Page 78 of The Duke's Dream
The garment was held by nothing but her raised leg.
Color crept across her chest, bloomed along her throat, touched her cheeks like firelight.
But she didn't look away. When he freed her thigh, she lowered it with a dancer's grace—trailing her foot along his spine, the whisper of skin on wool igniting sparks up his neck.
Desire coursed through him, making his cock throb.
The pantalettes fluttered to the floor in a whisper of cotton.
She stood naked before him. His muse. His downfall.
"Keeping to the principle of equality," she murmured, her voice a slow caress, "shouldn't you shed your clothes as well?"
Her eyes—half-lidded, gleaming with challenge—pierced his restraint.
William stilled.
If he stripped, if he allowed even a single layer to fall… there would be nothing left to separate the man from the beast.
"I don't believe in democracy, Helene."
Sliding behind her, he cupped her breasts, the weight of them perfect against his palms—plush, warm, offering themselves like sacred fruit to a pagan god. He thumbed her nipples with firm flicks, watching in the mirror as they peaked under his touch.
Before she could counter with another wicked quip, he turned her in his arms, hands splayed on her bare hips. Her eyes widened—just a fraction—before he dipped his head and pressed his mouth to her neck.
He traced her pulse with his tongue, tasting the heat rising in her skin. His lips explored the delicate curve of her shoulder, the graceful lines of her spine. His heart was about to burst. A being of grace and youthful mischief—all his.
Lowering his head, he captured an entire breast in his mouth. He sucked deeply, letting his tongue roll over the sensitive tip. She arched, her fingers curling reflexively against his shoulders—but still she held back, holding her breath like it was a game.
He kissed his way back up her body, leaving a trail of heat. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, but she hadn't yet surrendered.
"Open your legs for me."
She obeyed with maddening grace, swinging one knee, parting for him like a blooming rose. The invitation was silent, sensual, and utterly devastating.
"Good girl." The words slid from his tongue like silk soaked in sin.
Holding her thigh steady, he pressed the heel of his hand against her mound—just enough pressure to tease, to make her tremble. Then, slowly, he slid a single finger inside her. Just the tip. Just enough to make her want more.
Her moan was soft, but it vibrated through her like a shiver in a bowstring.
His gaze locked on hers.
That sound, that tremor, that need… he wanted more than just to hear it.
He wanted to summon it. Shape it. Command it.
He withdrew, then circled her entrance again—coaxing her to open wider, to beg without words. Every flick of his finger, every lazy swirl, was a promise—she was his.
Not just her body. Not just her desire. Her surrender.
"When I thrust my cock inside of you, I want you to scream my name."
"The school of Tyrants doesn't teach humility, does it?" Her lips curved in mocking delight. "Because you will need it when you mouth my name."
"Mouth your name?" What sort of challenge was that?
Closing her eyes, she licked her lips. "I have neighbors. They would object to your shouting."
