Page 45 of The Duke's Dream
Clenching his hands into fists, William tried and failed to leash his temper. What was this pull she had on him? She was a sorceress—a female Morpheus. Not content in haunting his dreams, she had taken human form to cause mischief in his waking life.
Cavendish had been right. This was madness. Yet, reason could not more change his course than a broken dam could restrain repressed waters.
Voices fluttered from the opposite direction.
Then—her voice. Helene’s soprano. Breathless. Light. Alive.
He moved before thinking, stepping into shadow.
The moment she passed, he caught her wrist and pulled her into a storage room. She gasped, but he kicked the door closed before sound escaped her lips.
Her eyes widened in the dim alcove—twin moons, startled and bright.
The flimsy light cast flickers along her damp skin. A fine sheen of sweat shimmered at her collarbone. A curl stuck to her flushed cheek, and William’s restraint buckled.
One step. Then another. Until he pressed her against the wall.
“I don’t like to be played with.”
She lifted her chin, her gaze veiled by spiked eyelashes. “I thought this was what we were doing with each other—playing.”
William brushed his nose along the damp skin of her neck, inhaling her scent—rosemary and his dreams. Then he took her bottom lip between his teeth, reveling in the power of claiming even so small a piece of her.
She startled. Behind the bravado, her eyes couldn’t quite hide the emotion churning beneath.
“Little One,” he murmured, voice like silk pulled taut. “When I play with you… you’ll know.”
His hand slid into her chignon and tugged, tilting her head until her throat arched for him. Her mouth opened—perhaps in protest, perhaps not. It didn’t matter.
He took her mouth—ravaging it with lips, teeth, tongue. Bruising. Branding. Pouring in everything he could not say, everything he shouldn’t want.
The kiss spun out of control.
His pulse jackhammered against his ribs. Each breath dragged harsh and loud in the tight air. He pressed her against him, desperate to feed the ache inside—this reckless, burning need that had no name and no rules.
While he felt about to combust, she stood rigid, a marble statue, her lips receiving his onslaught, her eyes shut.
“Yield to me, damn it, yield to me, Helene,” he whispered against her cheeks, her neck, her lips, his voice ragged, rough, desperate.
Nothing. His heart sank. The Duke of Albemarle had once brought a Spanish flagship to its knees, had steered men through cannonades and storms, and carved his name into the smoke of battle—but he could not breach the walls of one slip of a girl.
He pulled away, resting his forehead against hers, his heaving breaths ruffling her hair.
“Yield to me.” A whisper now, tired, against the top of her head.
He wanted her—by God, how he wanted her.
William caressed her cheeks, soft where he had been rough, already cursing his outburst.
Her lips parted, her breathing shallow and uneven.
William shut his eyes, disgusted with himself. Why couldn’t he control himself when she was near?
She lifted her hand, and he braced himself for the well-deserved slap.
Instead, her thumb traced his jaw. Soft. Questioning.
“You are impossible,” she murmured.
