chest. “Are you going to count them all?”

“Are they all from your father?”

“More or less. Most are from the greenhouse—I had to break past the glass, and it cut me more often than not. Sometimes he preferred to beat me, though. With his belt, a birch rod, sometimes whatever lay close enough. Once, he used a vase.”

His chest rose and fell with a sigh, and she wished she could see into his mind, all the thoughts that lay there.

“It smashed, of course, and he hit me while I bled. The housekeeper took me to bed and a physician stitched me up. The man was paid well never to speak about this to anyone.” His voice dripped with unbearable bitterness.

“Oh, Adrian,” Isobel whispered. “How could you bear it?”