Page 12 of The Duke Who Dared Me (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #31)

Witnesses report that the Duke of Tunstall weathered last night’s unexpected storm. Whether he survived Miss Baxter is another matter entirely.

-The Polite Observer

She didn’t let herself think.

Not about tomorrow. Not about what this meant tonight. Instead, she focused on the heat of Alistair’s skin against hers, the rough glide of his hands along her waist, the tremble in his breath when her fingers pulled the hair at the nape of his neck.

She let herself feel , finally. Fully.

His mouth was warm and hungry, exploring each curve and dip.

On her throat, her collarbone, the place just beneath her ear that made her gasp.

She reached for him, needed to feel him, and when her palm pressed against the front of his buckskins, he cursed low and deep, burying his face into her shoulder.

“Verity,” he growled. His teeth lightly nipped her skin.

Good heavens.

A shiver raced up her spine.

The blasted bed was too small, too soft. She pulled away, or attempted to at least, laughing as she tried to break apart from their kiss, but he refused. That was until she swung her legs over his waist and straddled him.

She gazed down at his face, those blue eyes she once swore she hated, and winked.

“Bloody hell, you’re going to kill me looking like that.” He reached up, cupping her breast through the thin, damp linen of her shift.

Everything ached within her, and a strange pressure mounted between her legs.

She didn’t know much of desire or love, but she tossed her head back and closed her eyes, determined to let him teach her, desperate for something, anything to finally break and bring her release. It felt as if she were going mad.

“I feel silly having wasted all this time when you could kiss like this.”

“You slapped me not long ago.”

“But I kissed you again not five minutes after.”

“How’s your right hook?” He laughed, low in his chest. She felt the vibration of it move through her body.

“I can practice.”

He muttered under his breath, then grinned, before he pulled her back down and kissed her slow enough that she swore she forgot the day, her name, and her favorite meal.

She met his lips with equal fervor, moving her hips against his when a warm jolt of pleasure hit between her legs, and she whimpered.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

She nodded, half embarrassed, but too far gone to care.

“Have you ever touched yourself, love?”

She buried her head against his chest, heat biting her cheeks. The truth of it was, for all her bluster and confidence, she wasn’t half as savvy as some of the other debutantes who pretended to be half as innocent. Funny how that worked.

“Can I show you how to bring about your own pleasure?”

She nodded, but his hands found her waist and lightly pinched. “I need to hear you say it. I won’t touch you if you aren’t comfortable.”

Verity leaned forward and whispered against his ear, “Please.”

Again, that low growl ripped from his throat. She decided she liked that sound. She especially liked feeling him between her thighs.

“Sit up.”

She shook her head, wiggling against him once more.

“Later, Bug. Sit up for now.” He pulled her hand on his shoulder and pressed against her wrist. Suddenly, the room was brought back into focus, and she was there with him and not stuck spiraling with her thoughts.

His hand slipped under her shift and slipped up her thigh, climbing higher until his fingers brushed against her soft curls. “Here,” he said, his voice rough. His eyes met hers, pinning her there. It was almost like he held her in reverence, that look in his eyes, soft and unguarded.

Alistair slowly pushed his fingers through her folds and circled the small bundle of nerves at her apex.

This time, she was not quiet when she whimpered.

“Do you like that?” he asked again.

She rocked her hips, desperate for his fingers to move against her once more.

There was nothing delicate or polite as a fire built within her.

Alistair continued circling his thumb against her, and she was panting and hot, and that ache in her body built to something as insufferable as it was heavenly.

This . Her body was capable of this?

“Give me your hand.”

Maybe he repeated himself, she couldn’t remember, only realized his hand pulled away long enough to circle her wrist, before he joined their hands and placed them again between her thighs.

“You’re close. Keep going. Claim it, love.”

She rocked her hips against him and continued the same motion Alistair had maintained.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered. “Go on, Verity.” He kept whispering such beautiful praise. Her heart raced until, finally, that strange pressure mounted, and then pleasure struck hard and fast, racing through her body.

She cried out, startled. It was like nothing she’d expected. It had been wild and hot, and she bit back another cry and gripped his shoulder with her free hand until everything within her tightened.

Verity shattered against his fingers.

He swore softly against her skin.

She blinked, dazed, unsure what had just happened until he dropped his head against the lumpy bed pillow with a sound that was half laugh, half moan.

“Oh,” she whispered, realizing.

He didn’t answer at first. Only wrapped his arms around her and held on, his breath still unsteady.

She should’ve felt awkward. Embarrassed. But instead, a strange warmth bloomed in her chest.

Because in all the ways that mattered, they’d both come undone.

* * *

She was quiet now, curled against his chest, her breath uneven, fingers light on the curve of his ribs.

Alistair forced himself to breathe through it. God, he was wrecked.

Her touch lingered, a whisper of warmth against his skin. Memory washed over him. Her hips rolling under his hands, the wet heat of her on his palm, the desperate, beautiful sounds she’d made when she shattered against his fingers, all of it pulsed through him in one slow, unbearable wave.

But he wasn’t going to do this. He couldn’t lose what little control he had left.

Instead, he tucked her closer and pressed a kiss to her hair, willing his body to behave.

“Are you all right?” His voice was low, rough.

She nodded against his chest. “ Mmm .”

“Do you need anything? Water? A blanket?” His voice steadied, though the ache in his groin pulsed sharp and insistent. He’d take care of himself later.

Verity pulled back, just far enough to study his face. “You didn’t…”

He shook his head. “This wasn’t about me.”

She arched her brow. “You’re hard.”

“You don’t miss anything, Bug.”

“Don’t call me that.” Her hand slid down his stomach, tracing the taut line of muscle disappearing beneath his buckskins.

“Verity.” His voice roughened. “Don’t.”

She sat up, the linen shift clinging to her curves. He could see the outline of her breasts, the soft press of her thighs as she straddled him again, and heat coiled hard and low.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because I’ve already made you cry once this week.” Hoarse now, almost broken. “I won’t risk ruining you. Not like this. Not when we’re both half mad with it.”

“And yet,” she murmured, lifting the hem of her shift, “you’re still hard.”

Before he could answer, she tugged the shift over her head and tossed it aside.

Alistair forgot to breathe.

The fire cast a soft orange glow over her skin, turning every line of her into temptation. Her hair was wild, her cheeks flushed, and her dark eyes held something between a challenge and a dare.

He sat up slowly, hands sliding to her hips. “Are you sure?”

Her nod was all he needed.

He guided her forward, fingers pressing lightly into her thighs, and lowered her to his mouth.

She gasped the instant his tongue touched her. Sweet and soft, with the faintest taste of salt. He held her steady as she rocked, hesitant at first, then seeking more, finding the rhythm they both needed.

“Alistair.”

He groaned into her, the sound vibrating against her most sensitive place. His cock ached. Just the sight of her above him, the taste of her, the way her fingers twisted in his hair. It was almost unbearable.

Her legs tensed around him. Her fingers bit into his scalp as she shattered and cried out.

Pleasure surged through him in a sharp, dangerous wave, and he couldn’t hold back. He gripped her hips, nipped her thigh to muffle his own release, his buckskins still on.

For a long moment, they stayed as they were. She rested her forehead to the wall, eyes squeezed shut, while his heart thudded, wild and uneven.

And then, she laughed.

The soft, breathless sound startled him before she collapsed onto the bed beside him.

“That good, was it?” she teased, grinning.

He covered his eyes with one hand, the other spread possessively over her hip. “I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“No,” he said, dragging the blanket over her. “I really don’t.”

They lay in silence until he finally sighed and rolled from the bed. “Stay there.”

She blinked up at him, dazed and flushed. “What are you doing?”

“Getting a cloth before I disgrace myself further.”

He ducked behind the dressing screen and cleaned himself quickly, gritting his teeth as the cold air hit his skin.

When he returned, she was still curled up, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. He knelt with a fresh cloth and gently wiped the slick from her thighs.

Her breath hitched. “Thank you.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

He tossed the cloth aside and climbed in beside her, careful not to touch too much. Everything inside him still burned. Not just with want but with something sharper, more unsettling.

He’d been reckless, let go more than he should have, and now the edges of regret pressed in.

Verity shifted, tucked herself into the crook of his arm like she’d always belonged there.

He stiffened.

“I’m not asking for forever,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I just want to be free. To choose. Not to be trapped because someone decides I’m not a suitable bride.”

He exhaled slowly. “You’re the most unsuitable bride I’ve ever met.”

She jabbed him lightly in the ribs.

“And I wouldn’t change a damn thing about you,” he added, softer now.

She went still but didn’t pull away. Instead, her head settled on his shoulder, her fingers drawing idle lines along his collarbone.

Alistair stared at the ceiling, heart pounding.

He didn’t say it.

Didn’t say the thought of her with anyone else gutted him.

Didn’t say she wasn’t just his godson’s aunt or his best friend’s sister.

She was his.

But tonight wasn’t for confessions. Tonight was for silence, for letting her stay.

So he said nothing and let sleep take them both.