And yet, everything was right.
Too right.
Because Duncan Kirkwood’s delicious scent had invaded her senses, and his large, warm body was all but flush against hers, and they were alone in a bedchamber of all places, and his hands were upon her. And because she knew how delicious his kisses were and how talented his hands and mouth could be. Because she remembered how it felt to have him inside her, stretching her, marking her as his. She remembered how she had been so full, full of Duncan, full of life, full of love.
His plan could not possibly work. She swallowed, forced herself to return from the clouds. “Why would Willingham agree to your proposal?” she asked him, doing her best to remain strong against the devastating onslaught that was Duncan Kirkwood.
“Because I shall make him,” Duncan ground out, his jaw clenched.
Oh dear.
“I do not wish for violence.”
“No one deserves violence more, my lady,” he growled.
So protective, so fierce, Mr. Duncan Kirkwood. He was indisputably a man of hot passions and unapologetic convictions. When he spoke, he meant it. But where had he been? Why had he taken six merciless weeks to decide he wanted her in his life? Frederica closed her eyes, attempting to regain herself.
“No violence,” she repeated, her resolve weakening.
He was touching her. So near to her. And God help her, she wanted him more than she ever had.You can have him, her heart whispered, that cunning thing.Forever.How potent a lure was the notion of taking Duncan Kirkwood as her husband? Of kissing that sensual mouth whenever she wished, of learning his body and his desires, of allowing him to teach her the art of pleasure? More potent than the promise of immortality, she feared. Perhaps just as false.
“I will promise you anything but that, angel,” he said with such tenderness one would have supposed he was courting her with gentle wooing rather than threatening to beat the Earl of Willingham. “He hurt you, and I will hurt him in turn. We shall see how he likes to be the recipient of pain.”
“Duncan.” She frowned. “You must not. Not on my account.”
“It is a long time coming for him, angel,” he said, caressing her cheek with his thumb. His hands were ungloved, and his bare skin upon hers was like the charge of gunpowder. Explosive. “On your account and on account of every other female he has ever so injured without her consent. In my world, we believe it must be an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. He hurt my woman, and now he will know the same hurt.”
My woman.
How she liked the sound of that on his supple lips. She liked it too much.
“I am not yours,” she reminded him, for he had not earned the right to claim her. Nor was she certain he could, given the hopelessness of their disparate situations. “And I do not—”
His mouth was upon hers then, swift and unexpected, warm and wonderful, and tasting of Duncan and the forbidden, of sin and redemption, too, and—unless she was mistaken—chocolate. He tasted good enough to eat, and she had missed him. Had ached for him. Six long weeks of alternately yearning for him and hating him crashed upon her in that moment. She became desperate. Her arms wound around his neck, and she rose on her toes, kissing him back with as much unskilled urgency as she could manage without swallowing him whole.
Their tongues tangled. His hands were on her waist, drawing her against him and the unmistakable outline of his cock, full and thick. They kissed and kissed until she was making soft sounds of urgency and he was eating them up. Until his palms were planted upon her arse—yes, she knew the meaning of the word at last—cupping her, lifting her, and grinding her body against his. Her legs parted, her skirts having been gathered to her waist by his clever hands, and then her core made contact with his breeches.
She was bare, her swollen flesh impaled upon the stiff fabric. Upon the delicious ridge of him.Oh.How sinful. How wonderful. This was what she had missed. Duncan. His body. His knowing wickedness. Simplyhim.
He caught her in his arms, guiding her legs around his waist, and walked them several paces until her back met a wall. Deftly, he used his strength to pin her there, off the floor, pressed between plaster and his hard body. His mouth slanted over hers, at once gentle and possessive. Knowing and ruthless. Wicked and wonderful.
She was on fire, coming back to life. Everything she had felt the night he had made love to her returned, only this time stronger. More forceful. This time, she understood what the sensations meant. She knew what friction and pressure and Duncan would grant her.
And she wanted it.
She wanted to come undone for him. Because of him.
For so long, she had dreamt of him, had lain awake in her bed, miserable and isolated, thinking of him. Imagining him and his knowing hands and lips and tongue. She had touched herself, had worked her flesh in the same manner as he had, and she had experienced small tremors of satisfaction. But nothing she had dared try thus far compared to Duncan’s body against hers, his mouth voracious on hers, his tongue, his fingers, his…
He thrust against her, the hard line of his cock glancing over the sensitive bud he knew how to pleasure so well. She moaned into his mouth, ravenous for him. She wanted more. Wanted everything. Her hands were in his hair, on his broad shoulders, down the solid plane of his back, finding his bottom. His was well-shaped, perfect handfuls, tight and firm. He angled himself against her more fully, driving against her in steady, rhythmic thrusts that mimicked lovemaking. Each pass of his cloth-covered cock over her bare flesh stoked the fires rising within her.
Her mind ceased to function. Instead, she was taken over by the sensory; Duncan’s masculine scent in her nose, his taste in her mouth, the burgeoning shape of him pressing into her most sensitive flesh. He drove against her, his mouth taking hers as his body once more led her to the oblivion of full and complete bliss.
She was desperate for him, needing more, raking her nails all over his body, offering herself to him as if he had never walked away from her. Because she belonged to him, just as he belonged to her. Because she needed more. She needed something she had not even imagined, something she had not fathomed, a mere hour before.
She needed contact. Friction. More of him.Starving.She was so starved for this man. For his flesh, for the sweet weight of his body atop hers, for his large hands, his mouth. His tongue.Good heavens, his tongue, long and willful and persuasive.
He settled himself more firmly between her thighs with ease, setting his lips to her throat. His pulsing cock was seated against her cunny. A sharp stab of need pulsed through her. She wanted him inside her, and her body knew it before her mind did, her hips arching in desperation, seeking to accept that which had yet to be offered. Except, even in that motion, she found minor comfort.
