Page 65 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
Lord Moreton had returned to London.
Her body tensed at the remembrance, and Adrian stirred, this time waking a little more thoroughly. He pressed kisses against her neck, the arm around her waist rising to find her breast.
“Like peaches,” he slurred, still only half awake, his erection stirring against her backside, eager to find its home between her legs.
“Adrian,” she whispered.
“Mm?”
“I’m—”
She didn’t know how to phrase what she wanted to say. On the one hand, she did not want to deny him—not in the slightest. On the other, the tender flesh between her legs throbbed from his attentions the previous day, and she didn’t want more pain than strictly necessary.
He drew back slightly, more clarity entering his voice. “Ah,” he said. “You’re sore.”
She rolled to face him, tracing his features in the early dawn light. All the things she knew about Adrian the duke she was now learning to reframe as Adrian the man.
He looked different like this in the morning, stubble grazing his chin and upper lip, his hair messy and tossed over his forehead. There was a crease in his cheek where the pillow had left lines.
Suddenly, unaccountably fond, she reached out a hand to touch his face. He allowed her to, watching her curiously. The other evening, she hadn’t had the opportunity to explore his body the way she’d wanted to.
“A little sore,” she admitted.
“Then we don’t have to do anything.” As he watched her, his eyes glowed with heat like coals. “Or,” he said as she trailed her fingers down his neck, exploring his collarbones, “we can do something else.”
“Else?”
“There are other things.” His gaze fell to her breasts, partially hidden by the sheets covering her. “That don’t involve what we did yesterday.”
“Oh?”
He slid the sheet back to expose her naked body to the cool morning air. Sunrise had yet to fully penetrate the room, and the fire had died, leaving nothing but dim light and still air.
“Yes,” he said, his gaze falling to the apex of her legs.
Despite her soreness, liquid bloomed in her belly ahead, hot and wanting. There was something about the power of his attention—like he was a tiger ready to pounce. He the predator and she the prey.
“Will ye want it to be like last time?” she asked, searching his face. “Where you’re in control?”
His gaze flicked back up to hers. “Didn’t you like it?”
“No.” A shudder ran through her. “I did.”
“Then yes. That’s how I always want it to be.” He took her hand and brought it to his body, encouraging her to touch him. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t get your pleasure too, Isobel. It’ll just be on my terms.”
“In the bedchamber,” she stated. “Nowhere else.”
A smile curled his mouth as he leaned forward, hovering a scant inch above her lips.
“Now why would I think I have any chance of ordering you around anywhere else?” he murmured, before kissing her again.
“Ye tried to order me to dinner.”
“And you refused.”
“I didn’t like your tone.”
He chuckled, pressing hot kisses down her neck. “You never do.”
