Page 101 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days

“What—what are you doing?”

“I’m going to make you come.”

“Come.” She whispered the word as though testing it, and the husky, illicit sound of it almost broke his last vestige of restraint. “Like—like you did last night? With your fingers?”

Christ, was she trying to kill him? “Is that what you want?”

She paused, her short, hard breaths breaking against his. In that moment, he would have given his left eye to see her expression. “I would,” she said breathlessly. “I want…”

Piers swept her drawers from her ankles. He nudged her knees wider, thrusting his hips between them as she buried her face against his throat. Her arms slid around his neck clinging to his back, her fingers clutching at his jacket as though he could save her from falling.

Piers found her artless trust in the gesture rather touching. He nudged her nose with his before pressing an almost chaste kiss to her lips. “I have you,” he murmured.

She drove her lips against his mouth, clinging to him with a desperation that seemed to mirror his own. Her hips nudged his hand, the silken hair between her thighs painting a brush of her desire against his palm.

Dear God, she was already wet.

To be cruel, he feathered a few light strokes over the plump lips, tracing the seam of her sex, massaging the mons above.

She squeezed her knees around his hips, her breaths hitching over a closed throat.

To be kind, he furrowed a questing finger into the tender cove until he found the source of her desire. He slid through the elixir with delighted strokes, aching for the moment it would ease the way for his sex.

She whimpered. Trembled. Her clawed fingers clenching and releasing like a kitten in the throes of a good petting.

He stroked the tight entrance to her body, letting the tiny muscles pull at him.

Gods, this was torture. Pure and exquisite.

And if he had to endure it. So would she.

He thrummed his thumb across the throbbing hood of her clitoris, only the once.

Her breathy moan of encouragement nearly took the starch from his knees.

Piers reveled in the muffled sounds of her pleasure as he allowed his fingers to play and discover. They traced the pulsing folds of her swollen sex, returning to leave a glossy trail against her delicate bud. He was deliberate. Relentless. Waiting for her pleasure to climb in torturous increments instead of allowing it to take her.

She would learn tonight, to whom she was mated. The Terror of Torcliff would leave her a puddle of bliss. Ruined. Drenched. Exhausted by pleasure.

Small sounds climbed her throat and he drew back, nudging her face away from its hiding place within his neck to swallow her little mewls. He licked her lips open, tasted her moans, reveled in the dance of her hips against his hand as she began to writhe for him.

Their patience ran out simultaneously. With one soft, continuous circle with his thumb he brought her to the brink. She locked her legs around his with a sound of incredible relief as she came undone. Her thighs clenched in rhythm to the pulses of her pleasure and he had to smother her delectable, inarticulate cries with his lips.

God, her pleasure aroused him. He was hard as a diamond. If she touched him now, he’d be unmanned.

He couldn’t have that. He wasn’t ready to be finished with his discovery of the delights of her body.

Giving one last shudder against him, she dropped her forehead to his shoulder, letting his straining muscles support her languorous weight.

“You are… so incredible…” she panted.

A chuckle danced in his throat. “Thank you.”

“I was trying… to say… incredibly wicked.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” He slid from her grasp. “Lean back, darling,” he prompted.

“Why?”