Page 56 of The Duke is Wicked
“Oh,” Victoria breathed, a hitch in her voice. “The duke’s ill mood this morn begins to make sense.”
“And the reason you think he won’t get over this,” Piper added with another boot tap against the wall they sat upon. “A man as protective as Sebastian would never knowingly put someone in harm’s way. For you, he’s—”
“Harm’s way.” Delaney wasn’t going to add that the moment he’d realized the state she was in, the entire room had burst into flames. In Sebastian’s rush to alert the servants and get her and Hep to safety, she’d hadn’t had time to question if his reaction meant he was thrilled or appalled.
A smoking bedroom spoke to the man being horrified. Although it had, once or twice, also spoken to the man beingpleasured.
Well, he couldn’t stand there and continue to ignore the problem.
Impulsive. Always her downfall. An error in judgment to have to know, this very minute,whathe was thinking. But following her gut, as she usually did, Delaney gave her puppy to Victoria, shoved off the wall and crossed to her darling duke, bare feet sinking into the mud, nightgown slapping her ankles. As she tugged the blanket close to her neck for the sake of propriety and warmth, slipping and sliding across the dew-slick grass, the League parted to allow her through until she stood before Sebastian, cheeks stinging, the wind tossing her hair into her face. “Your Grace, a moment, if I may,” she said and spat a strand from her mouth.
With a sigh, he scrubbed at the grime on his jaw and gazed at her, making no effort, as he sometimes did, to curl into his enormous height, affording her the superficial luxury of feeling equal physically. Or at least only partially overwhelmed. “Can you not do this now, Temple?” he pleaded, his eyes bloodshot, grooves of exhaustion etched alongside his mouth. “With my home currently ablaze”—he jacked his thumb over his shoulder—“I’m short on tolerance, and I fear I’m going to say something to make you angry. Or, more likely, you’ll say something to makemeangry.”
She stared, fighting to ignore what being this close to him did to her. A nifty, poignant shimmer from lips to knees. If only he weren’t so damned appealing, standing there covered in ash and displeasure. The scar on the underside of his jaw that she’d traced with her tongue more than once, the hint of leather and earth that clung to him, the sliver of golden skin exposed by a rip in his shirt.
She didn’t want to feel fierceaffectionwhen he was set to admit things she didn’t want to hear. His glower meant he was devising a way to manage her—when she didn’t want to be managed.
“The fire’s out, not a bad time to talk,” Finn said to break the tense silence, then swore when Julian gave him a hard shove that sent him skidding to the side.
“Shut it,” Sebastian muttered, taking the Soul Catcher from his pocket and tossing it from hand to hand.
“About what happened in your—”
He didn’t let her finish the statement but grasped her arm and dragged her across the lawn and away from the castle, in the direction of the orangery. The clamor of startled conversation behind them was deafening.
“Oh, no, not there,” she hissed, and yanked her arm from his hold, her blanket fluttering to the ground in the struggle. He knew what the scent of citrus did to her. They’d made love in the dwellingthreetimes, causing her to experience a scalding rush of heat between her thighs every time she smelled oranges. When she bit into one at breakfast, she had to glue her eyes to her plate to hide the graphic images turning her cheeks scarlet. That, or answer her body’s call and crawl across the dining table to get to a duke.
Sebastian released a masculine snort in place of a response, shoved the door wide when they got to the building and gently pushed her inside.
She halted in place, causing him to bump into her back, breath leaving her lungs in a rush. Dawn was breaking, wilted tiers of crimson and gold spilling through the wall of glass panes to splash the stone floor. The air was morning-crisp and redolent of passion and fruit, sending a flutter of awareness through her. “You cur,” she whispered as he moved around her to pace the aisle running the length of the building. “You brought me here on purpose. Very unjust, Tremont.”
“Maybe I did,” he snapped, grabbing a rag from the bench as he passed it and scrubbing the tattered linen across his face. She’d love to tell him, without soap and water, he’d no hope to repair the damage. But he looked incredibly virile, her dirty, devilish duke.
Swearing beneath his breath, he roamed three circles of the orangery until he halted before her. He opened his mouth, seemed to search his mind, tunneled his fingers through his hair, rocked back on his heels. Gave the Soul Catcher a toss between his hands. “To hell with it,” he murmured, walking her back against the door jamb, his hand going to cup her cheek as his lips captured hers. His body was blazing like one of his blasted fires, igniting her own. The scent of smoke and pureSebastianrolling off of him in waves. Need and desperation rolling off of him in waves. He moved in, shifting, until they were connected in all the best places, the places sheliked.
Directing her with his hand at her nape, exactly where he wanted her, how heliked.
For the first time, he didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate, didn’t touch her tenderly. This was feral, uncontrolledhungermixed with fragments of fear and hopelessness.
They fell into the kiss, lips parting, tongues tangling. Tipping her head back as he drew her nightgown high in impatient fistfuls. They stumbled into the bench, walking backward until they hit the settee, and falling in a tangle of arms and legs on it. He pinned her with his weight, his cock hard and heavy, her aroused cry as he ground against her echoing through the orangery.
He lifted his head, his eyes hot as he ripped at the buttons on his trouser close and pulled himself free. Then his fingers found her, delving, searching, sliding, one finger, two, until her lids fluttered. Until the pinpricks of sensation started at her feet and traveled north, seizing her entire body. Reaching, she wrapped her hand around his pulsing length and placed him at her core.
They had practiced this dance until they were skilled and efficient.
“Stay with me,” he whispered, and worked inside her in relentless degrees, with a shift of his hips, stretching and filling her until they were pelvis to pelvis. “I want to see you,allof you when you crest.” He dipped his head, releasing a groan that glided across her collarbone. “I’m not going to…leave you this time.”
Rocking into her, slowly, deeply, they found a delightful rhythm, an elemental push and pull. Again, then again, over and over as sparks lit her eyelids and forced the blood through her veins.
She opened her eyes when he emitted a throaty sound, a frantic call that, alone, could have made her come. His head tipped back, his throat working, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. As shaken as she’d ever seen him.
Wrapping her legs around his waist, she brought him close. Brought himhome.
Then they set themselves free.
His hand at her hip, cupping her breast, thumbing her aroused nipple. Arm snaking beneath her, shifting her body for purchase. Her fingers in his hair, winding and tightening as he stroked tenderly, then with greater urgency. Skin damp, kisses deep. Bodies grinding, moans circling. She nipped the sensitive spot where his neck and shoulder met, and a rough breath shot from his lips, “Again.” She complied and arched into him, taking him deeper.
When he knew she was close, he worked his hand between their bodies and touched her with his calloused fingertip, grazing, circling. A shower of pleasure rained down, and she cried out, flashes of color lighting her vision, her body contracting around him, a series of intense contractions that made him lose control, his pleasure riding just behind hers. His raw whisper rang through her ears as he thrust fast and sure, the muscles in his arms tensing, his flexed bicep bumping her cheek.