Page 91 of The Duke
He snarled.
Then they were falling, but she didn’t let him go. Neither did he relinquish his hold on her. In fact, she realized, he controlled their movement to the ground.
The carpet abraded her knees, though the descent had been slow enough not to cause her pain upon impact.
He hit his knees behind her, his left arm stealing around her middle to pull her in, bringing her bare bottom to fit neatly against the front of him. A hot, hard length pressed against the cleft of her ass, impeded only by the thin cloth of his trousers. His grip was iron against her middle; his breath volcanic against the back of her neck.
Then he bit her.
Imogen opened her mouth to cry out, but he’d already begun to lick and lave at the shoulder he’d marked, and her sound of pain escaped as a husky sigh of submission.
It was all he needed to hear.
With another rip, her soft nightgown disappeared. She turned her head to protest, but before any words escaped, he stole her breath by crushing his lips to hers.
Her fingers instantly tightened in his hair, but this time not to pull him away. But closer.
The kiss turned instantly volatile. His tongue seared its way into her mouth. It astonished Imogen that a kiss could convey so much. Unrequited need and a lifetime of desolation. His cultured manners and noble upbringing had done nothing to smother the raw, primal sin that was the soul of this man. He didn’t taste her, he consumed her. Devoured her. Until Imogen wondered if she’d also forget who she’d been to him. Or who she’d become.
Too soon, he broke the kiss and bent her over the trunk, using his superior weight to keep her hostage. His hand stole between them, and after a few jerking movements, his fingers gripped her hips once again.
The heat radiating from his arousal warned her a mere breath before the blunt head of his cock kissed the folds guarding her sex. Desire flushed from her in a wet release, and she whimpered as her intimate muscles swelled in sweet anticipation. Her body was ready to accept his dominance, even thoughshemight not be.
“Wait—” Her voice sounded too thin. Too low. Too husky to be her own.
“Don’t stop me,” he commanded, though a ribbon of desperation threaded through the order.
So she didn’t.
And he didn’t.
He drove inside her with rough power and searing heat. It was like he penetrated her with lightning, striking at her with his hips and injecting an indefinable current that locked every muscle into futile spasms of blistering pleasure.
She threw her head back, a sob or a scream bubbling in her throat, but his hand clamped over her mouth as his cock parted her. Filled her.
He didn’t stop until he was seated deep. Deeper than he’d been before. Through a miracle of discipline and will, he held himself perfectly immobile, the bones of his hips digging into the soft flesh of her ass.
“I somehow forgot what you looked like,” he finally panted against her ear, the moist heat of his breath eliciting little tremors deep within her. Tremors she knew he could feel, because his great muscles shuddered in kind. “But I never forgot how tight you were,” he said from between clenched teeth. “Ineverforgot how it felt to be inside you.”
Fat tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes, and found a path where his hand sealed over her mouth.
She did not cry because he hurt her. Not because he took her like this. Like an animal. Like a common whore.
But because he’d remembered. Because she’d been empty every night of her life but one, and now he filled her once more. Perhaps she’d have time to be sorry for that later. Perhaps she’d find her pride, or her purpose, and recall all the reasons this was wrong.
But for now, all she could feel was the thrum of his heartbeat through the hot, turgid flesh inside of her. All she could think was that she wanted him tomove.
She wriggled her body against his. Pushed and strained against him. Felt the muscles of her sex grip and goad him as she begged him for pleasure with everything but her mouth.
The sound he made was victorious, and a little bit cruel.
But he did as she bade.
He pulled away. Nearly withdrew. Then slammed forward. Again. And again.
Her body opened for him each time he thrust inside, and clenched with lugubrious pulls each time he withdrew.
Imogen looked up as her body was rhythmically,mercilesslyground against the leather of the trunk. The man in the painting watched her with lascivious copper eyes like a deviant voyeur. He was the only lover she’d ever known, and she dimly compared him to the one fucking her now.
