Page 63 of The Duke's Dream
It was a beginning. He was not known as Silent Sovereign for missing negotiations. And if that failed… He would make sure this dance lasted.
William lifted her as if she were spun from mist and moonlight. The room blurred, the walls fading until there was only the hush of her breath and the heat of her curves against his chest.
He burned to possess her like a savage, yet he laid her down as one might place a star upon velvet. A star that made his blood boil. He would have her. His heart pounded, a passion that threatened to overrule all else.
His cock was painfully hard, throbbing with every heartbeat, and William fisted his hands by his sides.
If he touched her like this—as a man possessed—she might vanish.
She didn’t need obsession. She deserved devotion.
Then she would stay.
By God, he would go slow. The beast could not touch the Sylph.
When he lowered himself to the bed by her side, he had the desire in a tight leash.
She stretched her arms and kicked her legs, suddenly playful, but when he touched her hip, her gaze flickered to his, noting his reactions. As if unsure of her beauty.
Didn’t she know how gorgeous she was? A Greek statue made flesh, the living form of his most intimate fantasy.
The moon chose that moment to invade the garret’s dusty glass panes, making her skin glow.
“Sylph’s dust?” he asked, his voice husky with wonder.
She smiled shyly. “It is just pearl powder.”
Just powder? To him, it was proof that dreams came true.
William spread the powder over her damp skin, painting her collarbone. Slowly, he circled her right breast, then the left as if casting a spell, and his breath caught every time her nipple pebbled under his fingers.
Leaning over her, he smoothed the dust down her ribs and over her belly, his fingertips sinking into the hollow of her abdomen. Tiny shivers rippled under his touch—like sparks dancing across silk.
She laughed. “Who knew the Silent Sovereign was a painter?”
Silent indeed. He didn’t trust his voice to answer. If he spoke, he might beg.
Instead, he traced a line from the point of her chin, down the elegant column of her throat, across her sternum—pausing to tease the hollow between her breasts. He continued down, passing over her stomach, until he reached the waistband of her pantalets.
There, he paused.
With one hand, he tugged at the satin ribbon.
Her breath caught. Her gaze locked onto his—vulnerable, searching, wanting.
“All of you,” he murmured, “deserves to shine.”
Helene laughed nervously. “I didn’t know you had a democratic streak.”
“I don’t.”
She was his only goddess. The rest could wither in hell.
And his sole goal now was to worship her.
He peeled away the cotton, exposing her mound of Venus.
The skin was nude, like in a classical painting. His eyes shot to her.
