Page 44 of The Duke is Wicked

Working to keep up, one hand framing her hip to hold her steady, he trailed the other across her thigh, sweeping circles against her skin, around her garters, persistently touching until her breath began to stagger, her body quiver. When she was ready, he worked his finger between the slit in her drawers. Moist, warm, silky. Skin soft, hair curling around his fingers.

She made a ragged sound in the back of her throat, and he closed his eyes tighter as they touched each other with gentle intent. It intensified his senses because he’d shut down the one. Her teasing scent in his nose, her wispy breaths skating across his neck, the sound of the night, the sound of their arousal.

The taste of her blooming on his tongue, a taste from memory alone.

Finally, unable to withstand the impulse, he opened his eyes to look at her.

She was sliding her hand across his cock, over and back. Fingers curling, exploratory and eager. He groaned, unable to contain the noise and thrust into her touch, widening his stance and bringing her into a tighter fit against his body. A pleasurable ache had started to pulse at the base of his spine. He wouldn’t last long if he looked into her smoky eyes while touching her while she touched him. If he kissed her. If he spent another instant imagining sliding inside her. If he paid too much attention to her fingers tunneling into his hair and scoring his scalp.

A web spun like gossamer and wrapped around them.

He caressed her aroused nub with his thumb, deliberate, gradual circles. Sighing, she shifted her hips to get closer. “Is this where you touch yourself, Temple? Is this how you like it?”

She hummed, pressing her cheek to his chest. “And here.” Hand sliding between their bodies, she cupped her breast. He panted a fast breath through his teeth. Her fingers wrapped around the full mound pushing him one step closer to losing this wager.

“Take your nipple. Pinch it. Softly. Not too hard, but hard enough to feel. Imagine my teeth there, my lips.”

She complied, her shuddering breath striking his cheek. “Open your trousers. You’re touching me”—she moaned into his shirt, the heat of her breath sliding through cotton to warm him—“without a layer of cloth between us. An unfair advantage.”

Without removing his hand from between her legs, he stumbled through the process of unbuttoning the final three buttons, working his cock from the opening in his drawers, a clumsy process that ended with Delaney’s fingers wrapped around him. He guided her hand up and back, letting her know that pressure, and a lot of it, worked well.

His body vibrated like a violin string as she fondled, pausing after each stroke to sweep her thumb in delirious circles over his engorged crown. Like a page being memorized for placement in her attic, she recorded his silent response, her method changing as he showed her what he preferred. With a little practice,verylittle, Delaney could have him coming in an embarrassingly short amount of time. She could have him on his knees, begging.

He wanted to beg. He wanted to spill in her hand. But more than this, he wanted to experienceherpleasure. So he forced his rising arousal aside and directed himself to her. Stroking, circling, pressing. She moaned against his chest at the renewed assault, biting him through his shirt. Which he envisioned calling her on, a violation of the rules to use her lips, herteeth, but his mind was too clouded for debate.

“There’s more,” he murmured, giving her a chance to push him away. But she leaned in with a hushed affirmation that ruined him.

An affirmation that decided everything.

She was wet, tight, his finger easing inside of her as if it was meant to be there. Her head fell back, her hair a glorious, inky cascade down her back, and across the arm he’d slipped around her waist to hold her steady. Her hair was loose, the first time he’d seen it without any containment.

They touched, his strokes, her caresses increasing in force. Groans, whispered murmurs. Bodies shifting, bumping. Heat built beneath his skin, that pulse of desire at the base of his spine a river flowing through him. His hand was sliding from her waist, along her back and into her hair, tipping her head back when he thought it.

What am I doing? I want to kiss her when I come.

“Temple, I forfeit.”

Her eyes opened, her look dazed. “Forfeit?”

He gave his finger a purposeful twist, his thumb finding her crested tip and circling, pressing, grinding. She arched into the stroke, instinctively bringing him deeper. When her lips parted, his name—Sebastian—streaking out, he seized both, unable to deny himself. Another moment of this animalistic, wondrous contact, until he was so close, he couldn’t stand, his knees quivering.

Withdrawing, he grasped her hands and walked back three steps, bumping the armchair and falling into it, taking her with him, their mouths never breaking contact. She sprawled astride him, legs on either side of his hips. When she tried to take him in hand again, he broke the kiss and trailed his lips along her jaw, nipped the skin just below her ear and growled, “Let’s try this.”

Taking her hips, he brought her against him. Skirt gathered at her waist, trouser placket open, their bodies met in a molten press, moist heat, friction. It was like an interaction from his youth, no penetration, just a languid, shuddering bump and grind. The kiss only upped the ante, lips and teeth, shared breaths and moans.

She snaked her arm around his neck and clung, moving against him in a rhythm that gave him an excellent idea of what she would like should he be thrusting inside her. How rough, how fast. After a rushed moment, she trembled and dropped her head to his shoulder.

“Now?” he asked, praying for a moment’s control because his body was strung like wire and close to snapping. Beating down the raging need to fill her, possess her, pressed against her sleek, slick passage when he wanted to beinside.

She didn’t answer, merely strained against him as she tumbled into bliss, releasing a tattered sound into the curve of his neck he’d never in this lifetime forget. His blood thumped through his veins, his vision blurring. Slanting her head, he took her lips, his erection caught atjustthe right angle in the neat tuck between her thigh and core to create the pleasurable friction he needed. Colors burst behind his lids, a bright flare of azure and crimson. His skin, from brow to ankle, tingled, coming alive. His soul soared, the raw passion between them blistering the air, his release rolling through him like cannon fire.

The scent of smoke came moments later.

Whispering an oath, he rolled to his feet, catching her against his side as she stumbled, her skirt plunging to swing violently about her ankles. The blaze was minor, a pile of straw near the door, and thanks to the stone floor, quickly put out with the bucket of water Sebastian kept for just such an occasion. Breath heaving, he glanced back at her from his spot crouched over the smoldering mess. They were shaking, speechless.

Dragging her hand through her disordered hair, she collapsed in the armchair, dropped her head to her hands, huddling into his coat, which, unbelievably, she still had wrapped around her.

Looking down, he curled his fingers around the Soul Catcher. He’d taken it from his pocket the instant he’d smelled smoke. For the first time, a woman’s scent was stronger than the scent of his curse, a potent reminder of what he wanted but couldn’t take. Arms braced on his knees, he hung his head, adrift, shattered. “I’m sorry if I was rough.” He swallowed and tried again, his words so faint he wasn’t sure she’d heard him. “It’s been a long time. You can”—he nodded to the heap of wet ash—“see why.”