Page 97 of The Duke's Dream
“I’m the duke,” he said, but the words rang hollow. “Nothing more.”
They were facing each other, and they were not.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” she murmured.
Then, slowly, her fingers moved to his trousers.
One button. Then another. The placket parted. Cold air grazed his cock, and her touch followed—a tender brush across the tip. He gasped.
She turned her back to him and placed her hands on the chair, then she looked at him over her shoulder. “The Duke can have La Sylphide… but not Helene.”
Delicately, defiantly, the wings shimmered. Moonlight kissed the perfection of her back, her derriere, every curve illuminated by a silvery glow.
He pressed the head of his cock against her entrance, and her body welcomed him.
“Helene…”
He sank inside her with a groan, every inch stealing his breath.
She panted, her hands gripping the chair.
Flexing his knees, he pushed to the hilt, needing to feel all of her. Her inner muscles clutched around him, and he cursed again, pleasure punching through him with shocking force.
He grabbed her thighs and spread her wider, angling his hips to reach deeper. One hand held her steady, the other traced the line of her spine.
The wings trembled as she moaned, her body rolling back to meet him.
There was nothing gentle in him now. Only the desperate need to claim, to feel, to anchor himself in the only thing that felt real.
He sought their reflection in the mirror.
Helene’s wings peeked from her shoulders, trembling with each of his thrusts—fragile, fluttering things, like paper caught in a sudden gust.
And him?
Behind her, fully clothed, he looked like some brute—an unrepentant pagan claiming a fairy meant to remain untouched. A monolith of wool and want, his dark coat indistinguishable from the room’s darkness.
And still—he did not stop. He cupped her breasts from behind, squeezing the softness he hadn’t earned, and drove into her harder. Her slick skin met his clothed body, their sweat blooming into steam, and her moans spilled into the air, a symphony of surrender.
His thrusts turned savage, hips slamming into her with punishing force. The wings shuddered—a butterfly trying to stay aloft in a storm.
And still, he drove deeper. The wings flapped with each ram, as if she was trying to fly away from him.
No.
She would never leave. His teeth clenched as he slammed forward again, and one wing tore. The sound—fabric splitting—was louder than the roar inside his skull.
She whimpered. Softly. Brokenly. La Sylphide, crumpling beneath the brute who loved her. Guilt cracked through him like a whip.
He crushed her to his chest, panting against her neck. Her damp hair clung to his lips. Her heartbeat thudded against him.
What was he doing?
He needed more. More than the Silent Sovereign and the Sylph. More than a title. More than a role. He needed William and Helene, skin to skin, no masks, no illusions.
She stood before him, her breath ragged, a tide waiting to break. Waiting for him. Their eyes locked, their world narrowing to fit only two.
His hands shook as he reached for his shirt. The garment resisted, but he peeled it off. Free, his chest expanded with a deep breath, as if he was opening his wings for the first time.
