“And? Are you disappointed with the flesh and blood version of the fiction you read?” He dragged himself up and down her seam, making both their hips twitch. It felt so damned delicious. She felt so damned delicious. Her wet heat silken, and he wanted to take her now. Wanted inside her. So. Very. Badly. He licked his lips and tasted her, musk and honey.
“Oh.” The gentle exclamation left her once more, but this time with an aching resonance he did not miss. “I must say, as much as I appreciate the written word, there is something to be said for flesh and blood.”
“Something?” His fingers delved into her folds now, finding her already sensitized pearl and stroking.
A lusty moan tore from her, the heat of her expelled breath brushing over his lips like a kiss. He toyed with her slowly. Softly, knowing from the way she writhed impatiently against him that she wanted more. Harder. She wanted to come again, his wanton goddess.
And he would allow her to. But not yet.
“A great deal,” she amended.
He removed his fingers, slick with her wetness, and held them to her lips. “Suck, my lady.”
There was something infinitely stirring about maintaining formality with her whilst they were naked and he had licked her cunny into devastating submission twice. When he was holding fingertips kissed with her dew to her perfect mouth and ordering her to taste herself.
Her lips parted, obeying, and he suppressed a groan at the sight of that perfect, lush rosebud mouth opening for his fingers. Her lips closed over his two fingers, her tongue lapping. Hades and hellfire, he had no words. No thoughts. The suction of her mouth on his fingers made his cock pulse as if he had just spent. And if he endured her innocent torment for another moment more, he feared he would do just that.
He withdrew his fingers, drew them to first one nipple, then the other, painting lazy, glistening circles around each. And then he lowered his head to draw them into his mouth. He lingered on the last nipple, tugging with his teeth until she cried out.
He wanted to prolong their joining for as long as he could. Wanted to make this night last, for the memories of it would be all he had left of her come the morning. He shoved that miserable thought from his mind, unwilling to acknowledge or examine it, for all he wanted in this moment was her, and he could not imagine anything beyond it. Could not fathom ever wanting anyone the way he wanted her, or feeling this soul-deep desire with another.
Duncan released her nipple, met her gaze once more, falling into mossy brilliance. He knew she was as lost as he was. “I need you.”
She nodded. “Yes.” Caught his face in her small, elegant hands and drew him to her for a kiss.
He poured all of himself into that meeting of mouths. Lips. Tongue. She tasted of herself and of raw desire, of the forbidden, of need. Their tongues tangled. Moans rose between them. Hands were everywhere. His. Hers. Traveling, caressing, learning, memorizing, and tantalizing. Her skin was supple, warm and smooth, at once innocent and yet debauched. He could touch her forever. Kiss her forever.
But a voice inside him reminded him their time was limited.
He guided her to the center of the bed and joined her there, fitting naturally between her thighs. They kissed, alternating between long and slow and fast and hard. He tore his lips from hers, looking down at her, their ragged breaths mingling to become one, their eyes locked.
“Are you certain?” he asked, for he would not proceed without knowing she harbored not a single doubt. It did not matter how much he wanted her. He had no wish to be her regret.
“Yes, Duncan,” she said with aching seriousness.
Her hands were on his shoulders once more, caressing with bold, tender strokes. She branded him. As long as he lived, he would never forget the sensation of Lady Frederica’s body, willing and lush beneath his, her hungry hands roaming his flesh as though he were someone worthy of her.
Plainly, he was not.
But neither was he such a gentleman that he would attempt to dissuade her of the wisdom of her decision—or lack thereof.
“You want me?” he had to ask again, for some part of him could scarcely credit that Lady Frederica Isling—beautiful, innocent, bold—wanted him, misbegotten illegitimate son who lived a life of sin and decadence.
That the god of the underworld and the goddess of spring could so meet.
“You have woken me from a great sleep,” she told him then, her voice vehement, stirring an answering understanding deep within him.
They were meant to be.
For tonight, he reminded himself.
Only for tonight.
But oh, what a glorious night it would be.
He kissed her, allowing his entire body to press against hers, from chest to ankle. The delicious fullness of her breasts, her hard nipples, the softness of her belly, the sweet mound of her cunny, the curves of her legs—they were fitted together everywhere. Perfectly.
Their kiss deepened. Tongues and moans intertwined. Hands roamed. Bodies arched and flexed, accommodating, begging, needing with a desperation that seemed impossible. She had invaded his life for a sennight, and yet, she was all he could think about, see, breathe. She consumed him, and he wanted, in turn, to possess her. He wanted her to never forget the night when a baseborn bastard had given her pleasure.
