Page 83 of Dukes Do It Better
Recovering from that pause, one of her hands cupped a breast, gentling her touch with a fingertip across her skin, making her nipples tighten even more as a flush spread across her chest.
His fingers circled his cock in smooth strokes, but his real attention was on her, and how she responded to his words. “I see you, my Emma love. All of you. And you’re perfect.”
The column of her throat moved, like she was swallowing his words and taking them into herself, as her eyes fluttered closed. “You think so?” The question was huge, but her voice was small.
“I see you, Emma,” he repeated, firming his strokes to match hers. “I’ve seen you and wanted more from the first moment. I want your heart, I crave your body, but what you write about—I want everything you described.”
The movement of her hips made her breasts rock hypnotically.
Malachi continued, loving her with his words in a way he couldn’t with his body. “Sit with me in this house and make love with me by the fire in winter. Two glasses of brandy because I won’t make you share. Live with me. We’ll keep each other’s secrets.”
Her breath went thready.
“And in the summer, I will spend hours outside on the grass with my tongue buried in your sweet quim. You’ll come apart under the sky so often, your chest will be pink from the sun, and you’ll live every day knowing I see you and love what I see.”
A cry rose from her throat, a low keening wail that shot fire through his blood and made his balls clench.
When she went over the edge, he followed. Because he’d follow her anywhere.
* * *
Sunlight warmed her lids, and gulls cried outside her window. Emma shifted under the covers, then rolled over, smiling into her pillow.
She’d known last night, as his words flowed into her, honey sweet and warm, filling her limbs and taking over the fantasy she’d created in her head. The truth had been fragile yet, delicate in a way she didn’t trust herself to say aloud, lest it dissipate into ether.
What he offered was real. More than sex. More than friendship. Mal’s words had settled over her as she touched herself, sinking as permanently into her as the ink he wore on his skin.
It should have been an impossibility to believe him after growing up the way she had. Nevertheless, she did. He loved her. Wholly, protectively, with a clear vision of who she was and what she’d done. Accepting that, eliminating the fear of beginning the cycle she’d witnessed with her parents, had freed a fragile truth within herself.
Eighteen-year-old Emma would have flung herself at Mal the minute she realized she loved him. Shouted it immediately from the rooftops.
But the Emma who lay panting in her bed last night, swamped with myriad emotions overwhelming her ability to speak, had cradled the knowledge to her like the precious thing it was, marveling at the emotion, examining it from all angles.
The morning after brought even more clarity. What she’d felt for Roxbury once upon a time had been all sparkle and drama, laced with the fear that if she wasn’t witty enough or pretty enough, he’d lose interest.
This? This felt warm and rich. Comforting like the soft quilt covering her, but solid and weighty like the gold ring he’d place on her finger. The truth of it no longer felt fragile.
A muted hum of conversation drifted through the walls, and the smell of sweet buns filtered up from the kitchen. A goat bleated from somewhere that was probably not outdoors, and her smile grew.
Washing her face in the chilly water in the basin at her washstand and using her tooth powder took but a moment. The wrapper from last night lay abandoned on the floor beside her bed, and she put it on, eager to find Mal.
Outside his door, she heard voices. One low and rough with sleep, and one higher. Emma paused and listened to their conversation.
“Why can’t it be pink?” Alton asked.
“You can make it pink if you want to. It’s your picture.”
“What color were they when you saw them from your ship?”
“The young ones like you are bluish gray. Then they darken as they get older, until they’re adults like me and your mommy. Eventually, they turn gray, and sometimes have spots. The oldest ones are white, and beautiful to see with their white horns.”
“Old like Mrs. Shephard?”
“I wouldn’t say so to her face, but yes.”
Emma nudged the door open and leaned against the frame, taking in the sight before her.
Lordy goodness, if she hadn’t loved the man before, this would have done it.
