Page 51 of The Duke of Fire
Then she shattered.
It tore through her like a wave. Her cry broke free before she could bite it back, and his name left her lips like a prayer.
“Sebastian—”
He did not stop until her body went limp, trembling in the aftermath. Only then did he slow his touch, easing her down gently from the heights he had taken her to. His mouth softened against her breast, his hand finally stilling between her thighs.
When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her. Not smug, not cocky—just quiet. As if the storm he had drawn from her had humbled him.
Chapter 18
“You look like a man contemplating either politics or murder,” the dowager duchess declared as she entered the room, tapping her cane lightly. “Then again, those two may be argued to go hand in hand.”
Sebastian was staring out the library window. There was no more time to pretend that he was in the room to read books. His hands braced the windowsill.
“I am contemplating neither,” he said truthfully, sighing.
“A shame. You look like a man who could be dreadfully good at both.”
He shook his head, unamused. He just kept staring at the garden as if it would begin sprouting strange things that would make him forget one maddening woman. This had not happened to him before, and it made him fidgety and restless.
The dowager walked toward her grandson. She narrowed her eyes at him as he turned to face her.
“Is this about Miss Warton?” she asked.
The silence that followed was answer enough.
And in that silence, he felt it all again—the sounds she made when she came apart under his touch, the desperate way she clung to him, the trust in her voice when she whispered his name. Her body had been warm and open beneath him, and for once, he had not felt like he was taking anything. He had felt… needed. Wanted.
Not for his title. Not for his wealth. For himself.
And that was what terrified him.
“Ah. I never thought I would see the day,” she murmured, a lopsided smile forming. “You are smitten with her, and look positively hopeless.”
“You know me, Grandmother. I am not smitten. I never fall in love.”
“Well, listen to yourself. Of course not, then,” she said, settling into her favorite chair near the History and Memoirs section. She picked up the book she had left there and pulled at the red silk bookmark to open it. “You were simply lost in thought, unseeing eyes unfocused in the direction of the gardens, whispering her name as if it would conjure her presence. Does she know?”
Know what? That I am halfway to madness just remembering the sound of her voice?
Sebastian did not respond. He only glared at his grandmother.
She blinked in surprise, then smiled slowly. “Oh, my.”
Even his grandmother was a traitor. Then again, she had always managed to get her way.
“I am going to White’s,” he muttered, turning on his heel.
“Drink an expensive spirit,” she hollered after him. “They are stronger at getting rid of sentimental feelings and denial.”
He grumbled as he went.
Sebastian needed something familiar and predictable. White’s provided him with the same scents every time: brandy, tobacco, polished wood, and arrogance.
It was comforting and safe. Unlike Amelia.
His friends were already there when he arrived. Cassian had his boots on the table, fully relaxed. He did not look like he cared at all. His glass of brandy was half-full, but Sebastian wondered if another glass had come before it. Meanwhile, Benedict had brought a ledger and was scribbling something on it. Notes? Finances? Damn it. Why would he even bring one to White’s?
