Page 55 of The Duke that I Lost

THE HOTHOUSE

D ash held perfectly still, waiting for her answer.

The Season was not over yet but surely, she had to know. She had to know if she loved him or not. She had to know her own feelings.

“I’m afraid.” Her voice was calm, but her fingers betrayed her—worrying the edge of her sleeve, smoothing it, worrying it again. “I don’t want to be.”

“What are you afraid of, princesse ?”

She drew a trembling breath. “Of being a fool. Of loving you again and finding myself… ruined by it. I don’t know how to step forward when I can’t be sure the ground won’t crumble beneath me.”

He nodded—once, then again—because though it cut him, he understood. “You would be a fool not to be afraid.” His gaze dropped to his hands; he flexed them slowly, then lifted his eyes back to hers. “I kept things from you, ma chère … truths you should have had the instant I knew who you were.”

“Who I was?”

“ L’amour de ma vie ,” he admitted freely. “You deserved to know everything. I told myself I was protecting you—when I was really protecting myself.”

Her throat moved, but she said nothing.

“I won’t make excuses,” he went on. “I hate that because of me, you spent a single second doubting yourself, that for even one moment you thought you were not enough.” He closed his eyes for a beat and then opened them.

“Going forward, if you ask a question, I will answer it. If I am afraid or ashamed, I will tell you that too. No more shadows. No more… half-truths. I cannot undo what I did, but I can change what I do from here on. I can be better for you, if you will give me the chance.”

The smallest breath left her. “I want to believe that,” she whispered. “So much. That’s the worst of it. I’m torn in two. Part of me reaches, and the other…” She pressed a hand to her middle. “The other is frozen. Paralyzed.”

And what could he say to that? It looked as though she did not yet have an answer for him, but he couldn’t blame her. He’d left her a tangled knot of desire and pain.

Still, she had come to him today, and she had yet to leave. He would hear her out, however long it took, whatever she had to say. She’d done the same for him, after all.

But first…

Dash looked around and, not seeing any better options, tilted his head towards the work table. “Will you sit?”

She dipped her chin, and he lifted her easily onto the wooden surface, settling her so she perched nearly eye level with him.

His palms smoothed the fabric of her skirts, a pretense for the brush of his fingers against her hips.

He didn’t retreat. He stepped closer, filling the space between her knees. And then…

“Imagine me without you,” he said, and his mouth slanted in something that wasn’t a smile. “I have tried. It is a life in half measure. Breathing, but shallow. Eating, but without taste. I am not asking you to forget, Ambrosia. Only—let me earn a future where I never have to imagine that again.”

“I want to… But how?”

“By giving us a chance.” He leaned forward, dropped a kiss along the tender skin of her jaw. “Second by second. Minute by minute.”

When he trailed his lips downward, she tilted her head, sighing.

“Hour by hour.” He raised a hand to touch her sleeve. “Give it a day. A month. A year.”

The pulse in her neck fluttered like an anxious butterfly.

“Let me love you, princesse . We will fly—but I promise, you will always land on solid ground.” He whispered the vow against her skin as he peeled her gown from her shoulders.

His lips lingered on each new inch of flesh, teasing the delicate slope of her collarbone before dragging lower, along the curve of her arm.

She trembled. She did not stop him.

With one insistent tug, her bodice loosened, and her breasts tumbled free. “How is it,” he murmured hoarsely, “that God made you so perfectly for me?”

“Dash—” she gasped when his mouth closed over one dusky peak. His tongue lashed, circled, tugged, until she arched, pressing her breast harder into his mouth. He cupped her with both hands, kneading the soft weight, rolling her nipples between fingers and lips until they stiffened to aching points.

And then he suckled harder, pulling.

She moaned, dragging her fingers through his hair, wrenching, desperate.

When those hands demanded he look up, his lips found hers in a devouring kiss. Tongues tangled, teeth collided.

“Just let me love you,” he begged against her mouth.

“ Yes .”

In one swift motion, he swept her skirts upward. The fabric ballooned around her waist, baring her completely to his gaze.

Desire struck him hard, brutal in its force. Those smooth, endless thighs… the dark, silken nest between them— mon Dieu . She was perfection.

Her hand twitched toward her lap, the reflex of modesty, but stalled. For a heartbeat she hovered, torn—then let it fall away. Her lashes lifted, meeting his gaze. And slowly, deliberately, she parted her knees, just a few inches, granting him a view so intimate it nearly undid him.

He dropped to his knees, his breath coming rough as he steadied her hips.

“I need—” he rasped, pressing open-mouthed kisses above her knees, then higher, and higher still. “To give.” His tongue darted along the inside of her thigh. “Everything.”

She trembled, clutching at his shoulders.

“Please,” she gasped, voice breaking.

He could not deny her.

He nudged her knees farther apart and pulled her to the edge of the table, her hips rocking helplessly toward his mouth.

Then, his face cradled by her thighs, he dragged his tongue slowly, deliberately, through tender folds.

Her wetness surrounded him, both the salt of perspiration on her legs and the sweet taste of her desire.

He groaned, and the vibration made her jerk.

Her back arched, her head thrown back, the long column of her throat bared. One hand flew to grip the table, knuckles white, while the other clutched at his hair, guiding him.

“Please, yes— Dash !” Breathless.

He lapped in long strokes, then circled her swollen pearl with the flat of his tongue. She cried out again, hips bucking, but he held her firm, spreading her wider, feasting like a man starved.

When her thighs quivered, he slid two fingers inside her—slow, filling, curling upward until she gasped his name again and again. He stroked her there, deep and steady, while his tongue flicked and sucked her clit.

“Dash—please—don’t stop, don’t stop?—”

Her body bowed off the table, shuddering, nails biting into his shoulders as her climax ripped through her. Ambrosia sobbed his name, trembling as he coaxed her through it, licking and stroking until she collapsed back, shaking and undone.

When at last he rose, he kissed her mouth fiercely, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“ Tu es à moi ,” he whispered. “Mine, pour toujours .”

But his princesse , she was not finished.

Her hands fumbled at his trousers, tugging with a desperation that stripped away pretense. Of course he helped her— mon Dieu —shoving them down far enough to free himself. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, pressing hot against her belly.

She stared down at him, wide-eyed, lips parted.

The sight nearly undid him—her gaze locked shamelessly on his member, her breath coming fast and shallow. He shifted, the blunt head sliding to tease her entrance, slick and ready from his mouth.

She gasped, hips tilting in welcome.

“Say it,” he demanded, his tip poised. “Say you want me.”

“Dash—”

“Say it, ma chère . Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” she whispered, eyes wide, lips trembling. “I want you .”

He groaned, and with a deliberate, pent-up thrust, he filled her.

When she cried out, he stilled, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in.

“ Regarde-moi ,” he urged softly. “Look at me.”

Her gaze was pained, frustrated.

Trusting.

“You. Are. Mine,” he ground out.

In answer, she lifted her hips, urging him deeper. That was all it took. And thus he began to move—long, deliberate strokes.

Each thrust drew a whimper, each retreat a gasp, until she was clinging to him, legs tight about his hips.

“ Mon amour… mon trésor …” He kissed her lips, her jaw, the hollow of her throat. Her body clenched, rippling around him.

But even as the tremors coursed through her, he did not relent.

He slowed his thrusts, deepening them, coaxing rather than claiming, his eyes never leaving hers.

“ Encore, ma princesse ,” he murmured, a command but also devotion. “One more. Let me take you higher still.”

She shook her head faintly. “I cannot… I am undone?—”

“You can,” he whispered, brushing his mouth against hers. “Look at me. You are… magic… Ambrosia .”

He buried himself to the hilt, wringing a fresh sound from her throat—high and helpless. His thumb found her clit, stroking in time with the rhythm of his body, and her cries grew sharper still.

Her nails raked down his back, stinging, and mon Dieu , the pain only drove him wilder.

Strong hips met his, lifting off the table, and when her inner muscles clenched tighter, she dragged him deeper.

His thrusts raged, driven by a force beyond his control, each one tearing a groan from his chest. A violent ache building, coiling at the base of his spine.

“ Mon Dieu… princesse …” The words broke from him in a hoarse rasp.

Sweat trickled down his back, his muscles burning, but he didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

When he could endure it no longer, Dash buried his face in her neck, teeth grazing her skin.

Then, clutching her hips, he spilled into her.

And still she convulsed around him, milking him, joining. Sharing every last shudder.

And through it all, he held her tight, as though he could sink even deeper, as though he might fuse them into one flesh.

But could he?

By the time the final wave ebbed, he braced his trembling arms on either side of her.

“I meant it,” he whispered, still buried deep. “Forever.”

She didn’t answer.

Brushing a kiss over her damp brow, then her swollen mouth, he eased her gently back to rest on the table he had built with his own hands. The loss of her heat was nearly unbearable.