Page 41 of Bound By the Duke

“Control yourself, Percival,” he told himself, running a hand through his dark brown hair.

He needed control. Or at the very least, some cold or scalding water to shock some sense into him.

With a sharp exhale, Percival shrugged off his coat and stripped down with the air of a man ridding himself of sin. He stepped into the adjoining washroom and splashed cool water from the jug on his face.

The sharp coolness of the water against his heated flesh provided a momentary distraction, but as soon as the droplets began trailing down his neck to his chest, he was flooded with thoughts that made his blood simmer with lust.

He imagined his little wife doing her ablutions as well, with her lovely hair unpinned, her skin warmed by the steam. He swallowed as he imagined how her nipples would pebble under the water, aching for a touch she’d never ask for.

His hand clenched against the tile.

He would worship her if she let him. Devour her until the only name she remembered was his. He would kiss every inch of her with slowness and reverence.

“Enough.”

The word tore out of him. Yet even as he said it, he knew it was a lie.

He would never have enough of Aurelia if he were to lose control again and touch her the way he had.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

By evening, when the day had turned into a soft amber glow, Percival made his way to his study. A sanctuary where he could drown in paperwork and ledgers like a workaholic.

At least, that would leave him too busy to entertain sinful thoughts.

He stepped into the room that no one dared to enter without his permission. Or so he had thought.

The moment he opened the heavy oak door, a sound welcomed him. It was so out of place because his study was usually silent and ordered.

Pausing in the doorway, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the room. Then, he saw him. Sir Whiskerton.

The cat was sitting on his favorite armchair as though he owned it. His fur gleamed in the light of the setting sun as his tail swayed with regal arrogance.

Percival let out a sharp breath, torn between disbelief and annoyance.

“Of all the places in this house,” he muttered, stepping in and shutting the door, “you choose this room?”

The cat looked up and blinked slowly at him, unbothered.

Percival moved toward his desk, shaking his head as he took another look at the animal. “Sir Whiskerton, my foot. You’re no more noble than a sewer rat,” he muttered.

The cat hissed at him, as if he understood the insult.

Percival’s lips curved slightly with a ghost of amusement he would never confess to. He settled behind his desk and gathered a stack of papers.

The cat made an odd, rustling sound, and Percival looked back at him. “If you haven’t noticed, I need absolute silence.”

Sir Whiskerton simply stretched leisurely in response, before jumping down with a grace that was almost mocking. He padded toward the tall windows, where the last sun rays painted the glass gold.

“Majestic nuisance,” Percival muttered, forcing his attention back to his work.

Numbers. Contracts. Correspondence he had put off for weeks. He took a deep breath, ready to dive into the workload.

Well, until his peace was disturbed once again with the sound of laughter.

He froze, his pen halting mid-word.

What is that sound?