“Lift your hair,” he commanded, his voice hoarse. He had never wanted anyone or anything more than he wanted to be inside his wife at that moment.His wife.For the first time in years, that phrase no longer filled him with icy dread, but instead with fierce, profound longing.
Silently, she did as he asked, her gaze still fastened to his in the looking glass. Her scent filled him, making him ache. She made him more inebriated than the whisky he had consumed. She made him burn hotter and hungrier than an inferno.
Somehow, seeing the two of them together in the glass was arousing as hell. He watched as her breasts rose with her movement, her nipples pebbled and hungry, poking the delicate fabric of her dressing gown.
Swallowing, he reached around her to lay the necklace upon her throat. It glittered and gleamed, the sapphires a complement to her lustrous eyes. His fumbling fingers tried to fasten it at her nape and only succeeded on the seventh or eighth attempt. And there she stood, the reflection of his untamed duchess, her riotous auburn curls framing her lovely face and falling down her back, her lips parted as if in anticipation, her eyes burning into his, her breasts straining against her dressing gown, and a small fortune in sapphires and diamonds winking from her elegant throat. He wanted to fuck her while she wore nothing but the necklace.
Hell, he wanted to fuck her like this, standing up, watching their reflections, thrusting into her from behind, sinking his cock so deep and hard inside her that neither of them would ever be the same afterwards.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, leaning into her, drawn like a child to the promise of sweets. He wanted to indulge. He wanted. Needed. Had to have.Her.“You are so bloody perfect. Those sapphires cannot compare to your eyes.”
“The necklace is lovely,” she murmured. “Thank you, Spencer.”
He could not control his hands. They smoothed over her shoulders, following the gentle curvature that led from her neck and sloped down toward her arms. His fingers found her muscles, worked into the tense cords, and before he knew what he was about, he was massaging, using his thumbs and fingers to loosen her knots. So much stress trapped in her fine-boned shoulders. Was it all because of him? He hated to think it.
“Do not thank me for what is yours, princess,” he said, pressing a kiss to her ear. My God, he could lose himself in her so effortlessly. For days. Months. The rest of his bloody life. She was intoxicating, and he knew exactly why his brother had been so furious that she had slipped from his grasp. Boadicea was a woman worth fighting for.
She smelled so good, and he was lost, grinding himself into the tempting swell of her bottom, touching her everywhere. His hands went lower. He watched, fascinated, aroused out of his mind, as they parted her dressing gown. Slowly. Reverently. Giving her the opportunity to arrest his movement, to stop him. But she did not, and the robe opened with ease.
He pushed it aside, down her arms, and it fell to the belt at her waist. His chest pressed into the smooth, delicious curve of her back and the soft web of her hair as he stared at the reflection of her full, peach-tipped breasts and her hard nipples and her open mouth. Her glazed eyes glittered in competition with the necklace, shimmering against her pale skin. She was bold and gorgeous and unafraid.
Dear God, he had to be inside her.
Spencer dipped his head, fastened his mouth on her throat, inhaled deeply of her scent. He kissed and nipped, raising his gaze to watch in the looking glass all the while. Saw his hands cupping her breasts. Felt the tight buds of her nipples in his fingers, watched himself roll them between his thumb and forefinger, saw her arch her back, felt her arse pressing into his cock. He canted his hips, thrusting against her cleft, witnessed the way her mouth fell open, how her pink tongue licked her sensual lower lip, watched her pupils grow large and round with need. Heard the moan escape her at the same time as he saw it fall from her beautiful lips.
His name was all she said.
“Spencer.”
But it was the tone, the need, the combination of all his senses devoted to her, to the erotic picture of her porcelain and pink curves on display, his hands claiming her. He licked and bit his way to her shoulder. Here, he sank his teeth into her sloped flesh, not hard enough to cause her pain, but enough to let her know his intentions. The beast within him could not be controlled this night.
She did not seem to mind. Instead, he watched her fingers move nimbly over the belt at her waist, making short work of the knot. Her robe pooled around her feet on the floor, and the mirror was just long enough that he could see the fullness of her hips and the sweet beckoning flesh at their apex. Exhaling on a fresh wave of raw need, he dragged his lips back over her shoulder, up her throat, to her ear where he pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the shell.
“I have wanted to fuck you all day,” he whispered, because he knew what it would do to her. He knew her love of wicked words and deeds. Knew that while they might be mismatched in other senses, here, in the bedchamber, they were a perfect fit. Here, he could be as depraved as he wished, and she would beg him for more.
She reached behind her with her left arm, hand cupping his head, and turned to meet him, face to face, nose to nose. The startling blue of her eyes gave him a jolt as he was removed from the fantasy of the looking glass. He could see the exact shape of each of the freckles on her pert little nose, and he was entranced. He had never supposed that freckles could make his cock hard, but he stiffened even more, his hips twitching, his need to be inside her becoming more frantic by the moment.
“I have wanted the same thing,” she whispered, undoing him with her sweet voice and her glorious confession and the way her lips grazed his as she spoke.
“Tell me,” he prodded, wanting to hear her say the words. Wanting so much he almost slammed into her then and there without even touching her cunny to see if she was ready. But of course, he knew she was ready. The scent of her arousal, musky and delicious, lingered in the air. Her body was so bloody responsive to his, seemingly made for his, made for him, and were he not so ruined by what had come before her and were she not the antithesis of everything he had hoped to have in a duchess, he would have sworn she had indeed been fashioned by the Lord specifically for him, and he for her.
But none of that mattered, and his every coherent thought ceased to exist, the moment she said the words he had been yearning to hear from her lips.
“I want you to fuck me, Spencer.”
Ah, hell. That undid him. The tip of his cock was already wet and he had not even yet been inside her. He was going to fuck her, but only after he worshipped her. He closed the distance between their lips, kissing her. It was fiery, passionate, a bit unhinged. Lips and teeth and tongue, messy and wild and everything he craved.
And then he broke away, slipped from her grasp, went down on his knees. He palmed both cheeks of her arse, thinking that even it was beautiful, perfectly shaped and pale and curved. He squeezed gently, then ran his hands with wonder down her thighs, circled his thumbs in the hollows behind her knees, trailed down her sleek calves and then lower still. He gripped one slender ankle in each hand and guided them apart until she was opened to him, her pink, glistening folds on full display.
“Jesus, princess, you are so damn beautiful.” The words were torn from him. His hands traveled back up her long legs—so long, so riveting, so fucking lovely—and then, he leaned into her, found her with his tongue.
He licked her slit, up and down, found her dripping, so ready for him, heard her breathy exhalation. She tasted as sweet as he remembered, better than anything he had ever known, and he licked and licked into her, dipping inside her channel, burying his face deeper, breathing in her essence, making her the center of his world.
His left hand found her hip, gripping, and his right hand dipped between her legs from the front, finding her hungry clitoris and stroking, working it until she writhed against him, rocking back and forth between the demands of his mouth and his fingers. He could sense that she was close to finding her release, and he wanted that more than anything. He pointed his tongue, drove it home inside her, increased the pressure on her pearl. Faster, harder, more.
Her entire body tensed beneath his touch, and she was shaking, trembling violently, crying out as she spent all over his tongue. He lapped it up eagerly, wanting more, anything she could give him. She was so wet, her essence soaking his mouth, his face, his fingers.
Yes. God, yes.
