Page 73 of The Love Potion
“Then who?”
She had no answer except perhaps the worst possible one. “My mother taught me to be aware of such things. She pointed to poorer children and expressed dismay that such bright children would have a hard life. She stopped me from playing with children of modest means, afraid of the diseases they might carry. She looked at the aristocracy with awe, never criticized their actions and always found something to praise.”
“She taught you society’s values. When did you learn differently?”
She shrugged. “My father never much agreed with her. He judged people solely on their ability to discuss anything logically.” She pitched her voice to match her father’s. “A discerning mind is the only hope for England. Logic! Reason! Anything else is just frippery.” She smiled. “And he hated frippery.” Then her smile faded. “If only he’d hated gambling as much.”
Damned idiot man. “So why do you judge yourself by your mother’s standards and not your father’s?”
He asked such difficult questions! “I suppose because no one saw reason. They only saw that I was orphaned without a penny to my name.”
He touched her face. “I see you differently.”
He did. And at that moment, she saw herself. It was there, in the way he touched her with reverence, slowly and carefully, but in a way designed to maximize her delight. He continued in that vein when he kissed her. His lips, his tongue, even his breath seemed to impress his esteem into her body.
And she drank it in like a woman lost in a desert. He nourished her soul, and she loved him for it.
She still wasn’t comfortable with that word.Love. But she couldn’t deny it. Her feelings for him had deepened every moment they were together. Even when she’d been angry with him, he had returned with a sincere apology. What man—let alone a duke—did that?
Only him.
And only he pressed kisses into her skin as if he was worshipping the body of a goddess. It was so easy for her to open to him. So easy to adore him for the way he treated her. So easy to love him.
When he tongued her breasts to their peak, she rose to meet him again.
When he spread her legs and set his cock between her folds, she gripped his shoulders and begged him, “Please. Please yes.”
He worked himself into her slowly. She felt the thickness of him, so very present, so very large. But she was wet and empty. He would fill her there as he filled her heart with love.
She arched into his gentle thrust, then gasped when he withdrew.
Tempo. Rhythm.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
He thrust.
Her maidenhead must have broken. No other had ever been so deep within her. If so, she barely felt it. It was uncomfortable, to be sure. He was so very large. But when he lay embedded within her, she could think of nothing more than that she had him now. A tiny piece of Erasmus Oliver Arthur Stace, Duke of Harle, would always be with her.
“Are you all right?”
“I am wonderful. You?”
“You are more than wonderful. And I…I cannot hold back much longer.”
He was holding back? Why? “Give me everything, Ras.”
He grinned. “As you wish.” His hips began to move, and his cock slid in and out. Her knees rose as she gripped him, and the impact of his thrusts increased the beat of her heart. He pushed up off her without breaking the steady rhythm of his thrust. And his expression remained fierce as he looked at her.
Her body moved with each impact. She coiled her hands around his arms, gripping him tight. She arched her back so she could feel him go deeper, harder. Her belly coiled, a familiar feeling now. But it was magnified by the way he moved inside her. He felt part of her climb. And as his tempo increased, she timed herself to him.
Faster. Deeper.
She would have cried out if she had breath. Instead, she squeezed everything tight. Her hands, her legs, and deep within her.
He groaned as she did and went faster still.
