Page 32 of The Duke's Tempting Widow
Lydia grabbed Weston’s hands, moving them from her waist to her thighs, breaking their kiss for only a moment as he gazed deeply into her eyes. Was he seeking further permission?
“I thought that you said I deserved a man who knew how to pleasure a woman, Your Grace?”
“Weston. When we are like this, call me by my name.” His voice was lower, huskier than it normally was.
“Then give me what I want, Weston.” Lydia challenged, the corner of her lip tilting upward.
Weston’s hands pushed up the soft skin of her thighs, dragging her skirt with it until it pooled around her waist. His thumbs indented the sensitive skin on her inner thighs, and she arched into him. She could not even remember just how long it had been since she had been touched this way by anybody other than herself.
She rocked her hips toward his hand encouragingly as she continued kissing him. Her mind started to stutter and stop, the feeling offinallyexperiencing what she had dreamt about so many times was heady and nearly overwhelming.
Weston kissed down her neck, letting her arch back to give him better access as her mind felt as if it shut off completely. No worries for the future, no thoughts of the house or her family. There was only Weston and the way his hand twisted, cupping her and letting his long middle finger run along the ready seam of her.
She had always admired his hands, but never so much as she did right then, as he slipped a finger inside of her, curling softly before working in and out of her gently. About the time that her hips started to rock against his hand in pace with him, he added a second finger.
“So responsive, you feel exactly how I imagined.” Weston breathed against her skin. “Yet, it still feels like a dream.”
Lydia could not stop the smile that stretched from ear to ear, her head falling back, another snarky remark ready to leave her lips but it was as if he read her mind—and silenced her comment before she could speak it. His hand shifted, his thumb brushing against the bundle of nerves that made her thighs clench and heat surge lower. Her hands clawed at his shoulders, her breathing uneven.
“That’s right, you look so beautiful surrendering to your passion,” Weston continued. His words felt like a drug, pulling her higher.
Then it was gone. All sensation, the pleasure she was chasing so swiftly removed as he found her hips and lifted her up onto the edge of the desk. But he was not finished with her, not at all. He pushed her skirts back up and parted her thighs.
He lowered himself down onto his knees between her legs. Something new and uncharted for her. Lydia’s eyes widened in near protest but then his mouth covered her sex, his tongue delving into her and she nearly shuddered back into the desk.
“West-oh,” Lydia moaned louder.
“Shhh, as lovely as your voice sounds—do you wish to be interrupted?” Weston teased before easing two fingers back inside of her, moving in opposition to the exploration of his skillful tongue. It was unlike anything that she had ever felt before.
Her hand found the crown of his head, fist clutching his hair while her other hand curled around the lip of the desk to hold herself upright. A shudder ran through her, heat pooling in her core as he feasted on her, seeming to savor every bit of her—from the low groan of pleasure that rumbled from him against her skin. She had to bite down firmly on her bottom lip to keep from crying out again.
Her pinnacle was within reach. But she wanted so much more. She would give anything to drag him into her bedroomand have her way with him until she could not think properly. She had never had such relations with her husband, but with this man? She wanted nothing more than to reenact each and every fantasy that she had had about her mystery man from the past.
Higher and higher until the inferno inside of her body could not take any more. Weston’s fingers hit a spot inside of her that made stars explode across the back of her eyelids, her body tensed and clenched as Weston continued to move in exactly that way until she imploded. Pleasure radiating from her core through every part of herself, as she could not stop from crying out.
Weston did not stop though. He did not stop until her hand in his hair physically forced him away from the skin that was so sensitive it was nearly painful. Though, from the dangerously dark look he gave her from between her legs, he did not much care for being deterred. He rose to his full, impressive height again, one palm flattening against the surface of the desk so he could lean over her, and the other he stuck his fingers into his mouth, cleaning her off of them.
Chest heaving, Lydia lifted a trembling hand to Weston’s pants, hooking her fingers into the waist and pulling him closer again. Her chin lifted once more as she started to undo the buttons and laces that would free him from the confines of his trousers. If he thought that she was finished with him, he was sorely mistaken. She wanted him, all of him. The warm-up would not be nearly enough to tide her over.
But it seemed that Weston had the self-control of a monk. He grabbed her gently by the wrists, his lips just an inch from hers as he refused to close the distance between them. A low, needy whine of protest left her as she tried once more to seek what she desired so strongly.
“The anticipation shall make things so much sweeter upon my return.” Weston whispered. “If I do not leave now, we shall be in this room all night until you are wholly unable to walk.”
“Do not tease me, Weston, show me.” Lydia pleaded, but he would not be swayed. He shook his head, smirking at her. She had found her pleasure, so why did it feel like she was losing their little game?
“When I return, you shall have all you desire and more.”
“Promise me that you shall return swiftly then, I do not wish to be patient again.” Lydia said in a light voice, but there was a weight behind her words that started to sink within her. If he disappeared now, would it be another eight years? No, she would not allow it.
“I promise.” Weston paused at the door to the office, drumming his fingers against the wood like there was something more that he wished to say only then to think better of it and shut the door behind him.
Lydia waited for the guilt of what she had done to settle over her now that she was alone. She had worried that there would be a lingering sense of betrayal toward her husband for what she had done.
If she had acted against his memory, she would berate herself. But the sensation did not come. She slid her palms along her thighs, tracing the path that he had emblazoned on her skin. If they had slept together, would that mean that their marriage was assured? It must. Was that not what she wanted?
He would return, he had no choice.
She might have to hunt him down if he did not.
