Page 62 of The Duke's Dream
She pulled her hair to the side. “Would you help me out of them?”
Her smile—and, above all, her eyes—were naked in their desire. She wanted him. And if that couldn’t chase away the lingering darkness, nothing could.
With his fingertip, he followed the silver thread glinting in the wing’s mesh, as if tracing starlight. Gently, he unstrapped them and set them atop her vanity. Then his hands moved to the tiny clasps of her bodice. One by one, he undid them, pressing a kiss to the revealed skin between each, as if her back were a sacred scroll to be read in touch.
Every inch held a promise. A marvel. A masterpiece.
When the tulle finally slid down her legs in a whisper, pooling at her calves, she leaped out of it. Not a woman, but a being from myth.
William turned her to face him.
With only her white pantalets clinging to her hips, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I fear France did not bless me with English curves.”
He stepped closer, eyes sweeping over her like a monarch assessing a conquered realm.
“Only tyrants are allowed to judge a nation’s blessings.”
With a sigh, she let go, revealing two pert breasts crowned by rose-colored nipples. William fanned her hair over her round shoulders and caressed the perfect mounds.
William’s mouth went dry.
“Helene,” he breathed.
She smiled shyly, as if fighting not to cover herself again. “Kiss me more.”
William kissed her nipple. She gasped.
He grinned. “You didn’t specify where. A negotiation secret—always be specific.”
Smiling at her exasperated breath, he drew her nipple into his mouth, sucking her with long pulls, savoring her rosemary taste.
From the apartment wall, string notes drifted into the room—playful, urgent, full of crescendos.
“Don’t tell me Miss Dubois is hiding somewhere, playing the violin,” William asked between kisses.
“My neighbor. He’s preparing for his audition at the Royal Academy. I can knock if it bothers you.”
“And forego the background music? Let him play away.”
William whirled her in his arms. Their own private waltz. They moved together, each caress timed with the lilting melody. Helene arched into him, spine bending in a swoon-like motion, and his erection throbbed against her midsection.
The melody soared, and he matched it with open-mouthed kisses across her skin—her cheeks, her jaw, her mouth. A man could live in her kiss and die content. Her lips were soft, warm, alive. He kissed them. He nibbled and licked them. He cherished, tasted, devoured them—like a soldier starved of all sweetness, finally breaking his winter fast.
She cupped his cheeks, and drawing him in, sucked his tongue into her mouth with a boldness that stole his breath.
William pulled back, stunned.
“I’m sorry, I—”
Before she could finish, he let out a breath that was half laugh, half gasp, and lifted her into his arms.
Joy—raw, sudden, young—burst through him. He spun her. The room tilted with them, her breathless laughter spiraling into the air.
Keeping her high in his arms, he halted. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and brushed against his forearms. Candlelight glowed on her skin, highlighting the delicate lines of her face and neck. Her fathomless eyes shone, pulling him.
“Are you real?” he whispered, voice rough. “If I love you now, will you leave?”
She tilted her head, as if listening to music only she could hear, and then looked back at him with an aching softness. “I’ll stay for this dance.”
