Page 51 of Til Death Duke Us Part
Of course they could. For now. In a fortnight’s time… there’d be much to speak of. But she could have a thoughtless, pleasure-filled now.
He kissed her, and she kissed him back, knowing somehow—probably because she knew him better than he knew himself—that it was his answer.
They fell into each other, shedding clothes as quickly as they shed their doubts. Persephone’s doubts gone, at least. Her parents wanted her to take a husband and a title. She only wanted the man, but not forever if it meant she’d have to watch him kill himself with stubbornness. She wouldn’t enable his destruction, wouldn’t try to save him either.
But she could take two weeks.
Victor looked at her as if he loved the sight of her, as if he’d been starving and she was a feast. She’d missed him. And the way he looked at her… it seemed he had missed her too. She’d believe it. For herself. For now. She wanted a quick tumble, a rough bout of pleasure, but he wouldn’t let her speed things along. Every time she reached for his shaft, he batted her away with a chuckle, with a dark, “Wait, darling, patience.”
And she melted under his touch.
He touched her everywhere—the hardened soles of her feet, the curve of her calves, the little sensitive spots behind her knees. He loved to learn the shape of her thighs and arse, and he sighed over her navel, her waist. He cursed as he sipped at her breasts and tasted the dark space between her legs. He worshiped her into a rocking ocean, unsteady beneath his touch, moaning and grasping for more.
He knew exactly where to touch, and his kisses left marks on her skin, little ruby shaped glamours he chuckled over.
“I’ll take them away,” he said against her mouth. “Just not now.”
“Leave them.” She liked feeling marked by him. Under her clothes, no one would know she’d given herself to a duke. How long would they last before fading? How long could she claim to be his? “Leave them.”
His fingertips sparked little golden fireworks at her breast, and she laughed, throwing her head back. He claimed glamours were useless, that they could not be felt, but oh, she felt them. They heated her skin and warmed her blood and made her frantic for more.
When he dragged his hand between her legs, she shivered, wet and needy, and he nipped her earlobe between his teeth.
“Cold?” he whispered.
She couldn’t answer. Had no time to tell him no because the room dissolved into a garden—sun high overhead, their bed a field of flowers, soft and fragrant.
She laughed again, and he kissed her throat. Kissed her everywhere. She kept her eyes open to see what he’d created as he blossomed purest pleasure in her body. In the glamoured garden, he was all raw masculine muscle, and he concentrated all that power on her.
“I don’t want you to be cold,” he whispered against her skin. “Not if I can warm you. I want to be your sun, the blood beneath your skin. I want to make your heart beat, Sephy.”
He did. He was. All that and more. But she locked it up behind her lips. She’d written the words in her note in Manchester. I love you. He knew. He just could not say those words back to her.
Still, when he settled his weight between her legs, she arched up to meet him, unable to deny her body. Her heart did not mind the betrayal. The poor thing had confused desire for love. She’d let it live its delusions for a night.
“Wider, Sephy,” he mumbled against her breast, teeth teasing her nipple.
She cried out, dropped her knees wider, and he thrust inside. Yes. Perfect. So perfect to be filled by him. She wrapped herself around him—arms and legs and heart—and she clung tightly. The glamoured garden shifted and broke as he moved within her. It blurred, but his eyes cleared, filled with calm certainty. No one had ever looked at her like that—like she was better, worthier than a perfect summer day.
He cupped the back of her neck as he rocked in and out of her, gently, tangling his fingers in the hair at her nape. “Nothing more perfect,” he whispered, laying his forehead against hers, “than Persephone in a dark room, opening herself to me.”
Exactly. Exactly.
She shattered. And the garden shattered too, blowing away in an unfathomable number of glass shards, leaving them in the mostly empty, dark room. She closed her eyes to roll in the pleasure of the moment and to better feel him thrust into her one final time, every muscle going rigid above her. His weight settled atop her, and her limbs fell to the mattress, limp. Their hearts and lungs gasped alongside one another. And the reality of the nearly empty chamber was so much better than the garden.
The complicated duke she could never have almost asleep atop her everything she wanted.
She could have it… she could. Words like money and heiress and all his problems solved with a wedding day… they threatened to ruin the sated luxury of her moment.
She wouldn’t let them. He may not love her, but his touch felt like adoration. And his eyes burned with passion. And when he spoke with her, each word dripped humor, respect, and possibly affection. That would be enough for a fortnight. She wouldn’t hope for his love. She was done fixing men. They could fix themselves.
But she could still love him.
For a fortnight.
She allowed him to gather her up and hold her close. And in his arms, she fell asleep.
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