“I hate lace,” she panted between his kisses.
Narrowed to a single need—to be inside her once and for all, he struggled to attend. “Do you?” Argyll would store that detail for a later date. He stroked her with his fingers.
“Y-Yesss,” she hissed. Argyll raised her right breast to his mouth and swallowed her nipple. “It is o-on the coverlet.”
So bloody lost in his own fiery longing, he couldn’t tell whether that little ‘yes’ came from his efforts or an answer to his inane reply of before.
Had he really believed his wife laconic?
Argyll rolled over and carried her with him so that she lay draped over him. Lifting his head to capture her mouth, he yanked a corner of the offending material, and wrenched it sideways. In one swift motion—taking Daria him, as he went—he whipped the other side. Using his legs, Argyll shoved with the full force of his body. The fabric hit the floor with a soft thump.
“Better?” he rasped against her mouth.
“Very much.”
He rubbed her at the place and pace he’d quickly learned she loved.
“So-ooooooooh.” Daria gripped her thighs like a vise about his hand.
It took but four powerful strokes to send her over again.
“Gregory,” she cried, pumping her hips, taking more pleasure—as he needed her to.
Argyll reached a hand down and loosened the fastening of his trousers. His fingers shook with the force of his want, and the bloody fear of it.
Sprung so hard, his enormous erection resisted the buttons. Yanking hard, the ivory fastenings plinked around the floor. His cock, already weeping at the head, sprung free. He hissed at the brief release.
“I’m going to make love to you, Daria Goodheart, my duchess,” He positioned himself between her legs. “I’m going to make you scream with even greater pleasure,” he vowed, sliding slowly inside her.
With each inch Daria took, she lifted her hips increasingly faster. Her luminous eyes pleaded with him.
“Gregory,” she moaned.
Sweat fell from his brow. “You’re going to kill me, love.” He took in slow, shallow breaths. “I’m trying to go slow, love. You are so bloody tight.” He inched within her.
He filled her all the way.
His cock throbbed, demanding he just let himself free within her.
Propped on his elbows, her slender body framed by his, he lifted his gaze and caught the sight they made in the mirror. Argyll gently claimed her mouth. “Look at us,” he whispered. He kissed her eyes open, and then tipped her head sideways.
Their gazes collided in the mirror. Daria’s breath caught audibly. “Watch, love,” he said, his voice a low, harsh rasp as he began to withdraw his length. “Watch me take you.” He filled her.
The cry he consumed with his mouth didn’t contain pain, only desperate want.
While he worshipped the hollow of her neck and rocked in and out of her, his eyes stayed on her. Her body flush with desire, her breasts marked by his mouth, drove his lust higher.
“Look how our bodies were made for one another.” His words came sharper.
His wife managed to lift her heavy lashes.
Their movements took on a greater urgency. She lifted. He lunged. Their bodies moved in harmony.
“Gregory?” There was a quivery question in her voice, its meaning now clear, and he reveled as an ancient warrior would.
“Come,” he urged.
Crying out, Daria was coming, her body gripping and ungripping him. Squeezing him.
