Font Size
Line Height

Page 11 of Tantalizing the Duke

She caught his eye and held it. “Fuck me.”

She felt his cock jump before he increased his stroke. He was touching all the right places to make her enjoy it more, as if his cock wasn’t enough.

When she clutched him tighter, when she moaned and arched and let him know precisely how he filled her, he seemed to lose himself. Their frantic rhythm drew her closer, made a low, urgent promise with each thrust. She sighed, whispered his name, begged. “Please, Dainsfield, now, now.”

Suddenly she shattered, barely noticing when he found his own release. She was still breathless when he carried her to the bed, still warm and lovely and wicked. He set her down and lay beside her.

Lying on his bed, Dainsfield began the next coupling with slowness, with savoring. He worshipped her, brought himself under control, at least until Milly’s gentle sighs set him free again.

There was no taming his desire. He tried. A noble effort, ruined by the taste of her mouth, the smell of her perfume, the heat of her skin, and how desperately he needed them all.

She tugged at his hair, his heart. Her soft, perfect laugh was as unguarded as the rest of her.

This woman. How had he stayed away so long?

She stretched beneath him, touched his face, tasted his mouth. Dainsfield had never known anyone so forthright, so sure of herself, so sure of him.

He wanted the night to last forever. And if it couldn’t, he meant to take full advantage of every second, every part, every willing inch.

When he pressed against her, long and slow and close, Milly dug her nails into his shoulders and moaned.

His lips traveled her neck, her collarbone, lower. She moved with him, let herself go, and together they became more than he believed possible.

This was madness. He was mad to want her, mad to have her, mad for believing he’d ever stop.

He dipped lower, and the frantic beat of her pulse drove him on. He teased, tasted, gave her everything but mercy.

“Again,” she breathed. “Please, please.”

They were more languid this time, more lost in themselves and in one another. And when she began to move beneath him, there was no hiding how sweetly he was undone.

In the dying light from the fire, against the bedpost, against all reason, they turned each other’s longings into something rich and urgent and fierce.

Even as they gasped, even as they tumbled over the edge together, Dainsfield knew he hadn’t enough of her.

Even as Milly cried out, then gave a satisfied, desperate, familiar laugh, she seemed to know as much.

After, in the calm of half-lit candles and a warm, dark fire, she nestled against his chest. His arms around her were so right, so close, so close to dangerous.

“I told you it would be worth it,” she said.

“It isn’t over yet,” he replied, then turned and pulled her to lie with her bottom at the edge of the bed, where he could kneel and worship her.

She melted into him, like wine, like fire, like the exquisite end of him.

His mouth roamed, then his hands, until she was wild beneath him. Until her breath came fast and furious. Until she was close, so close.

When her whimpers reached a certain pitch, he lifted her hips, buried his face in her wetness, and made her cry even higher, louder.

When he could breathe again, he lay on his back and pulled her on top. Milly pinned him with a wicked look, wicked legs, and a wicked laugh. She pulled him into a hot, shameless ride.

Her movements quickened, grew uneven, desperate. She lost herself, found herself, made herself right at home.

The pleasure—so new and so immense—left him breathless, open-mouthed, so sweetly satisfied.

And it left him ruined.

They fell together on the sheets, another long, reckless tangle of limbs and delight.

Ad If ads affect your reading experience, click here to remove ads on this page.