Page 128 of Bound to the Heartless Duke
Waiting was certainly not what he wanted either.
Magnus leaned in and kissed her like a man who had waited a lifetime, even though she was his wife. Like a man who had been given permission to love so freely and deeply.
His lips were warm and possessive, tasting of wine and something unmistakably him. Lily responded with soft, eager sighs as her fingers tangled in his silky, dark hair, pulling him closer.
His weight pressed her into the feather-soft mattress, and she groaned, loving every moment of his roughness.
“Still certain you want to host a dinner party?” he whispered against her lips, chuckling as her hands slipped beneath his waistcoat.
“Utterly foolish idea,” she murmured breathlessly. “Let’s lock the doors, bolt the windows, pretend we’ve fled the country.”
“I’ll write to the guests,” he played along, nibbling on her earlobe, “tell them we’ve been waylaid by passion and won’t be receiving visitors until spring.”
She laughed, and when she imagined how Cecilia would react to that, she threw her head back and laughed even harder.
“They would not be surprised, knowing us.”
His hands roamed over her bodice, unfastening it with reverent slowness. He kissed along the line of her collarbone, pausing when he felt the quickening of her breath, the subtle arch of her body responding to his touch.
“You are more beautiful now than you were the day I married you. And I thought then that I’d seen the height of heaven’s blessings,” he murmured.
Her lips curled into a smile as her eyes fluttered open. “You poetic devil.”
“Only for you,” he replied, brushing his thumb along her lower lip. “I had no poetry before you.”
There was something in his gaze, a depth that stole her breath.
Magnus did not only desire her. Headoredher. Revered her. His passion was matched only by his tenderness.
Their kiss deepened, slow and sensual, and Lily felt herself drown in the heat of it, in the strong, steady hands that mapped her skin with unhurried reverence.
His jacket and waistcoat fell away, followed by her gown, until they were pressed skin to skin beneath the golden light of the late afternoon.
“Tell me again,” he whispered, kissing a trail from her neck to the swell of her breasts. “Tell me I’m going to be a father.”
Her fingers clutched his back, her nails raking over his muscles as she sighed. “You’re going to be a father, Magnus Wyndham. And I-I will spend the rest of my days falling deeper in love with you.”
He groaned low in his throat and made love to her like a man claiming the last part of his soul.
Every movement, every breath, was laced with purpose—an oath sealed not in words, but in skin, sweat, and whispered laughter.
They lay tangled together in the aftermath, their bodies still humming with the tremors of shared joy.
Lily rested her head on his chest, listening to the calming rhythm of his heart beneath her cheek.
“I never believed in miracles,” Magnus said softly, “until you.”
She smiled against him. “And now?”
“Now, I believe in everything.”
A gentle knock at the door stirred them from their reverie.
“Your Grace?” came Hastings’ voice, muffled but unmistakable. “Your guests have arrived.”
Magnus sighed and pressed a lingering kiss to Lily’s hair. “Of course they have.”
She laughed softly. “We’ve kept them waiting long enough.”
