Page 25 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)
“ E wan,” Samantha murmured the moment the carriage door shut behind them, cutting off the last strains of music from the Ashworths’ ballroom.
The air inside seemed thick, holding the warmth of the night and the charged hum of what had just passed between them.
Her voice came soft, as though speaking too loudly might shatter it.
“Yes, my tigress?” The rolling lamplight through the window caught the hard lines of his cheekbones, the unwavering focus in his eyes. He didn’t look away.
“In the library …” She swallowed, her pulse tripping. “That wasn’t?—”
“I meant every moment of it,” he said, cutting in without hesitation. His voice carried that roughened edge that set her blood alight—low, deep, threaded with hunger. “And if this carriage ride takes much longer, I might disgrace us both and finish what I started right here.”
Her breath caught. “Is that a threat?”
He leaned forward, the scent of him—warm leather, salt, something darker—curling into her senses. “A promise.”
The word sank into her skin like heat. The silence after seemed alive, wound tight with the rhythm of the wheels on the cobblestones and her own quickening breaths.
“Come here.”
Her body obeyed before her mind could catch up. She slid across the seat, her skirts rustling in the hush, until her knees brushed his. His palm rose, cupping her cheek, his thumb grazing the seam of her lips.
“Is this truly happening?” Samantha whispered, her voice scarcely audible. The question hung between them, fragile as spun glass, embodying all the hesitancy and wonder she’d locked away deep in her heart. Now, it fought to spill free and sully this moment.
But her husband only smiled in response; the tiniest of smiles, really, but never had she witnessed such a devastating sight in all her life.
“If you wish it to stop, you need only say so,” he replied, his breath warm against her temple. There was a gentleness in his tone that belied his treacherous reputation—a consideration that spoke of restraint rather than the reckless abandon for which rakes were notorious.
And Samantha found herself being the reckless one when she said, “I do not want it to stop.”
A deep groan filled the carriage, and Samantha could feel the sound against her palms. “Go on, my tigress, tempt me some more.” He said.
But he didn’t give her a chance to answer before his mouth was on hers. The kiss was fierce, taking, his lips molding to hers with a hunger that drew a soft sound from her throat. Her hands found his lapels, fisting there, pulling him closer.
By the time the carriage slowed to a stop, her lips were tingling, her heart pounding.
“We’re home,” he said against her mouth, but he didn’t stop kissing her until the footman opened the door.
They stepped down, his hand closing over hers, warm and steady, guiding her up the steps. The door had barely shut behind them before he had her pressed against it, his mouth devouring hers in another searing kiss. Her cloak fell to the floor, followed quickly by his coat.
“Upstairs,” he ordered, voice rough with need.
They moved as though they’d never reach the room fast enough, half-stumbling, half-laughing against each other’s mouths. He lifted her for the last few steps, her skirts swaying around his arms.
In the bedroom, he set her down and shut the door with a decisive click. Moonlight pooled through the tall windows, washing silver over the planes of his bare throat where his cravat hung loose.
His gaze swept over her slowly, like a caress, darkening with desire, the golden flecks within them catching the firelight like trapped stars.
Samantha’s heart fluttered like a caged bird as Ewan set her upon her feet, his hands lingering at her waist, the heat of his palms perceptible even through the layers of her gown.
Yet he made no move to touch her further. Instead, he stepped back, creating a small space between them; a gesture that made her want to protest immediately. “Are you certain, Samantha? There will be no retreat after this.”
The formality of his inquiry touched something deep within her; a recognition of the significance of this moment.
Here was a man who had claimed to want her body since their wedding night yet hesitated at the threshold of victory to ensure her willingness.
It was not what she had expected from a rake whose reputation suggested conquest rather than consideration.
“I am certain, my lord,” she said, reaching for the pins in her hair with trembling fingers, each one a small anchor of propriety she was willingly casting aside.
“Allow me,” he murmured, stepping behind her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could inhale the subtle blend of sandalwood and bergamot that comprised his personal scent.
With gentle precision that spoke of considerable experience, he removed each pin, allowing her auburn tresses to cascade down her back in a waterfall of copper silk.
His fingers combed through the heavy mass, occasionally grazing her scalp in a manner that sent shivers cascading down her spine.
When he leaned forward to press his lips to the sensitive spot beneath her ear, she gasped, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet intimacy of the chamber.
“Turn around,” he commanded softly, and she obeyed, her body responding to his voice as if it were a physical caress.
His deft fingers made quick work of the fastenings of her gown, each brush of his knuckles against her skin igniting sparks of sensation that traveled through her nerves like lightning. The silk rustled as it slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a whisper of expensive fabric.
Ewan’s gaze traveled over her form, clad now only in her chemise and corset, the intricate lacework of the undergarments both concealing and revealing.
The intensity of his regard made her feel both vulnerable and powerful—a paradox she had never before experienced in the presence of a man.
And one she had not once imagined she would enjoy.
But now, she was heady with it.
“You are exquisite,” he said, his voice rough with want, stripped of the polished elegance he presented to society.
“And you have too many clothes,” she replied, surprising herself with her audacity. It was as if another woman had momentarily inhabited her body—one unencumbered by the weight of propriety that had been her constant companion since girlhood.
A smile curved his lips. It was not the sardonic smirk she had grown accustomed to, but something warmer, almost tender, transforming his features into a portrait of genuine pleasure rather than practiced charm. “A situation easily remedied.”
He quickly divested himself of his coat and waistcoat with efficient movements that spoke of long practice, each garment carefully placed aside rather than carelessly discarded, then paused at his cravat, the white linen stark against the bronzed column of his throat.
Samantha stepped forward hesitantly, drawn by an impulse she could neither name nor resist.
“May I?” The question was barely audible, a breath of sound rather than formed words.
“Please.” His consent was equally soft, willing.
She pulled at the already loose cravat, brushing occasionally against the warm skin of his throat, feeling the steady pulse that belied his outward calm. She freed him from the length of silk and let it fall beside her gown.
“Please… continue,” he encouraged, and she began to unbutton his shirt, each movement deliberate, a slow revelation of intimacy that felt more profound than mere physical exposure.
As each button surrendered to her inexperienced fingers, more of his chest was revealed—the same magnificent expanse she had glimpsed that night when she’d knocked on his door.
Now, she allowed herself to admire it openly, to appreciate the sculpted perfection that had previously inspired only forbidden thoughts.
The firelight played across his skin, highlighting the definition of muscle and sinew, casting shadows that emphasized the masculine strength of his form.
When his shirt joined the growing pile of discarded clothing, she placed her palm against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath her hand, the rhythm slightly accelerated; evidence that her touch affected him as profoundly as his affected her.
“Touch me,” she whispered, the words a supplication and a command interwoven.
He needed no further invitation. His hands moved to the laces of her corset, freeing her from its confines with practiced ease that might have inspired jealousy had she not been so consumed by the sensations he evoked.
The chemise followed, and then she stood before him utterly bare, her skin flushed with equal parts desire and shyness, the dichotomy of a woman caught between society’s expectations and her own awakening passions.
“I have dreamed of this,” he confessed, tracing the curve of her waist with reverent fingers that left trails of fire in their wake. “Of having you like this. But the reality far surpasses the fantasy.”
His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that obliterated all coherent thought, consuming her awareness until there was nothing in her world but the taste of him, the press of his lips, the demanding caress of his tongue against hers.
She melted into him, her arms encircling his neck as he swept her into his embrace, the contact of skin against skin a revelation of intimacy she had never imagined possible.
He lifted her once more, carrying her to the large bed that dominated the room, its mahogany posts rising like sentinels toward the embroidered canopy above.