His gaze drops, taking in the simple bra, the curve of my waist, the rise and fall of my breath. When he looks back up, there’s hunger in his eyes that makes my breath catch.
“Come here,” he says, and it’s not a request.
I cross the space between us, and his hands settle on my hips, pulling me against him. I can feel the heat of his body through his shirt, feel the hard planes of muscle. He kisses me again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against mine, and I melt into him.
My hands work at the buttons of his flannel, fumbling a little in my eagerness. He helps, shrugging it off, and then his chest is bare and I can’t help but touch. He’s all solid muscle and warm skin, with a dusting of dark hair across his pecs.
Jesus, he’s gorgeous.
His hands slide up my back, deft fingers unclasping my bra. It falls away, and he cups my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples. The sensation makes me gasp against his mouth.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and the sincerity in his voice makes something in my chest tighten.
He walks me backward toward the bed, mouth never leaving mine. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I sit, and he follows me down, covering my body with his.
His weight is perfect, grounding. His mouth trails down my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. I arch into him, hands sliding down his back, feeling the flex of muscle beneath my palms.
He takes his time with me. Kisses a path down my sternum, over the swell of my breasts. His mouth closes over one nipple, tongue circling, and pleasure shoots straight through me. I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him there, not wanting him to stop.
“Duke,” I gasp. “Please… more…”
His hand slides down my stomach, fingers working at the button of my jeans. I lift my hips, helping him pull them offalong with my underwear. Then I’m bare beneath him, exposed in the moonlight, and he pulls back to look at me.
“Perfect,” he says, voice rough with desire.
I reach for his belt, needing him as naked as I am. He helps, shedding his jeans and boxers, and then there’s nothing between us.
He’s thick and hard against my thigh, and the sight of him makes my mouth go dry. I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, and he groans, hips bucking into my grip.
“Trista,” he breathes, and hearing my name in that wrecked voice does things to me.
His hand slides between my thighs, fingers finding me slick and ready. He strokes through my folds, circling my clit, and I gasp, head falling back against the pillow.
“So wet,” he murmurs against my neck. “Is this for me?”
“Yes,” I manage. “God, yes.”
He slides one finger inside me, then another, stretching me, preparing me. The sensation is exquisite, pressure building with each deliberate stroke. I rock against his hand, chasing more, needing more.
“Please,” I hear myself say. “Duke, please.”
He reaches for the nightstand, fumbles for a condom. I watch him roll it on, impatient, aching with need.
Then he’s settling between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He meets my eyes, searching for permission, for certainty.
“Yes,” I tell him. “Please, yes.”
He pushes in slowly, and the stretch is intense, perfect. I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as he fills me completely, inch by inch, taking his time.
“Okay?” he asks, voice strained with the effort of holding still.
“More than okay,” I breathe. “Make love to me. Please.”
He pulls back, then thrusts in again, setting a rhythm that’s steady and deep. Each stroke hits something inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. I wrap my legs around his waist, changing the angle, and he groans.
“God, you feel incredible,” he says against my neck.
The praise sends heat flooding through me. I meet his thrusts, our bodies finding a rhythm together, primal and perfect. His hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit, circling with just the right pressure.
