Page 15 of His Scottish Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #5)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“ A ll right, that’s the last one,” Sampson announced to no one in particular.

Catherine looked up to see his brow furrowed in concentration as he scribbled on a document.

It almost felt necessary to clap when the quill dropped from his fingers and he held both his arms up and stretched, a groan making its way past his lips as he tried to release all the tension that had been trapped in his shoulders.

When he finally lowered his arms, he blinked blearily in her direction. “Shall we retire?” he asked, his voice low.

Catherine nodded, trying not to laugh when he shot up from his chair and hurried to her side to gently tug her out of her seat.

“You won’t change your mind?” Sampson asked as he led her by the hand to the door.

“I won’t,” she reassured.

“And you won’t regret it?”

Catherine was determined not to regret her decision. She had come to thank him, and now she was here, following him to his chambers, late at night. Since she had made up her mind to provide him with some semblance of care and comfort, she would make the most of it.

Her small hand was nestled in his larger, warmer one as he led the way, her heart fluttering when he glanced back at her and gave a light squeeze.

When they arrived at his door, he opened it but didn’t usher her inside, as if he wanted her to take the first steps by herself.

She peered through the doorway, noticing that the room was just as large as hers. It had been decorated with more masculine tones in mind, with dark wood furniture and heavy drapes. It was a stark contrast to her lighter, more feminine chambers, and it reminded her that she did have something more to offer than just her company.

“I will return shortly,” she said, excusing herself.

Sampson looked down at her, then he nodded towards his room. “I’ll be here. You do not need to knock when you arrive. Just come in.”

“All right.” Catherine nodded, before turning around to walk to her room.

After all, she needed to prepare.

She hurried back to her room and changed into her nightdress first, before moving on to the next thing.

She retrieved a small, intricately carved wooden box from her dressing table, picking some of the dried herbs and flowers nestled inside and wrapping them securely into a piece of paper. Then, she grabbed a small bottle of scented oil—a blend of lavender and sandalwood. She had thought to repay him for his kindness at the ball and his gentle teasing tonight. A massage seemed a fitting way to do so.

Before she returned to his room, she stopped by the kitchen and ordered a maid to put boiling water in a teapot, into which she added the herbs she had handpicked carefully. This was a special tea, one her mother had often made for her when she had trouble sleeping. It was soothing and calming, and she hoped it would help ease the tension that seemed to crackle between her and Sampson.

The maid put the teapot and a teacup on a tray, and Catherine grabbed it before returning to where she was expected. When she arrived at his room, she found him already loosening his cravat.

“I brought something,” she announced, holding out the tray.

Sampson raised an eyebrow, his gaze questioning. “And what might that be?”

“A calming tea,” she replied, pouring the fragrant liquid into the delicate porcelain cup. “My mother used to make it for me when I couldn’t sleep. It is really calming, and I like how it smells. If it doesn’t help… perhaps a massage would. If you would like that.”

He hesitated, his gaze fixed on the cup for a moment too long to be simple curiosity. “Are you certain the tea is safe?”

Catherine couldn’t help but laugh. “Did you think I would poison you, Your Grace?”

She expected him to join her and laugh about the absurdity of the idea, but he didn’t. His expression remained serious, almost suspicious. It was a strange reaction, and it made her feel slightly uneasy, if not a bit disheartened that he did not trust her.

As a sign of good faith, Catherine brought the cup to her lips and took a sip of the tea, holding his gaze.

“See? Perfectly safe,” she said after swallowing and placing the cup on the bedside table. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.”

She felt a sting in her chest as she said it, unable to keep herself from feeling offended by his distrust. Did he truly think she would hurt him?

He picked up the cup, swirling the liquid thoughtfully. He took a tentative sip, holding her gaze. Then, he took another. After a moment of consideration, he lowered the cup back to the tray.

“I think I would prefer the massage,” he said, his voice low.

Catherine nodded, retrieving the bottle of oil. “Very well.” She gestured towards the edge of the bed. “Please, sit.”

He sat, loosening his shirt to expose his back. Catherine poured a small amount of oil into her hands and rubbed them together to warm them. She began to knead the muscles of his shoulders, her fingers working out the knots and tension.

She noticed the way his muscles relaxed beneath her touch, the subtle shift in his breathing. Her gaze swept over his skin, noticing a few pale scars scattered across his back—the only imperfections on his otherwise perfect body.

Sampson felt hot to the touch, and the heat spread up her arms, then down her torso to pool in her stomach as she worked her way down his back.

He seemed to be enjoying it, thankfully—perhaps a bit too much, she noticed as she accidentally glanced down and noticed the bulge in his breeches. A blush crept up her neck, and she tried to focus on the task at hand, to finish quickly, but the heat radiating from his skin and the subtle scent of his cologne all worked to distract her.

When she finally stopped, he turned to her, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“That was… most enjoyable, Duchess. Thank you,” he murmured. “Now, it is my turn.”

Catherine’s eyes widened. “Your turn?”

He nodded, his gaze intent. “Yes. I believe you deserve a massage as well.”

She hesitated, but the look in his eyes, the unspoken promise of more than him rubbing scented oil over her skin, made her agree. She sat on the edge of the bed, turning her back to him.

His hands were warm and strong when they rested on her shoulders, his touch sending shivers down her spine. He began to knead the muscles of her back, his fingers working with a skill that surprised her. He brought his hands together at her neck, pressing his thumbs into the back in a way that caused her to arch forward, straightening her spine.

She had to bite her lip to keep from moaning, shocked by his skill. If Sampson noticed, he said nothing, simply massaging the tension from her neck.

But then his touch shifted, lingering longer on certain spots, growing more intimate.

His hands slid down her spine, lingering on the curve of her waist, before dropping to the swell of her hips. He left one hand there, and the other came up to trace the delicate line of her collarbone, his fingers sending a flash of lightning through her.

He then pulled away completely, and she turned to him, a complaint hanging on the tip of her tongue, only for him to angle her face and kiss her.

His lips moved hungrily against hers, taking more and more with fervor, and Catherine found herself willingly bending to his desires, wanting to give him all that he demanded from her and more.

His hands returned to her hips, then moved lower, slipping beneath the fabric of her gown, his touch sending a wave of heat that pooled in her lower abdomen. Catherine gasped, breaking the kiss.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing against her ear. “Relax, Catherine,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

She did her best to do ask he asked, willing her muscles to go lax beneath his ministrations. His hands moved lower still, his touch becoming more insistent, more demanding. He began to explore the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, his fingers teasing and tormenting, sending waves of pleasure through her. The yearning was spreading through her like wildfire, claiming every bit of thought and comprehension from her mind.

Then, with a searing kiss on her lips, he lowered himself onto the bed and pushed her legs apart, baring her sex to him.

“Sampson,” she gasped, moaning as the stroked her with a finger, unable to stop herself from bucking her hips.

Her husband smirked down at her, stroking her deeply once again, grinning when he managed to get the same reaction.

“You truly are divine,” he said, his voice somewhat strangled.

Then, he lowered his head, and his lips replaced his fingers as he began to lavish attention on her most sensitive place. Catherine cried out, arching into him.

His tongue worked against her slowly, lapping at the wetness between her legs and teasing her folds.

At first, it seemed sufficient, but then she started to crave more. It felt as though her desires had been bundled up and placed so close yet a little out of reach, bringing her just close enough that she could practically taste it but never touch it.

It made her restless, and she couldn’t help but put a hand on his head, her fingers tangling in his locks as she begged him. Her words were a jumble of incoherency and sounds of debauchery, and she whined when he pulled back completely.

“What do you want, darling? Tell me what you want.”

She couldn’t bring herself to say it, couldn’t dare to confess the desires raging within her.

“Please,” she whispered breathlessly, her voice thick with need.

He chuckled, a low, husky sound that sent shivers down her spine. “Please what, Catherine?” he murmured.

He leaned forward just a bit so his lips grazed her folds—a cruel, twisted way of giving her yet another taste of what she wanted.

“Please… more,” she pleaded, her voice barely audible.

He continued to tease her, his tongue and lips working their magic, until she was on the verge of madness.

“Say it, Catherine,” he whispered, his voice a low growl. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” she gasped, her body trembling with anticipation. “I want you. Please give me more.”

He finally relented, his tongue plunging deep, pushing her over the edge with a few strokes. She cried out, her body convulsing with pleasure, her fingers digging into the sheets.

Catherine collapsed onto the mattress, still shaking as the waves of pleasure rolled through her. She sighed when Sampson scooped her into his arms and kissed her, sharing the taste of her that lingered on his tongue.

It was almost ironic, how she had come to help him sleep better but now she was the one who felt overcome with exhaustion.

“Good,” Sampson murmured against her lips. “You were very good for me, Duchess. You have done well.”

She buried her face in his chest and exhaled, succumbing to the exhaustion in her bones.