Page 90 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

The book slipped from his fingers, forgotten, as he leaned in to kiss her. This kiss was slower than the others they had shared. There was no rush. No urgency. Just exploration.

Selina’s hands slid up his chest to his shoulders. His own hands traced her back and waist, guiding her gently until she was pressed between him and the bookshelf.

“Rowan,” she whispered as his lips brushed her jaw, her neck. “The servants?—”

“Won’t interrupt us,” he said against her skin. “Not unless they want to be dismissed.”

His hands moved to the fastenings of her gown. His usual control was gone. Her own fingers weren’t much steadier as she reached for his cravat, his waistcoat, wanting only to feel the warmth of him beneath her hands.

The room filled with the rustle of fabric and quickened breaths as they shed the barriers between them. His mouth claimed hers again, more demanding now, stirring an answering hunger within her. When he lifted her suddenly, her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, the intimate position drawing a groan from deep in his throat.

“I’ve wanted this since I first saw you in that blue gown,” he confessed, his voice rough with desire as he carried her to the nearby desk. Papers scattered as he set her down, but neither paid them any mind.

“Here?” she asked, breathless with surprise and anticipation.

His answer was in the darkening of his eyes, the possessive slide of his hands beneath her loosened gown. “I can’t wait any longer.”

The admission thrilled her. Gone was the cold, controlled duke who had kept her at arm’s length for so long. This was Rowan stripped of pretense, of reserve—a man consumed by need for her and her alone.

She helped him push her skirts higher, her chemise gathering around her waist. The cool air against her bare thighs lasted only moments before his warmth covered her again. His hand slipped between them, finding the heat at her center, and she gasped at the intimate touch.

“Say my name,” he murmured against her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

“Rowan,” she assured him, her hands clutching his shoulders through his shirt as his fingers worked a magic she’d never known before.

When he finally positioned himself between her thighs, they locked eyes in a moment of perfect understanding. This was more than physical desire. It was a claiming, a recognition, an acceptance.

The first thrust brought a sharp gasp that quickly transformed into a moan. He stilled, waiting for her nod before continuing, his restraint clear in the tension of his body, the tight line of his jaw.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, urging him closer.

He moved then, establishing a rhythm that spoke of both reverence and desire. Instinctively, she moved to meet him, their bodies entwined in an ancient dance. Waves of pleasure that built with each movement.

His pace quickened as her soft sounds of pleasure urged him on. She clung to him, her nails digging through the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself against the rising tide of sensation. When release finally claimed her, it came with an intensity that stole her breath and her thoughts, leaving only his name on her lips.

He followed moments later, his control finally breaking as he buried his face against her neck, his body shuddering against hers.

For a long moment, they remained locked together, their breathing gradually slowing, their hearts beating in unison.

Afterward, they sat curled together on the window seat, the hush of the library wrapping around them.

Selina leaned back against Rowan’s chest, his arms secure around her waist. The light outside had turned golden, casting the room in a soft amber glow.

“I never imagined the library held such possibilities,” she murmured, her head resting on his shoulder.

Rowan gave a quiet laugh, the sound low and warm. “I doubt I’ll ever look at these shelves the same way again.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. The ticking of the mantel clock was steady and slow, mingling with the faint clatter of silver and china from the dining room below. Neither of them moved.

“Will you tell me about your father?” Rowan asked, his voice quiet, his chin resting lightly atop her head. “You mentioned at breakfast that he was difficult.”

Selina tensed briefly, then relaxed against him. If she expected Rowan to share his secrets, she must share her own.

“He was a hard man,” she began. “Cold, rigid in his expectations. My mother provided what warmth our home possessed, but she died when I was fifteen. After that…”

She paused, gathering thoughts she had long kept private. Rowan waited, his arms a comforting presence around her.

“After that, he seemed determined to be rid of me,” she continued. “He arranged my marriage to Lord Galerton when I was nineteen. The earl was sixty-seven and looking for a young wife to care for him in his final years. My father received a substantial settlement. I received a husband old enough to be my grandfather.”

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