Page 39 of The Duke's Virgin

Sensation wracked me, and his cock filled me, and then the orgasm exploded through me.

I felt him swell even more, then he groaned. Finally, he said something Ididunderstand.

My name.

Twelve

Luka

I woke early.

If I’d had my way, I would have slept in, with Stacia at my side after I spent the entire night between her thighs and getting my fill of her, but she’d left with her family less than two hours after we’d both gone inside—through separate doors at her insistence.

She’d barely spoken to me during that time, but her cheeks colored every time I looked at her, and I consoled myself that at least it was the memory of our minutes in the garden affecting her, not how I’d been an ass.

I’d apologized. She’d inclined her head, offering nothing else.

Two hours later, she was gone.

As I settled in for my third mile on the treadmill, I told myself it was over, just as I’d known it would be. She was returning to New York City, and we’d never see each other again.

But the memories were something I’d hold for a long time.

Hopefully, she would too.

I pushed myself through another two miles, then returned to my room to shower and dress.

On my way down to breakfast, I ran into Geraint. He was decidedly less clear-eyed and awake and greeted me with a grunt, rubbing at his right eye with a fist as if to knuckle away the dregs of sleep.

“Late night with Katrina?” I teased.

He flipped me off just as we entered the small, informal dining room we preferred to use when there were no guests in-house.

I sat down as one of the staff brought me coffee.

“What would you like for breakfast, Your Highness?”

I shrugged, nothing in mind. “Have them surprise me.” I smiled at the young woman as my administrative assistant, Stuart, came in, carrying several newspapers that I followed, as well as the tablet he used to keep track of my daily schedule. “Good morning, Stuart.”

“Your Highness.” He nodded and placed the papers down.

Gesturing to the seat across from mine, I said, “Sit down, Stuart.”

He hesitated, as he always did.

“Sit.” I slid him a look. “I don’t want to crane my head to look at you while we talk. You do realize that’s aliteralpain in the neck.”

My brother smothered a chuckle, and even Stuart’s lips twitched, although I knew he wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. I suspected if my parents were to enter the small dining room, he’d jumped to his feet so fast, the chair would topple over. He glanced toward the door before finally taking the seat.

We did this every time we met over breakfast—and that was three times a week.

One would think he’d be used to the drill by now.

But he came from a long line of people who’d served as assistants to the Duchy. His father was stillmyfather’s assistant. Protocol was something bred into the bone, for him, for me. But I didn’t see the point in making him stand and stare at the top of my head, or me get a crick in the neck as we went about our regular routine.

A few minutes later, Stuart started to go over the schedule for the week. I pulled out my phone to make sure the various appointments had synced to my calendar, then while he went into detail about the attendees at an upcoming banquet in Germany, I pulled up another app and started skimming the headlines for various countries.

I went from amused to annoyed to resigned, all in the span of two minutes, and was about to close the app when I scrolled past a picture, my eyes lingering but the connection not forming immediately.

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