Page 81 of The Duke's Dream
Her sob broke through him. Her channel spasmed, pulling him deeper, and he nearly wept at the feel of her, opening, breaking, trusting. His.
Pushing his weight into his forearms, he braced himself to hold her through every wave, every flicker of pleasure that rippled across her face.
Her eyes shimmered like liquid jewels, a gaze that begged his surrender, even as he remained above her, within her, inside her very soul.
He felt himself come in long, uncontrollable bursts—shuddering into her, trembling with the force of it.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't blink. Could only watch her. Sweat beaded on her flushed skin, trailing down her chest like droplets on chilled champagne left out in summer's heat. Her breasts rose and fell in time with her ragged breaths. Her mouth remained parted, kiss-swollen, and dazed. She was the very picture of bliss, of surrender in its most glorious form.
At that moment, all the titles he bore turned to ashes. All that mattered was her body, soft and trembling beneath his, and the exquisite ache swelling in his chest.
She had given him this. She had trusted him with her pleasure—and he'd seen her soar.
How did it feel to let go like that?
Impossible. Such passion was forbidden to him. He could not forget Farley, Rodrick, his mother.
When William began to ease away, her arms locked around him, and she gasped his name, as though it were the only thing anchoring her to the earth.
A fierce protectiveness roared through him, an aching need to shield her, keep her soft, keep her safe.
He bent, brushing a reverent kiss to her cheek, then drew her atop him—tangled, naked, boneless with bliss. Her limbs curled like ivy around him, and her breath fanned against his collarbone.
"Shhh, Little One," he murmured. His hand smoothed down the slope of her spine. "Fear not the fall. When you fly, I will always catch you."
He licked the tears from her cheeks, his tongue lingering against her skin.
She was seared into him now. The memory of her soaring was etched into his bones.
He had found a new purpose—she was the winged being, and he was her falconer, guiding her flight.
Helene nuzzled his chest, then her hand slipped beneath the linen of his shirt to touch the bare skin over his heart.
A jolt shot through him, and his breath faltered.
"Helene," he whispered, raw.
She smiled against his throat, and the curve of her lips sent a shiver down his spine.
"You mouthed my name." She lifted her face, eyes gleaming with afterglow and mischief. "I win."
Helenestuffedslippers,awrap, and face powder into her bag, scanning the garret for her keys.
“Where are you, little monster?” she muttered.
No wonder she couldn’t find anything. His Grace had practically moved in, cluttering her space with his writing desk, his clothing, his papers...
William paused mid-shave, his gaze finding hers in the mirror. “Why the rush?"
Helene brushed her hair from her face. “Verón wants to see me before rehearsals. I can't be late, or he will sack me.”
Thinking about the director’s beady eyes and greedy mustachios made Helene shudder.
William resumed shaving, the blade gliding over his chiseled chin. “No, he will not.”
Helene exhaled. He had so much to learn, this duke of hers. It would be a bother if he weren’t so handsome and exceedingly accomplished in the bedroom.
“I want to succeed by my own merits, not because you bullied my director into accepting unacceptable behavior. Ballet needs discipline.”
