Page 54 of Her Wicked Duke
He leaned over her, cornering her against the carriage wall. She barely had any room, for he loomed closer, his face close to hers. “Which men caught your attention, Anne?”
The way he asked, in that deep, sultry voice of his, made her breath catch in her throat.
“Answer me.”
His hands wandered to the laces at the back of her dress as if he intended to unfasten them and strip her bare. Yet, she never made a move to stop him.
“What men?” he pressed.
“None of them,” she mumbled as he brushed his knuckles across her exposed collarbone, pushing her dress off her shoulders. “Not truly.”
“Why not?” His mouth was so close to hers, and she yearned for him. “Did you only do it to make me jealous?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Did it work?”
“No,” he growled.
But then, his mouth was on hers. He wedged his knee between her legs, and she gasped at the friction. She had spent nights dreaming about his hands on her skin, creating paths of burning desire through her body. And now those hands cupped her, held her, dipped beneath her dress to caress her back. His fingers danced down her spine and made her press against him, made her writhe and gasp.
“You aremine,” he told her between searing kisses.
He lowered her onto the bench of the carriage, and she knew they would look the picture of debauchery, but she did not care. She lifted her hips to seek more friction against her center.
“I wish to own every inch of you, Anne, and have you all to myself. I am not a man who easily shares.”
“And yet you won’t have me,” she moaned softly as one of his hands trailed up her inner thigh, pushing her dress out of the way. “Not truly.”
He pushed her legs apart. “You would be mine if you only asked.” He lifted his head to look her in the eye. “If I told you to say now that you are mine, Anne, would you?”
But she could not. Not truly. She was wary. There were so many things to consider.
Instead, she said, “This is merely an experience, as you promised. Discretion and pleasure. A distraction.”
He growled in her neck as he slid his hand higher to where she desired him most. He didn’t answer, but he kissed her again deeply, enough that her eyes fluttered shut. She lost herself in this man, who had such a harsh tongue at times. But when it came to pleasuring her, he was soft and attentive.
She wanted him rough, gentle, demanding, dominating—she wanted him in every way she might be lucky enough to have him.
“What do you want, Pretty Hatson?” he murmured, trailing open-mouthed kisses down her neck. They felt more intimate than his hand creeping higher up her leg that she didn’t want to pause.
The soft, wet sound of him kissing her skin made her lose herself further to her lust for him, giving her enough of a voice to say what she hadn’t said that day in the art gallery.
“Alexander, please touch me,” she begged.
Possession weighed his every touch. His grip on her thigh, the tugging on her hair, the kisses that took her breath away.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, feeling the strong material of his jacket. She slipped it off his shoulders, wanting to have more access to those strong muscles.
His hand finally settled between her legs. He pulled back, his eyes gazing into hers. “Is this what you want, Anne?” he murmured. “This, right here? Me, on top of you?”
It was scandalous, how he stroked that spot between her legs in a way that had her quivering, but she could only grip his hair and moan softly.
“Use those pretty words,” he purred.
Her walls clenched around emptiness, aching to be filled.
“Yes,” she gasped as he finally slid a finger inside her slowly, gently. “Yes, this is what I want.”
Without withdrawing from her, he kneeled over her and unfastened his breeches. “You’remine, Anne,” he growled possessively, and she nodded, trembling.
