Page 79 of The Duke's Dream
The corner of his mouth twitched. Wicked, impossible woman.
Withdrawing his finger in one slow, tormenting slide, he watched the muscles in her stomach tighten.
She cursed in French. "Oh, it is wicked of you, Your Grace, to tempt me like this."
William caught her lip between his teeth, biting down just enough to make her shudder—then drew her tongue into his mouth like a man parched.
"You are the temptress," he growled, "and this…" he thrust two fingers into her slick heat, "is my temptation."
The room became scorching, their breathing loud, rasping the silence. With a hiss, he undid the placket of his trousers, freeing his cock—hard, heavy, throbbing with the kind of hunger that bordered on obsession.
She lifted a passé—graceful, maddening.
But he caught her before she could finish the step.
His grip on her thigh was possessive as he drew it higher—up, higher still—until it hooked over his shoulder.
Their bodies crashed together, sweat to wool, silk to flesh. Her back arched. His hands cupped her bare bottom, lifting her to the perfect height. He found her entrance with the head of his cock and surged forward.
One hard thrust.
He was buried to the root.
Helene's gasp echoed through the silent apartment.
"Yes, Little One," he groaned against her throat, biting the tender curve. "Lose your breath for me."
A moan, ragged and full of surrender, tore from her lips as her head fell back. She responded sweetly now, her movements less calculated.
Buried deep inside her, William's hand slid down her side, and he watched in the mirror as her skin rippled under his touch. Helene arched in her pleasure, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parting, milky limbs entwined with his—like a panting Greek statue, a master of her art even while yielding to him.
As his erection moved in and out of her, the Duke of Albemarle stared back at him, in control and armored in his suit. But his eyes... his eyes burned with possessive fire.
Her lips quivered, and the muscles of her spine trembled. Sustaining her leg up had to be exhausting.
He withdrew, slow and slick, the parting drag of his cock a lingering torment.
"Non, non! Don't take it off."
"Just a bit, Little One."
He lifted her effortlessly, cradling her bare form like a precious, wicked secret. Her limbs curled around him instinctively as he carried her to the bed. William set her down gently, guiding her onto her stomach. He took his time, arranging pillows beneath her hips, lifting her up like an offering.
The view stole his breath.
She lay exposed before him, spine arched, legs parted. Her slick folds glistened in the candlelight, open and wet for him. The slope of her back, the dip of her waist, the perfect curve of her ass—divine architecture.
He palmed her cheeks, spreading them slowly. With one hand, he traced lazy circles over her skin, feather-light, almost ticklish. Then he dipped between her folds, testing her wetness.
Helene whimpered, her face pressing against the sheets.
With a harsh breath, he guided his cock back into her—one long, deliberate thrust that had her moaning into the linens. She arched in response.
Her orgasm was close, but he needed more passion, more abandon. He rolled his hips in slow, punishing strokes, holding her by the waist as he rocked into her. Each movement built her higher—but when her body tightened, close to release, he withdrew.
She whimpered, limbs languid, hips twitching in protest. He started again, guiding it with one hand, feeding it inside her. She rolled her derrière, seeking more contact, more friction.
He withdrew nearly to the tip. Then slammed home, deep and hard.
