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All Eleanor felt was the shaky exhale on the back of her neck and her racing heart. All she knew was that his words could not be true, no matter how much she wanted to believe them.

“You will be most perfect.”

Behind her, Spencer was a warm, solid wall, and she let herself fall backward. He caught her, as healways had.

“Watch the fire,” he murmured, his lips brushing her earlobe as her dress slipped down her body.

The bodice pooled around her waist, leaving her bare, for her corset had been soaked from the storm.

His hands were already roaming, slowly but surely exploring her. He cupped her breasts, heavy and waiting, his thumb smoothing over her nipples, which stiffened at the slightest touch.

Heat shot through her, and she gave in to it, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Do you recall what I told you the night I touched you?” His breath fanned her bare shoulder, and she shivered at the sheer pleasure it wrung from her. “That I will take care of you. Will you let me?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly.

“Then”—he kissed the underside of her jaw, slow and lingering—“open your legs for me, Eleanor.”

“You—you expect me to keep my wits about me when you give me such heated demands?”

She opened her legs regardless, not looking away from the fire, for he had ordered her to watch it. It only made the anticipation of his touch more exhilarating.

“Yes.” He laughed lowly against her neck. “Yes, I do. For every answer you do not give, I will stop.”

“You would not dare,” she breathed.

“I would. If only to tease you, I would. And then I would come back for you and give you the wickedest punishment for your defiance.”

“Defiance,” she echoed, her voice so thick with desire. “Is that what I am? Defiant in the face of the well-behaved Duke of Everdawn?”

“Oh, I do not know if he is all that,” Spencer teased, his fingers already tracing patterns up her inner thigh.

She could not quite recall when he had distracted her long enough to slip his hand beneath her gown, but her hips were already moving of their own accord.

“If he is not well-behaved, then I would like to experience it,” she whispered, surprising herself. She half turned in his embrace. “I would like to know you gentle, but I would like to know you rough as well.”

He was so quiet that it prompted her to fully turn in his arms, facing him.

Her dress pooled around her hips, and she leaned forward, all but crawling over him as she pushed him onto his back. Her breath caught at the sheer way it made her feel confident and brazen.

Spencer’s eyes were dark as he gazed up at her. His mouth was tightly shut, but she did not need to hear his words to read him.

“I always thought you quite unreadable,” she admitted, brushing her fingers over the side of his face. “Yet I can see plenty now, even in your silence.”

Spencer only raised an eyebrow, silently inviting her assessment.

Eleanor parted her thighs over his, lowering herself onto the hard bulge beneath his breeches. She didn’t dare look down yet. If she did, she would lose her nerve. Instead, she followed her bodily instincts.

“You desire me,” she said. “I do not know why, or to what extent?—”

“To every extent,” he growled, cutting her off.

His hands firmly grabbed her hips, pulling her flush against him. A gasp tore from her mouth as their bodies met in the most intimate of places—him still clothed, her still hidden beneath the layers of her bunched skirts.

“Do you think you have power over me at this moment, Duchess?”

She ignored him with a wicked grin.

She found herself seeking something between her legs, a sensation she was still not familiar with but craved all the same.

Her hips circled, and when she felt Spencer’s length settle snugly in that intimate place, he let out a groan she wanted to hear more of.

“As much as I am enjoying this,” he rasped, “I want you naked above me.”

“And I you.”

She had barely finished when she was lifted off his lap, pulled to her feet, and pinned to the bedpost behind her.

Spencer tugged her dress off her and tossed it aside, and then their bodies aligned. She could feel every ridge of his clothing, every button pressed against her, every brush of fabric.

“Please,” Eleanor breathed, her fingers curling into his waistband. “I want—I want to see you.”

The slow smirk he gave her had her heart fluttering madly. Her knees weakened to the point of collapsing on the bed as he unbuttoned his shirt, that smirk never once wavering, as if he was enjoying the little performance.

She liked knowing that he did, but Heavens , she was enjoying it more.

With each button, more inches of him were bared.

The broad shoulders she had felt and seen before seemed to have nothing on how much wider they had gotten, utterly solid muscles beneath his skin.

Scars and what seemed to be burns scattered over his chest and ribs, disappearing into his breeches peculiarly, yet she skimmed over them, knowing now was not the time to ask.

He took off his shirt and dropped it onto her dress. His upper body was not as tense as she had thought, but she saw how his stomach muscles rippled as she watched him, how his upper arms bunched, so thick that she knew she could not wrap only one hand around them.

As her gaze raked over him from head to toe—his autumn-kissed hair, his heavy-lidded brown eyes, his trimmed beard that covered some of his scar—he unfastened his breeches.

Her breath caught.

“You are pale, Eleanor,” he noted, frowning. “Are you certain you want me to see me naked?”

“Do not tease me,” she pleaded, impatiently watching, her whole body aching with need.

She felt as though she was in a daze, waiting for him—waiting for all of him. And moments later, she was given what she craved.

Spencer pushed down his breeches, bearing narrow hips and thick thighs.

“I…”

Her voice stuck in her lungs, her lashes fluttering as she beheld his manhood. It was thick, long enough to curve up to his belly, and her stomach jumped at the sight.

“Spencer, I?—”

There was an ache deep within her core, a demand to feel what she could see, and his gaze dropped to her parted legs.

“Are you aware that you are wet for me?” he asked quietly, his eyes hot and hungry, fixed on her.

He braced himself on the edge of the bed, planting one knee on the mattress and nudging her back. Eleanor scooted backward, her breathing labored.

“Are you aware that your sex is glistening, dripping with desire?”

Aside from the hunger in his eyes, he looked utterly undone. Eleanor flushed red at his words.

“Let me touch you.”

It was a desperate plea, not an order, a vulnerable moment as he finally braced himself over her. He moved his knee between her own, nudging her legs further apart. His hand fell to her hip, teasing her as she fell silent.

“Let me,” he urged softly, nosing along her throat. His teeth nipped the sensitive skin, and she moaned.

“I am yours,” she breathed, but he shook his head.

“I want you to ask,” he murmured, his eyes holding hers as if searching for the trust he needed.

Trusting men had never come easy to Eleanor, not even when it came to Spencer, but now… now she knew she would do anything he asked.

“Ask me to touch you.”

The hand on her hip wandered wickedly close to where she ached desperately.

Discreetly, Eleanor lifted her knee, brushing his length to tease him right back. Spencer hissed as he moved closer until they were almost flush.

“Please,” she said. “Please touch me.” Her hips bucked. “I must—I must feel your touch in every intimate place. I do not want there to be a place you have not touched. Not one inch of me.”

“Ask me again,” he breathed, smiling down at her as if he knew just how much power he held over her.

“Touch me.”

It was less of a request and more of a demand this time, and he grinned, all danger and teasing, all dark desire and adoration, as he leaned down to claim her mouth—right as his hand cupped her soaked sex.

Eleanor moaned into his mouth as he slid two fingers inside her, already desperate to prepare her, and she parted her legs further to give him more access.

His length ground against her thigh, and she ached for it. She ached to feel it filling her.

“I have not stopped thinking,” Spencer murmured, pulling back to look at her, “about how you looked with your lips wrapped around my fingers.”

He slowly slid his fingers in and out of her, both grounding and distracting.

“Why?” she asked breathlessly, aware she could toy with him in return.

He gave a low growl. “There are…” He thrust deeper, coaxing a loud gasp from her.

“… certain things that can feel good for a man that…” His words dripped from his lips, delicious and heady.

Eleanor couldn’t help but splay her hands over his chest before moving one to his hair.

“That require the use of a lady’s mouth. ”

“Any lady?” she purred.

“ You ,” he corrected, snarling into another demanding kiss. “Only you.”

“And do you wish me to learn how to do this thing you speak of?”

“One day, perhaps,” he allowed, his fingers still steadily sliding in and out of her. “But not tonight. Tonight, there is only one place I wish to bury myself, and it is not your mouth.”

He curled his fingers inside her, brushing a spot that had her crying out.

At that moment, Eleanor did not care about his aunt, or even Charlotte, whose room was several doors down the hall.

All she cared about was the pleasure, how much more of it she would have tonight, and how she wasn’t sure she would be able to endure it in the best way possible.

“Heavens, you sound beautiful,” he muttered, kissing the corner of her mouth and lightly nipping her lips before pulling back.

His length twitched against her leg, and she stifled another groan at the thought of it entering her.

Spencer moved back and sat on his heels, gripping his length. He nodded when she kept her eyes on his own.

Eleanor let her gaze drift to where his hands wrapped around his length, and her mouth went dry.