Page 18 of Claiming His Lost Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #8)

Graham reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away, smiling when she did not, and he cupped her face gently in his large hands.

“Listen to me very carefully, mo chridhe .

I didn't marry you out of obligation or duty.

I married you because I wanted you. You, Joan, not just Sophia.

I've wanted you since that first night we spent together, and five years of searching have only intensified that desire.”

Joan's breath caught at the intensity in his voice. “Your Grace – “

“Please call me by my name. I know you don't trust easily,” he continued, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. “I know you've been hurt by people who should have protected you. But I am not those people. I am your husband, and Sophia's father, and I'm not going anywhere.”

Before Joan could respond, Graham's mouth covered hers in a kiss that was both gentle and demanding. Joan felt the walls she had attempted to rebuild begin to crumble again as she melted into his embrace, her hands fisting in his shirt to pull him closer.

When they broke apart, both breathing heavily, Graham rested his forehead against hers. “I want to worship you,” he whispered against her lips. “I want to spend hours showing you exactly how much I desire you.”

Joan's knees went weak at the raw hunger in his voice. “Graham, we can't. The modiste – “

“Will assume we're still engrossed in a private discussion,” Graham murmured, his hands moving to push her dressing down over her shoulders. “Let me touch you, Joan. Let me prove to you that you're the only woman I want.”

Joan knew she should protest, should remind him that they were not alone in the house, that anyone could interrupt them.

Instead, she found herself nodding, her body already responding to his proximity with shameful eagerness.

The want within her was burning out of control, and she found herself more willing to be at its mercy than she should have been.

Graham's eyes darkened with satisfaction as the silk covering that had been over her fell to pool around her feet.

Joan stood before him in nothing but her corset and chemise, feeling more exposed and vulnerable than she ever had.

She was torn between hiding and basking in every shred of attention he showed her.

“Beautiful,” Graham breathed, his hands skimming over her curves with reverent appreciation. “So bloody beautiful.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue exploring her mouth with increasing urgency.

Joan whimpered against his lips as his hands roamed over her body, relearning every curve and sensitive spot with methodical thoroughness.

She pressed closer, wanting more of his warmth, of his touch, of his desire.

When Graham's mouth left hers to trail kisses along her throat, Joan had to bite back a moan. His lips were warm and demanding against her skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“I think about you constantly,” he murmured against her collarbone. “About how you taste, how you feel when you come apart in my arms.”

Joan's face burned with embarrassment and arousal. “Your - Graham, you shouldn't say such things – “

“Why not?” His hands moved to her hips, pulling her flush against him until she could feel the hard evidence of his desire pressed against her. “You're my wife. I should be able to tell you exactly what you do to me.”

Before Joan could respond, Graham was guiding her backward toward the settee, his mouth never leaving her throat. Joan's legs hit the upholstered seat, and she sank down, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Trust me,” Graham said, dropping to his knees before her.

Joan's breath caught as she realized his intention. “Graham, no, you can't – “

“I can,” he said firmly, his hands sliding up her thighs to push her chemise higher. “And I will. I've been dreaming about tasting you again since our wedding night.”

Joan's protests died in her throat as Graham's mouth found the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, pressing gentle kisses that made her entire body tremble. She gripped the settee cushions as he worked his way higher, his breath warm against her most intimate places.

When his mouth finally found her center, Joan had to press her hand to her lips to stifle the cry that threatened to escape.

The sensation was overwhelming, far more intense than she remembered from their wedding night.

Graham's tongue moved against her with skillful precision, alternating between gentle licks and more demanding pressure that made her hips arch involuntarily.

“So sweet,” he murmured against her, the vibration of his voice adding another layer of sensation. “I could spend hours between your thighs, mo chridhe .”

Joan felt her face burn at his crude words, but her body betrayed her with its eager response. Every stroke of his tongue sent waves of pleasure coursing through her, building toward something that felt both terrifying and inevitable.

W-What does that mean? You use that phrase to refer… To me, quite often.” Joan panted, trying her best to keep herself together.

Her husband grinned, raising his head for a moment so she could see the way his gaze sparkled with utter joy as he said,

“ My heart . It means ‘ my heart’ .”

Graham seemed to sense her approaching the edge, his movements becoming more focused, more determined. Joan bit down on her knuckles as the tension inside her wound tighter and tighter, until finally it snapped with devastating force.

She came apart with a muffled cry, her entire body shaking with the intensity of her release. Graham held her steady, his mouth gentle against her as she rode out the waves of pleasure.

When she finally stilled, he pulled away with obvious reluctance, reaching into his waistcoat for his handkerchief. Joan watched in stunned silence as he carefully cleaned her with tender, intimate strokes, his touch now soothing rather than arousing.

“There,” he said softly, pressing a final kiss to her inner thigh before rising to his feet. “Perfect.”

Joan stared up at him, her mind reeling from what had just transpired. Graham looked entirely composed, as though he hadn't just shown her to a shattering pleasure with his mouth in the middle of the morning while a house full of servants went about their duties.

“I should return to my study,” Graham said, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket. “The modiste will want to continue with your fitting.”

He moved toward the door with casual confidence, leaving Joan sitting on the settee in a state of complete bewilderment. Just before he reached the threshold, he turned back with a devastating smile.

“By the way,” he said, his Scottish accent thick with satisfaction, “Ye taste even sweeter in the daylight, mo chridhe .”

And then he was gone, leaving Joan alone with her racing heart and the lingering scent of his cologne.