Page 72 of Wedded to the Cruel Duke

Presently, he kicked the door to his bedchamber open and hastily nudged it close, before gently laying her upon his bed. His actions were such a contrast that she could not help butsmile as she reached out to sweep away a lock of dark hair that had fallen over his eyes as he covered her body with his own.

Phoebe had always thought herself abnormally tall amongst the other young ladies of theton, an ungainly giantess amongst a flock of swans. But Charles, who was much taller, with his broad shoulders and lithe, muscular frame, made her feel small. Delicate even.

“I sincerely hope you are not laughing at my attempts to get you into my bed, wife,” he murmured, turning his head to press a soft kiss to her palm. “Otherwise, I will have to punish you for that…”

“I just cannot help but marvel at how you are such a study in contrasts,” she murmured. “And that I am forever entranced just watching you…”

He groaned and pressed his lips into hers with a searing kiss, sending her senses reeling as his tongue delved into her mouth, tracing her lips and entangling with her own. Her eyes fluttered close as she lost herself in the wild passion of his kiss—yet another contrast that she loved.

“Such a sweet tongue you have there,” he growled, pausing to delicately nip at her bottom lip with his teeth. “Perhaps you were a flatterer as a child, too.”

“Not really,” she admitted with an impenitent smile. “I was told that I had a penchant for mischief and was an incredibly abysmal liar.”

He chuckled darkly at that. “You must have gotten yourself into so much trouble, then…”

“Oh, you would not even know the beginning of it!” she rolled her eyes. She looked at him with gentle curiosity. “Were you a troublemaker as a child too?”

“Future Dukes cannot be troublemakers,” he replied curtly, a hint of bitterness in his tone. Before she could ask him another question, he had sealed his lips over hers once more. His kiss was an education in seduction, rendering her not only speechless, but scrambling for a single coherent thought as well.

Phoebe felt as if her entire body was aflame. Like she had become liquid heat to be molded in his hands as he pleased. When his hand spanned her chest, his fingers passing over the peak of her nipples, she arched into his touch with a sudden gasp.

“I love how you respond so easily to my touch,” he told her, his voice low and sensual as his fingertip circled a rosy peak through the thin fabric of her nightclothes. “It makes me want to touch you all the more…”

Then do it!Phoebe wanted to cry out, but all that would come out was a soft moan.

Working for the Crown, Phoebe deduced that Charles must have acquired some knowledge of torture, for that was what he was doing to her right now—a kind of exquisite torture that soon had her sobbing for release. Even then, he did not relinquishher body’s pleas—oh no, he continued to wring moan after moan from her, drinking it all in as if his very existence depended on it.

She felt something building from deep within her—a rapture that she could not comprehend, just hovering out of her reach.

And Charles held it in his hands. Or his wonderfully expert tongue.

Whatever it was, Phoebe found herself writhing beneath the onslaught he performed on her senses, until she felt she was nothing but a mass of wailing need, her body coiled so tight that she felt she would snap with a single breath.

She let out a mewl of disappointment when he moved away from her. She felt almost… bereft without the warmth and his weight pressing on her. She opened her eyes in confusion when she heard him mutter a curse under his breath.

“Damnation!” he swore, before he tore off his shirt, scattering tiny buttons in his wake. His breeches followed soon after, revealing toned, muscled legs, and a behind that belied his physical activity.

I suppose that boxing under that trapdoor was notallhe did, she surmised in wonder as her eyes drank in his masculine physique.

He was a study in perfection, she realized in awe, watching as the firelight danced over his muscles, casting light and shadows.When he turned towards her, her gaze further roved unbidden from his broad shoulders, to the planes of his abdomen… down to his manhood, jutting proudly between his legs.

“Do you like what you are seeing?” he rasped, a teasing smile playing upon his lips.

Phoebe did not know what sheshouldnot like.

Like every gently bred young lady of theton, she had very little knowledge of the male anatomy, and whatever wisdom her Mama had sent her off with on the day of her wedding—well, it was sorely lacking, to say the very least.

Still, her husband looked every bit asfineas Michelangelo's David. No, he was far moreimpressive.

While David had been carved out of cold marble, Charles Montgomery was made of flesh and bone, alive and gloriously virile in a way that no Renaissance sculpture could ever hope to compare.

“Well, I have never seen a naked man before,” she nervously admitted, propping herself up on the bed on her elbows.

He chuckled. “Thank heavens for that.”

“But you look—” she paused, choking a little bit at the end.

What could she possibly say?Breathtakingseemed too pale a word.Amazingwas far less erudite.