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Chapter Seventeen

S he watched her husband's gaze linger on the book, then turn back to her with amusement in his gaze.

“Well now,” he said. “What do we have here?” Gemma had heard that teasing tone in his voice before.

She had heard it the morning they had woken up in bed together.

And she had heard it in the Henfords' music room, moments before he had taken her in his arms and set her body alight.

She felt rooted in place at the bottom of the step ladder. Unable, or unwilling to run. Her heart was thundering in her ears. Pure embarrassment—but something else as well. Something she could not quite identify.

“I…” she began, then faded out. There was no point trying to explain herself, she knew.

And nor, she realized, did she want to. Because the last time the Duke of Larsen had spoken to her in such a way, he had elicited sensations in her body that were beyond description.

Sensations that Gemma was suddenly exhausted of pretending she did not feel.

She reached back to wrap her fingers around the top of the step ladder, clutching at it fiercely in an attempt to steady herself.

The Duke picked up the book, his eyes gliding over her with a new interest. Opened it. And to Gemma's horror—or was it delight? By this point, she could not tell anymore—he began to read.

“Captain Midnight tore at his beautiful captive's nightgown, exposing the creamy white mounds of her breasts. Their rosy tips perked up as they were kissed by the cool night air. Captain Midnight pushed her back against the mast of his ship, binding her hands tightly behind her back, and exposing her body to his ravenous senses.”

“Please,” Gemma begged. She could feel her cheeks blazing. “Stop.” The words came out as barely more than a whisper.

The Duke grinned—a teasing, playful grin that somehow managed to be full of warmth. “Not a chance,” he said, his eyes glittering as they met hers. Even in the dim lamplight, they were an astonishingly fierce blue. “How can I stop now, when Captain Midnight is about to ravish his beautiful captive?”

Mortified, Gemma murmured something that wasn't really anything. Her heart was so loud she was sure her husband could hear it. And now it was not just her cheeks that were blazing, but every inch of her body.

“The Captain's ravenous lips moved across his captive's throat, before sliding over one fragile breast and nipping at it gently. His captive mewled like a kitten, hardly daring to believe that a man so fierce and animalistic could be in other ways so gentle. But then, as though reading her thoughts, his gentleness melted away—” The Duke looked up at grinned at Gemma.

“—and he tore at the remains of her nightshift with the ferocity of a wild beast, before burying his handsome face between her legs…”

Mercifully, the Duke closed the book. His eyes were bright and teasing, but there was something else there as well. Something that suggested that he too had his own animalistic instincts. He took a step toward her. “Is this what you think about, Gemma?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

She swallowed heavily. “No, I…”

He silenced her by bringing his hand to her cheek. At the feel of his warm skin against her own, she felt her protests dying away.

“Is this what you would like me to do to you?”

Gemma heard her breath coming loud and fast, heard her heart drumming in her ears, felt the desperate pulsing between her legs intensify.

She ought to deny it, of course. She ought to tell him he was mistaken. Wildly mistaken. Tell him she would never have such impure, scandalous thoughts. Instead, she found herself nodding.

“I want to hear you say it.” His nose was an inch from hers, his breath hot against her cheek.

“Yes,” she managed. “This is what I want you to do to me.” She could hardly believe she had spoken the words.

She expected a cocky, self-satisfied smile. But instead, her husband met her lips with such intensity she felt her legs weaken. He pushed her back against the bookshelf, and at once she could feel his arousal hard against her center. She heard herself moan.

At the sound, he pulled away, a faintly self-satisfied smile on his lips. Before Gemma could protest, he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her into his arms.

“Wyatt!” she gasped. “Put me down.”

“Quiet,” he hissed, a grin on his face. “You are my captive and you must behave.”

Gemma felt a laugh escape her—an incredulous laugh, a laugh of disbelief.

How, of all places, had they ended up here?

Right now, she didn't care. She was so tired of her anger.

So tired of all the thoughts running through her mind.

And so tired of pretending she wasn't craving her husband's body with every inch of her being.

Without relinquishing his hold on her, he marched up the stairs and down the passage.

Shouldered open the door to her bedchamber and set her down on her feet by the end of the bed.

The lamp she had left lit when she had gone downstairs to the library flickered on the side table, filling the room with rusty light.

Wyatt reached down for the silky cord that held Gemma's robe together, deftly untying it with one hand.

In one swift motion, he yanked it out from around her waist.

The robe fell open, revealing the thin cotton nightshift beneath. Gemma could feel her breasts straining against the flimsy white fabric. She felt herself take an instinctive step toward her husband.

She reached out a hand to him, but he grabbed her wrist, easing her back toward the post of the bed.

Gemma drew in a sharp breath. She could hear her heart roaring in her ears.

She could hardly make sense of what was happening.

All she was aware of was a frisson of delight and the unquenchable blaze between her legs.

Wyatt eased her arms behind her, tying them swiftly to the post of the bed.

“What are you doing?” Gemma managed, breathless.

He grinned, his nose grazing hers. “This is what you want, is it not? To be Captain Midnight's beautiful captive?”

Gemma felt her back arch with desire, meeting the rigid bedpost. “Yes,” she breathed.

“Yes.” Somewhere at the back of her mind, that little voice inside her murmured to her that this was wrong.

That this was wanton and dangerous, and exactly the kind of thing the rakish Duke of Larsen was known for.

Indulging in such behavior would only drag her down to his level.

But the need for her husband, and for all he promised to do to her was far too overwhelming.

Wyatt tugged open her nightgown, sending a tiny pearl button shooting across the room. He moved his lips down from her collarbone and traced a long, slow circle around her breast with his tongue. Gemma heard herself moan, any last thoughts of protest disintegrating.

As his tongue worked slowly over her breasts, Wyatt's hands slid up over her legs and hips. He caught her nipple lightly between his teeth, making Gemma cry out with the unexpected jolt of pleasure. The fire between her thighs blazed.

Wyatt raised his head, and Gemma whimpered at the loss of contact. He kissed a trail up her neck to the edge of her lips. “And now?” he asked, eyes glittering. “What did Captain Midnight do to his captive next? I am not sure I can remember?”

Gemma groaned, well aware he was playing with her. She rocked hard against the cord binding her to the bedpost, desperately needing his body against hers. Desperately needing his touch at that place that burned for him the most. She let out an unintelligible murmur.

“What was that?” Wyatt leaned his ear close to her lips. “Tell me what he did next.”

Gemma whimpered again. Was he truly going to make her say it? She was not sure she could get the words out, wasn't sure her own lips could even form such shameless, lustful words. Just when she was about to cry out in frustration, her husband dropped to his knees.

“Ah yes,” he said. “I remember now.” He slid Gemma's nightshift up to her waist, revealing her to the warm air of the bedroom.

Never before had she felt so exposed, so vulnerable.

But before she could let that feeling truly take shape, Wyatt's mouth found her center, bringing a rush of pleasure she had never known existed.

She heard herself cry out, again and again, as his tongue worked against her most intimate of places.

She was distantly aware of how loud she was moaning but had no thought of how she might control it.

All rule over her body, she had handed over to her husband.

And right now, that loss of control felt utterly blissful.

Wyatt gripped her bare thighs as he pleasured her, and Gemma felt her body pressed back hard against the bedpost, the dull pain of it somehow only adding to her pleasure.

She felt herself hurtling toward something she could not quite identify.

Some senseless desire she could not make out the shape of.

And then all at once, her pleasure crashed down on her, erupting inside her and making her cry out her husband's name. Her legs weakened beneath her, and she felt his grip on her tighten and felt herself go weak in his arms.

Wyatt stood, holding himself against her, and kissing along her neck.

Gemma pressed her head into his neck, her breath coming rapidly.

She could feel Wyatt's hardness pressing against her, and somehow, despite the overwhelming sensations she had just experienced, the feeling of him made her long for more.

He looked up to meet her eyes. Gemma expected a look of cockiness; a look that said he had won, and that she had capitulated, as he had always known she would.

But there was none of that. All she saw in her husband's eyes was a look of blatant desire.