Page 92 of The Duke
How different they were. The Cole she’d painted had been confident and deferential, a bit inebriated, but selfless in his giving of pleasure.
The man behind her—the man inside of her—was a singular creature. A primal beast. One driven only by primary instinct and emotion. Lust. Hurt. Need. Rage.
But besides a name, a title, and a body, both men shared one other common trait. A desire for her submission. An inexplicable need to be inside of her, for which they had each gone to rather desperate lengths.
One had paid a small fortune. The other had broken into her home.
Truth be told, she’d wanted to make love to them both. To the haughty duke and the hungry wolf.
Past the painting, beyond the glow of the lantern, and even above the darkness, she could hear hoarse, high noises of encouragement. Of joy. And was astounded when she recognized those noises as her own.
A further jolt of surprise took her as he slipped a finger inside of her mouth, then another. Her eyes widened as he used his prosthetic to press against her ass, to spread her for him, to angle deeper. The chill of the metal against her soft, warm flesh caused her to clench her muscles, and she thrilled to the harsh sound he made. Almost a bark, if a man could produce such a thing.
A rogue wave of fire and force tore through her with such frightening speed, she feared she might faint. The ferocity of it so potent, her womb contracted with it. Spasm chased spasm in relentless pulses of bliss, uncoiling with such astounding force she distantly wondered if this was what dying felt like.
She bit down on the fingers in her mouth, not breaking the skin, and the noise he made was the most inhuman sound of pleasure she’d ever heard in her life. The sound mounted to a groan, then a growl, as his cock swelled impossibly larger inside of her before it erupted, bathing her womb in a quicksilver rush of release.
She realized dimly through her own pleasure that he wasn’t, in fact, growling in time to the tremors of his climax, but he was saying her name.
Hername. Not Ginny’s.
Imogen.
Her liquid shivers of gratification faded before his did, and she wilted against the trunk with muscles made of melted wax. She was slick with sweat and… other things. Warm, languid, and thoroughly pleasured.
They were quiet for a long moment after. Their breaths diminishing in perfect synchronization. She could feel the tension leaching from her muscles and his, and she relaxed into the scandalous intimacy of the moment.
Which was why she couldn’t believe he remained inside of her as he bent forward and said in the darkest voice she’d ever heard, “You lied to me.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
It was one thing to be naked and another thing entirely to be exposed. Uncovered. Laid bare.
When Cole pulled away from her—out of her—leaving his accusation stinging in her ear, Imogen thought that perhaps no one had felt as utterly naked as she did in this moment. Her secret had not only been revealed, but literally uncovered in a cloud of dust and discovery.
Rising to her knees, she glanced back in time to see him turn from her and close his trousers. Imogen didn’t at all relish the thought of being on her knees as he stood over her, a tower of wrath and indictment.
So they were going to do this now, she lamented with a weighty sigh, trying to pull her thoughts back from where passion and pleasure had scattered them like shadows before the dawn. Her pristine white nightgown was a cloud of tatters, but she snatched it from the floor with limbs as heavy as the silence between them.
Gaining her feet, she faced him. Lord, but she was tired now, and suspected that she was still perhaps a little inebriated, though whether on champagne or passion, she couldn’t tell.
“I imagine you have a bevy of excuses prepared.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest much like a mother would await an explanation from her unruly child.
Imogen clutched her nightgown to her breasts, letting the lace fall to her knees from the voluminous skirts. She noted the way his eyes flicked copper fire over her bare shoulders, her tousled hair, and what parts of her were left uncovered before he fixed them on some point behind her.
How could one person be both so beautiful and so bitter? It was as though he’d been kissed by some ancient god, blessed with uncommon strength and magnificence, and then cursed with loss and guile.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” he demanded. “You must have known I’d eventually find out.”
“In truth, I hoped you wouldn’t.” She knew before she noted the twitch of his jaw it had been the wrong thing to say. “What I mean is, Iwantedto tell you but there was never—”
“You had twoyears.” He stabbed the appropriate fingers into the air, effectively displaying the number while simultaneously making a foul gesture. He probably meant both. “Twofucking—” The fingers curled back into a fist, and Cole’s head swiveled on a neck thick with straining veins, as though the need to destroy something overcame the ability to finish his sentence and he searched the room for a victim.
She took refuge behind the trunk, which only reached her thighs, so she held up a placating hand. “I know you’re angry.”
“You knownothingof what I feel.”
Imogen hesitated, remembering she’d said something very like that to him once. “You don’t understand what happened while you were—”
