Page 140 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days

Slowly, in infinitesimal increments, she relaxed against him, around him, her sex becoming a sheath shaped to the length inside. Her grip slackened, her breath strengthening even as her muscles melted against his.

Her small, delicate hands began a feather-light exploration of his back, running along the columns of muscle bracketing his spine, dipping into the valley between.

Piers returned the caress, smoothing his rough hands over her shoulder blades, charting the dip of her waist, reveling in the silken cream that was her skin.

He wished he could see her face, and yet he wasn’t ready for her to look at him just yet. He treasured the breaths against his neck, the trust inherent in their pose. The intimacy.

“All right,” she whispered.

“All right,” he answered. She needn’t say more.

He arched his spine slightly back, pressing down into the mattress, easing only the base of his cock out of her before rocking forward in a smooth, gentle thrust.

The friction was negligible, but it was all they needed for an aching, remarkable pleasure to bloom between them.

She sucked in short breaths as he rocked her with slow, stinging curls of his hips, remaining deep inside of her, pressing against her womb.

He thought he might die from the pleasure of it.

Finally, she pulled back a little to look at him, her features a mixture of awe and bewilderment.

And pleasure.

More. She needed more. He could give her more.

He licked his thumb and brought it between them, to where she was so small and soft and yet spectacularly tight around him. He brushed at the crest of the distended, swollen nub at the hood of her core.

She made a sound so low and lovely in the back of her throat it might have been the purr of a lioness. Her fingers drew up the column of his neck and slid into his hair.

When he thrummed her again, she tightened her grip, allowing a soft sound of encouragement to escape her.

Reflexively, she pressed a hand to her mouth.

“No,” he said huskily, kissing her fingers without once breaking his steady, slow rhythm. “There is no need to silence your pleasure. Sing it to the night, my lovely wife. Let it know you are mine, and that I, alone, can make you feel this way.”

He licked at the seams of her fingers, and they fell away, returning to grasp at his hair.

God, he loved it when she did that. Anchored his neck so she could control their hot, slippery kiss.

A triumphant joy welled within him when her hips began a tentative dance. Flexing and rolling to the rhythm of his.

He timed the thrusts of his tongue to that of his hips, the feather-soft brushes of his thumb an off-beat percussion that set her thighs to quivering. Her eyes darkened, becoming decadent, dark pools of fathomless longing.

“Piers,” she warned, little concussive tremors building along the feminine flesh now clamped around his cock.

“Don’t wait for me,” he whispered against her mouth, laving at her with heated kisses and strong thrusts of his tongue.

In truth, he could have come the moment she’d wrapped her slim fingers around him.

But he’d be goddamned if this was over that quickly. He’d previously vowed to make her drenched and exhausted before he finished with her, and, at the moment, she was only one of those things.

Gloriously wet.

He dipped his finger lower, wickedly testing where their bodies were joined, gathering the abundant moisture there and swirling it around her throbbing hood.

Her lips tore from his as her spine arched and flexed, her head dropping back on her shoulders as a hoarse, guttural cry broke from her.

She convulsed around him, over him, her sex milking at him in voluptuous, rhythmic waves. Her unbound hair brushed the small of her back, and her clasping fingers tore at his own locks as she shivered and shuddered in a long, extravagant release.