Page 35 of His Scottish Duchess

The kiss started tentatively, a soft exploration, but it quickly deepened, becoming more urgent, more demanding. She needed more and hoped he would do what he did best—break down her walls and take what he wanted.

And he did just that.

He held her close, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her tighter against him. His mouth moved over hers with a possessiveness that both startled and thrilled her.

His hands left her waist, one sliding up to cup her cheek, the other tracing the curve of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. He broke the kiss, his breath warm against her ear.

“You taste like guilt and a hint of defiance, Catherine,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “A most intriguing combination, but yet so sweet. Just like you were last time.”

He trailed soft kisses along her jawline, down to the sensitive skin of her neck, and she couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped her lips. His fingers then began to trace the neckline of her gown—a slow, deliberate exploration that made heat pool in her belly.

He whispered soft, teasing words against her skin, his breath tickling, igniting a fire within her. He kissed her again, deeply, his tongue tangling with hers, and his hand slipped beneath the fabric of her dress, his touch sending a jolt of pure sensation through her.

Sampson did not hesitate as his hand moved to her core, his touch knowing and sure, his finger gently dipping into the dampness she had tried to hide.

There was a tenderness in his exploration, and an attentiveness to her reactions that surprised her, coaxing whines and breathless gasps from her lips. He teased and petted her, his fingers working their magic, and she found herself lost in the sensations—the guilt and embarrassment momentarily forgotten in the rising tide of desire.

He must have noticed her efforts to stifle the sounds escaping her lips as she clung to him desperately, because he tutted in displeasure and shook his head.

“I won’t have that, pet. You shouldn’t hide from your husband,” he chastised, leaning back slightly to look her in the eye, smirking at her disheveled appearance. “I want to hear everything. I have a right to know if you are enjoying this or not—lest you think me selfish, doing this solely for my own pleasure.”

Catherine’s skin felt like it was on fire, and she tried to focus on the burning sensation, rather than the stillness of his fingers.

“Are y-you not? Doing this for your own pleasure, I-I mean,” she breathed.

He brought up his hand and rested it on her breastbone, sliding it down at a painstakingly slow pace until his palm cupped her breast. Without breaking eye contact, he squeezed theplump flesh, satisfied when she crumbled almost immediately, smirking as she arched into his touch.

“My pleasure is hardly significant when you make such stunning expressions. Now, do not deprive me of the sound of your voice any longer.”

She had hardly regained her composure when his fingers began to move inside her again, the suddenness of his thrust taking her completely by surprise and pulling a loud whine past her lips.

“Good. Very good, Catherine,” Sampson whispered, kissing her deeply.

Catherine found herself clinging to him again, desperate to ease the pressure in her core, her face buried in his neck, moaning as she finally fell off the edge and into the seemingly endless pools of pleasure.

Breathless and flushed, she leaned back against his shoulder, her body humming with a strange, delicious ache. He looked down at her, his gaze dark and intense, a hint of a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

“There,” he murmured, his voice still rough with passion. “I believe that makes us even.”

Catherine could only nod, unable to find her voice.

He adjusted her skirts—a surprisingly gentle gesture—before announcing, “I will arrange for the modiste to come to Rosehall tomorrow.”

“The modiste?” Catherine repeated, still slightly dazed.

“Yes, the modiste,” he said, his gaze firm. “As I said, Catherine, you are the Duchess of Rosehall. My wife will wear only the finest, most expensive clothes. It is a matter of presentation. You should look every bit the Duchess that you are.”

“But Your Grace,” Catherine began, the practical side of her rearing its head. “I have perfectly good gowns?—”

He gently cut off her objections, a smile playing on his lips. “You can just thank me, Duchess.”

Catherine looked up at him, a maelstrom of emotions swirling within her—shyness, lingering desire, and reluctant gratitude.

With a deep inhale, she spoke, her cheeks still flushed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Your Grace,” Anna called as she gently knocked on Catherine’s door, before walking in. “Miss Bethany has arrived.”

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