Page 39 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
“I think about you constantly,” he murmured against her collarbone. “About how you taste, how you feel when you come apart in my arms.”
Joan's face burned with embarrassment and arousal. “Your - Graham, you shouldn't say such things – “
“Why not?” His hands moved to her hips, pulling her flush against him until she could feel the hard evidence of his desire pressed against her. “You're my wife. I should be able to tell you exactly what you do to me.”
Before Joan could respond, Graham was guiding her backward toward the settee, his mouth never leaving her throat. Joan's legs hit the upholstered seat, and she sank down, looking up at him with wide eyes.
“Trust me,” Graham said, dropping to his knees before her.
Joan's breath caught as she realized his intention. “Graham, no, you can't – “
“I can,” he said firmly, his hands sliding up her thighs to push her chemise higher. “And I will. I've been dreaming about tasting you again since our wedding night.”
Joan's protests died in her throat as Graham's mouth found the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, pressing gentle kisses that made her entire body tremble. She gripped the settee cushions as he worked his way higher, his breath warm against her most intimate places.
When his mouth finally found her center, Joan had to press her hand to her lips to stifle the cry that threatened to escape. The sensation was overwhelming, far more intense than she remembered from their wedding night. Graham's tongue moved against her with skillful precision, alternating between gentle licks and more demanding pressure that made her hips arch involuntarily.
“So sweet,” he murmured against her, the vibration of his voice adding another layer of sensation. “I could spend hours between your thighs,mo chridhe.”
Joan felt her face burn at his crude words, but her body betrayed her with its eager response. Every stroke of his tongue sent waves of pleasure coursing through her, building toward something that felt both terrifying and inevitable.
W-What does that mean? You use that phrase to refer… To me, quite often.” Joan panted, trying her best to keep herself together.
Her husband grinned, raising his head for a moment so she could see the way his gaze sparkled with utter joy as he said,
“My heart. It means ‘my heart’.”
Graham seemed to sense her approaching the edge, his movements becoming more focused, more determined. Joan bit down on her knuckles as the tension inside her wound tighter and tighter, until finally it snapped with devastating force.
She came apart with a muffled cry, her entire body shaking with the intensity of her release. Graham held her steady, his mouth gentle against her as she rode out the waves of pleasure.
When she finally stilled, he pulled away with obvious reluctance, reaching into his waistcoat for his handkerchief. Joan watched in stunned silence as he carefully cleaned her with tender, intimate strokes, his touch now soothing rather than arousing.
“There,” he said softly, pressing a final kiss to her inner thigh before rising to his feet. “Perfect.”
Joan stared up at him, her mind reeling from what had just transpired. Graham looked entirely composed, as though he hadn't just shown her to a shattering pleasure with his mouth in the middle of the morning while a house full of servants went about their duties.
“I should return to my study,” Graham said, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket. “The modiste will want to continue with your fitting.”
He moved toward the door with casual confidence, leaving Joan sitting on the settee in a state of complete bewilderment. Just before he reached the threshold, he turned back with a devastating smile.
“By the way,” he said, his Scottish accent thick with satisfaction, “Ye taste even sweeter in the daylight,mo chridhe.”
And then he was gone, leaving Joan alone with her racing heart and the lingering scent of his cologne.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Graham stood before his mirror, adjusting his cravat for the third time as his valet looked on with barely concealed impatience. The reflection staring back at him was impeccably dressed – his evening coat was perfectly tailored, his shoes polished to a mirror shine, and his hair combed into fashionable waves. He looked every inch the proper English duke thetondesired him to be.
But his thoughts were rather disorganized.
Tonight would be Joan's first appearance as the Duchess of Rutledge at a major social event. The Pemberton ball was one of the most prestigious gatherings of the London season, attended by everyone who considered themselves important in society. Graham had initially planned to avoid such events altogether, knowing how thetonviewed him, but marriage had changed his priorities.
Joan deserved to take her rightful place in society. She deserved to be recognized and respected as his duchess, regardless ofwhat the gossips might whisper about her mysterious past or his Scottish origins.
“Will that be all, Your Grace?” his valet asked pointedly.
Graham nodded, dismissing the man with a wave. He needed a moment to collect himself before facing what was certain to be an evening of scrutiny and barely veiled hostility from London's social elite. He did not care for their ridicule, but he knew he might have to stand between Joan and some people, a decision he would make in a heartbeat without hesitation.
