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Page 26 of Tantalizing the Duke

The noise, the madness, the relentless rhythm—it filled the world until nothing else could enter. And he didn’t care. All that mattered was her, the tight and welcoming heat of her, the wild way she matched his pace with complete abandon.

He felt her trembling beneath him, every thrust met with the rising tide of her nearing climax. His mouth found her ear, each word a hot and desperate promise as he whispered how perfect she felt, how beautiful she was.

His encouragement spurred her on, and she moved with him in a perfect, frantic union. Her moans came faster, and he felt the surge of her release coming, building like a storm. He held on, giving her everything, waiting for the moment she’d take him over the edge with her.

It came like an explosion. She arched off the bed, her body bowstring taut as her orgasm shattered through her. She cried his name, loud and uninhibited, and he was lost.

The intensity of her release pulled him under, dragging him into a place where nothing existed but Milly. He spilled into her with a deep, guttural groan, the force of his own climax matching hers. They were unmade, undone, a perfect destruction that left them shaking and breathless and wonderfully alive.

He collapsed against her, spent and sated, and she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as if afraid he might vanish. Their breaths mingled in the warm space between them, each ragged exhale a shared confession.

“Milly,” he whispered again, his voice now soft and tender, the earlier frenzy melting into something sweet and unguarded.

She shifted beneath him, her skin slick with the sweat of their passion, but she made no move to pull away. Instead, she found his lips with her own, a gentle, lingering kiss that spoke of all the things they never said aloud.

“Don’t move,” she murmured when the kiss finally broke, the words half a command, half a plea.

He didn’t, savoring the delicious weight of her as they lay tangled together. It was a peace he had never known, a completeness he hadn’t dared hope for, and he had no desire to let it go.

He lifted his head to look at her, marveling at the flushed cheeks, the lips swollen from their ardor, the way her eyes glowed with a light that seemed to come from within. “You are too beautiful,” he said, a low and reverent admission.

Her laugh was a soft, contented sound. “And you are not as grumpy as you pretend,” she countered, a teasing lilt to her words.

“Mmm.” He nuzzled her neck, a lazy affection in the gesture as he shifted them onto their sides. The sheets clung to their bodies, a damp testament to their passion, but they barely noticed. “I am quite serious.”

“So am I.” She smiled, the expression so open and unguarded it made his chest ache. Her fingers brushed his cheek, an intimate caress that made him want to capture the moment and hold it forever.

They lay in silence, the only sound their breathing, slowing now to a tranquil, satisfied rhythm. He could feel the steady beat of her heart beneath his hand, and it felt like coming home.

“I love you,” she said finally, the words quiet but unwavering.

He kissed her again, tender and full of promise, a vow he intended to keep. “And I, you.”

They drifted in and out of a pleasant, dreamlike haze, finding each other in languid touches and shared warmth. Nothing could touch them, nothing could intrude on this perfect, stolen time, and for now, that was enough.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The great oak doors loomed before them like sentinels guarding the entrance to a battlefield rather than a ballroom. Milly’s fingers, encased in pristine white gloves, trembled slightly against Dainsfield’s arm. One week a duchess, and tonight she would face the very society that had spent years whispering behind fans about her parentage. Dainsfield covered her hand with his, the pressure firm, reassuring. His face remained impassive, but the muscle working in his jaw betrayed his tension.

“Ready, Your Grace?” he murmured, the formality of her new title softened by the unexpected gentleness in his voice.

Milly drew a steadying breath, her shoulders straightening beneath the shimmering ivory silk of her gown. “Yes, Your Grace,” she replied, a hint of mischief brightening her eyes despite her nerves.

The doors swung open, and the butler’s voice rang out with practiced precision: “His Grace, the Duke of Dainsfield, and Her Grace, the Duchess of Dainsfield.”

The makeshift ballroom before them—three rooms connected by hastily removed partitions—glittered with candles. Garlands of spring flowers draped across mantels and doorways, their perfume mingling with the more potent scent of curiosity.

The modiste had performed nothing short of sorcery to create Milly’s gown in time for the celebration—yards of ivory silk embroidered with silver thread that caught the light with every movement, transforming her into a creature of moonlight and grace.

Dainsfield stood beside her, tall and imposing in midnight blue, his black hair gleaming almost blue-black in the candlelight. His hand at the small of her back guided her forward, his touch a shield against the hundred pairs of eyes that followed their progress.

Conversation dimmed momentarily before surging again like a wave against rocks, but now fractured into poorly concealed observations. Milly caught fragments as they moved through the crowd, each one sharp enough to draw blood.

“—illegitimate, of course?—”

“—special license, if you can imagine?—”

“—scandal with Lord?—”

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