Page 45 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
“Do what ye will with me.”
A smile spread across his face, dark and frightening and lovely. “You will wish you had not asked me to do that, Isobel.”
She rolled her hips, enjoying the way his gaze unfocused and his fingers tightened on her breast. In return, he bent his head and kissed down her neck, biting and licking away the sting as he went.
“Do what ye will,” she repeated.
“Then you must promise to be quiet.”
“Aye, I can do that.”
“Silent.” His teeth grazed across her pulse. “No matter what I do to you. Can you do that?”
“Aye,” she whispered.
“Then spread your legs for me, fey girl.”
She did as he commanded, widening her legs. He bundled the material of her skirts in one hand and with the other cupped his fingers around her bare knee.
Her heart stuttered at the contact. Skin against skin—and he was a man who fenced, a man who despite his gloves, had calluses that scraped across her softness.
Every single one of them went to her core.
She felt hot and tingly, liquid and tight all at once, as though her body did not know how to process all of these confusing sensations.
He looked at the contact, and at the creamy shade of her skin. The darkness of his hand against it. That contrast struck her as one of the most erotic things she had ever seen.
Slowly, he moved his fingers, tracing along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Up higher, where she had spent few enough times exploring herself, and where the center of all the heat in her body lay.
His gaze flicked to hers. “Silent,” he warned, and then his fingers slid past her damp curls to the very center of her.
He sucked in a breath, and she frowned at him, her hands locked around his neck, just in case she fell off. Her knees, where they pressed into the cushions, felt weak. All of her felt weak.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He groaned a little. “You are already so wet.”
“Is that?—”
“It means you are aroused.”
Aroused, she thought drowsily, as his fingers traced a whole new line of fire through her. She ached from the light touches, the pleasure that sparked from them too much and not enough.
Her arms shook around his neck. She brought her mouth back to his.
Between her legs, his hand shifted, fingers drawing small circles across her slick, sensitive flesh. She gasped into his mouth and felt his lips curve in a smile.
“Quiet,” he warned her, in such a low voice it traveled through. “Quiet, sweet. And patience.”
She wiggled against him, the opposite of patient. She did not want to wait for him—she wanted everything he could offer now. Immediately. As soon as he could.
That was why she had asked him to kiss her—so she could forget.
So, she could have something else toremember.
And when the pleasure melted inside her like this, she could find no reason to hold back, no reason to delay. She would do anything he asked, so long as he kept making her feel like this.
So long as he kept giving her more.
