Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (31 page)

“Why did you come to me?”

Say it,
he willed, knowing it was not his place. Knowing he did not deserve it.

“I love you.”

A thrill coursed through him at the words, so simple. So honest. He took the straining tip between his lips, rewarding her with long pulls at the sweet flesh there. Loving the way she writhed against him, the way she cried out when he ran his tongue and teeth over her sensitive flesh, the way her hands twisted so that her fingers could thread through his.

When he lifted his head, they were both breathing heavily, and he was desperate to touch her everywhere.

To taste her everywhere.

“Again.”

“I love you.”

He released her hands, sliding down her body, placing warm kisses along her breasts and stomach and the soft crease where her thigh and hip met and the scent of her was unbearably perfect.

He was addicted to her softness, to the feel of her, to the way she pressed against the sheets and rocked her hips against him. He had never wanted anything in his life the way he wanted her. Now.

And she was here.

And she was his.

Simon slid off the bed, kneeling beside it. She sat up, instantly. “Where are you—?” The question gave way to a little squeak when he pulled her closer to the edge of the bed, letting her legs hang over the side, and stroked up her smooth soft skin from ankle to knee. He watched his hands, large and brown, follow the curve of her legs, and could not resist palming her strong, lean calves and easing her legs apart.

“What are you—? Simon!” she gasped, and he leaned forward, insinuating his body between her thighs. Her hands flew to cover the place he was desperate to touch, and he nipped the edge of her jaw lightly with his teeth.

“Lie back, Siren.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. You can’t.”

“You can. And I shall.” He heard the gravel in his tone. Felt the desperate desire coursing through him. If she did not let him touch her soon . . . “You asked for everything,” he said, the words thick at her ear. “This is part of it.”

She pulled back, and if he had not been as hard and aching as he was, he would have laughed at the skepticism in his gaze. “I’ve never heard of this.”

“You gave yourself to me,” he said, pressing her thighs wider, sliding his hands higher, touching his tongue to the perfect arch of one of her cheeks. “This is what I want.” She caught her breath as his fingers reached her hands, shielding her from view. He stroked his fingertips down the skin of her hands, a light, barely there touch that they both felt acutely. He stroked again, up to one delicate wrist, then back down. “I think you want it, too.”

He moved back to her ear, loving her shyness, her uncertainty. Wanting to teach her to share her secrets. “You ache here, don’t you?” She nodded, barely, and a surge of masculine pleasure coursed through him. “I can take it away.”

She exhaled on a long, shaky breath, and the sound went straight to the hard, straining length of him. He gritted his teeth.
No.
This was for her. She would find her pleasure. He would give it to her, and take his from that.

“Simon,” she said, her accent thick, wrapping around the syllables of his name like a fist. “Please.”

“Lie back,” he whispered, pressing her to the bed with his kiss before trailing down to where he desperately wanted to be. He pressed a soft kiss on one of her knuckles. “Let me in.” When she did, revealing the folds of her sex, he groaned his pleasure. He spread her soft lips gently, and she lifted her hips toward him. She was so tender, so ready for him. Slick and wet and perfect.

He ran one finger down the center of her, listening to her breathing, to the little cries she made as he explored. He discovered her, pressing and stroking to the sound of her pleasure, then sliding one finger into the hot, wet core of her. She was so tight, she came off the edge of the bed at the sensation.

He looked up her body as she lifted herself off the bed and drank in the vision of her, her gorgeous black hair, eyes like sapphires gleaming with pleasure, full, pink lips barely open as she gasped for breath.

He had never wanted anything like he wanted her.

He moved his hand, loving the way her eyes closed, then opened in time to the movement. He leaned forward, blew a long stream of air directly on the center of her pleasure, and gloried in the little cry of passion that she could not keep from escaping.

He was going to die if he didn’t have his mouth on her soon.

He rubbed his thumb across the swollen, pulsing heart of her, and she gasped her answer, her shyness gone. “Kiss me.”

“As you wish,” he said, and settled his lips to her, holding her wide as he pressed his tongue to the place where his thumb had been, making love to her with slow, savoring strokes. She arched off the bed, plunging her fingers into his hair and holding him to her as she moved against his mouth. She was wine, and he was instantly obsessed with her taste, with learning the things that she loved, wanting only to give her pleasure. To drive her wild.

He did. Slow circles became gradually faster, tongue working in time to the flexing of her fingers in his hair, and then she lifted herself from the bed offering herself to him. He took her, holding her to him while she found her pleasure, masculine satisfaction rippling through him.

And when she shattered in his arms, he was there, holding her, stroking her, bringing her back to earth.

He lifted his head after the last ripple of pleasure coursed through her, and he moved to lie beside her, wanting to hold her, to keep her safe.

He kissed her neck, sucking gently at the delicate skin there until she sighed. He could pleasure her forever. He could lie abed and worship her for an eternity. He took a nipple into his mouth, worrying it until she whispered his name, then kissed her, sliding his hand between her thighs in an undeniable urge to brand her as his.

Her legs parted against the weight of his hand, and her fingers slid down his torso to the waistband of his breeches. “Simon,” she said, and the low, sated pleasure in her voice made him agonizingly hard. “Remove your pants.”

God, yes.

He closed his eyes against the thought. “Are you certain?” If he was naked with her, there would be no going back.

She nodded, her sapphire eyes dark with passion. “Very.”

She would have him. Again and again, for the rest of their days.

He kissed her again, slow and deep. “I could not deny you anything.”

And as the words echoed between them, he knew they were true. She was everything he had ever wanted. And he would do everything in his power to keep her in his world. Nothing else mattered.

Her hands worked inexpertly at the buttons of his breeches until he could not bear the fumbling pressure anymore, and he lifted himself off the bed to divest himself of pants and boots as quickly as possible. Returning to her, he groaned his pleasure as he settled between her silken thighs, desperate to be inside her.

“Wait,” she whispered, scooting backward, away from him. “I want to see.”

He narrowed his gaze on her and followed her across the bed. “Not now. Next time.”

He took hold of her legs and pulled her to him, rubbing himself against her until she sighed at the friction. “But . . . we only have one night. This is my only opportunity to see you.”

He froze at the words, his hands coming to her face, holding her firmly so he could look into her eyes. He saw the sadness there, the desperation, overwhelmed by passion.

This would not be one night. She had to know that.

He would never let her go.

Everything had changed.

“Juliana,” he whispered, low and dark, thrusting through her wetness so that the tip of him rubbed her most sensitive spot. He watched her eyes widen, then cloud with pleasure. “Don’t make me stop.”

He repeated the motion, and her lids lowered. “No. Don’t stop.”

He pressed himself to the entrance of her, easing just inside her tight, blazing sheath before he paused—the hardest thing he had ever done—and looked down at her. “Is this all right?”

She nodded once, taking her bottom lip between her teeth, and the movement sent a shiver of desire straight to the core of him. But he would not ruin her first taste of passion. He held himself there, still, reveling in her heat, wanting nothing more than to thrust to the hilt and bury himself within her.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

She shook her head. “You won’t.”

He reached between them, stroking the tender, sensitive core of her until she gasped her pleasure. “I will. But then I will do my best never to hurt you again.” He met her gaze before running his tongue across her bottom lip, and saying, “Look at me. I want to watch you.”

She nodded, and he rocked against her, easing farther and farther into her tight passage, trying to be gentle, watching pain and pleasure war within her as she adjusted to his smooth thrusts, each deeper than the last. He was soon buried to the hilt, and they were both breathing heavily.

She whispered, “You have the most beautiful eyes.”

Pleasure coursed through him at the unexpected compliment, and he kissed her long and slow. Pulling back, he smiled, rocking gently against her. “Impossible. They are nothing compared to yours.”

He was desperate to move. Desperate to take the release for which his body had been begging all night. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her jaw, and said, “Does it hurt, Siren?”

She shook her head, and when she spoke, he heard something wonderful in her tone. “No . . . it feels . . . Simon, I can feel you . . . everywhere.” She relaxed and pressed up to meet his movements. He hissed his pleasure. She ran her hands down his back to the curve of his buttocks and clasped him tightly to her. “Do that again. Harder.”

He groaned. She was going to kill him.

He began to move, deeper, faster, with more power, and she cried her pleasure in his ear, threatening his sanity. In moments, she was whispering his name, her hands tangled in his hair, moving in time to his deep, smooth thrusts. He had never been so ready to take his pleasure, but he would not let go without her. He wanted her with him when he threw himself over the edge.

They rocked together, sensation building, until they were both gasping for breath.

“Simon . . . it’s . . . I can’t stop it.”

“Neither can I,” he pulled out until he was almost gone from her, then returned, sinking into her heat.
How had he ever thought he could resist her?
“Look at me, love. I want to watch.”

She did, and her tumble into pleasure was his undoing. He followed her over the precipice with a force he had never before experienced; she was the center of his world—he wanted to stay in her arms, in this moment, in this night forever.

He collapsed into her arms and lay there for a long moment, breath coming in harsh bursts, before he realized that his weight must be crushing her. Turning, he pulled her to sprawl across him, all soft, glowing skin and silken hair. He could feel her breasts rising and falling against his chest, and he gritted his teeth against the instant awareness that coursed through him.

He wanted her again. Now.

He ignored the desire, instead running his fingers across her smooth, bare shoulders, reveling in the little tremor that pushed her closer to him, loving the feel of her naked against him.

As he held her, soft and warm in his arms, he did not want to think of the future. He wanted to savor her.

He wanted to savor the now.

I
t had been a mistake.

Even as she reveled in the feel of him beneath her, all firm muscles and warm skin, she knew that she had just made everything worse.

He had given her everything she had ever imagined—she had never felt so close, so connected, so desired.

She had never dreamed she would love him with such intensity.

Tomorrow she would leave him. And he would marry another.

And Juliana would live knowing that the man she loved would never be hers.

She shivered at the thought, pressing closer to him, as though she could fuse herself to him, as though she could stay the movement of time.

He stroked one warm hand down her spine, leaving a trail of fire, and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Are you cold?”

No.

It was easier to say yes than to tell the truth.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He slid out from beneath her, pulling her up off the bed with him so he could turn down the sheets. He kissed her, full and lush, the caress blazing through her before he turned away to stoke the fire.

Feeling too vulnerable, she fetched her robe, pulling it on and knotting the sash before she turned back to watch his movements as he crouched before the fire, the muscles of his back rippling with the motion, his massive thighs gleaming in the orange glow—a god of fire.

When he stood, he looked to the bed. His brow furrowed when he discovered that she was gone, and he immediately sought her out, finding her in the shadows. He raised a hand, beckoning her to him, and she could not resist.