Page 44 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
Chapter Twelve
“What?” The duke stilled as he watched her.
“Ye said ye would have kissed me if ye had not been interrupted. And I wish ye could—” Isobel swallowed, doing her best not to regret her words, or the impulsiveness of them. “I have thought about it since.”
He cursed under his breath, and then suddenly his mouth was on hers.
Fierce, just as their first kiss had been. Only this time, his hands came around her and he picked her up, placing her on his lap. His hard thighs pressed against hers, and she shuffled closer, so her chest pressed against his.
Her blood pounded in her veins. Her face felt flushed, and when he brushed his tongue along her lower lip, she opened her mouth, granting him access.
He made a low, gravelly sound of appreciation and approval, one hand sweeping down her spine to rest right above the curve of her backside. It felt as though his hand trembled, as though he wanted to touch her more, but he was holding back.
Ever since she had arrived, she felt as though she had been fighting the fear of what she had been running from, and the fear of what she was now to do. Giving her future over to a strange gentleman was no easy task—and one she did not relish.
But this—this made her feel alive. As though she could finally breathe.
Sensing that despite the passion she could feel in him, every muscle vibrating and echoing through her, he was reluctant to touch her, she took his hand and pressed it against her breast.
“You little minx,” he moaned as he caressed her full curves through the fabric of her dress.
She didn’t want to feel like glass, as though she might break. She didn’t wanthimto feel as though he could not touch her.
She was a lady accustomed to wanting the wildness of life, to feel as though she could live without being stifled, and he made her feel like that.
“Ye make me feel alive,” she said, breaking from his mouth long enough to say the words.
He stared up at her with unreadable dark eyes.
“Youmake me feel alive, Isobel,” he replied, and pushed her closer using the hand at her back.
Her core pressed against something hard, a bulge between his legs he made no effort to hide.
The friction, that slight press, was so delicious that she rubbed herself against him again, making his breath hitch.
Something primal rose in her.
She needed to see this through.
“Ye taste of the fresh mountain air,” she said bending her head to kiss him again.
The hand on her back turned into a steel band holding her against him.
“And I—” She shuddered as he thrust up against her.
“You are a fairy,” he told her. “A pixie. A sprite. Something fey.” He nipped the delicate skin of her neck. “And you make me want to taste more of you.”
She gasped, moving her skirts so she could better access the ridge between his legs.
This, she knew, was not the behavior of a lady, but in this room, they were not a lady and a gentleman. Not a duke and his esteemed guest.
They were a man and a woman, and shewantedthe way she had never wanted before.
And he, now, like this, could give it to her.
“Please,” she said, permission and an entreaty.
“Please what?”
