She crossed the room in a few jerky steps and stopped before him. He cupped her chin, dropping his mouth to hers for a deep, probing kiss. She opened to him, lifting her hands to his forearms and mewling out pleasure as he drove his tongue into her mouth. With difficulty, he pulled away.
“On your knees, Marianne,” he whispered, hoping she would obey, knowing she might not, and uncertain if he was trying to draw her closer or push her away.
Alexander’s order rang in Marianne’s ears and she jolted at the raw power of it. Slowly, she did as she’d been told, settling her skirts around her as she looked up at him. His face was drawn taut with desire and his cock was right there, hard and ready. Although she should wait for his next instruction, she didn’t. Instead, she reached out and caught his cock in one hand, stroking it gently.
He bucked against her with a gasp of surprise and pleasure that made tingles rush through her body. She stroked him, thinking of the pleasures they had already shared, of how he moved when he was inside of her. She mimicked his thrusts with her hands.
And when his breathing was ragged and broken, she thought of when he’d tasted her. Would he like the same? Would her mouth be pleasing to him? She wasn’t certain but now, her gaze locked on his, she wanted to know more than anything. She darted out her tongue to swirl it around the head of his cock.
He made a strangled cry and pushed, driving between her lips. She took him, allowing him into her mouth inch by inch, just as she had welcomed him earlier into her sex. He held her gaze as he began to slowly thrust, and the moment where she understood his desire was very clear. He wanted to take her mouth like it was her sex. And she wanted it, too. She relaxed her mouth and reached up to grip the base of his shaft, working her hand over him as he made shallow thrusts that didn’t quite reach her throat.
She rolled her tongue around him, testing his response. When he dipped his head back in pleasure, she repeated the action. To her great surprise, she wanted this. She wanted the power of it, yes, for there was a great deal of that in making this strong man moan with helpless need. But she wanted something more than that. She wanted to take away his troubles, to make him surrender to her the way she had, to make him feel as good as he had done for her.
His thrusts increased, driving a bit deeper now, and she took him as best she could, stroking his shaft as he ravished her mouth. And just as she thought he would come, he grabbed her arms and lifted her, turning her around so that she faced his desk. He flipped her skirts up, spreading her stance wide before he slid into her wet and trembling body.
He took her, hard and fast, without any of the gentleness that had been present the first two times they’d made love. And she reveled in it, pressing back to meet him, her fingers tangling between her legs to rub her clitoris. The orgasm hit her hard and she cried out as he pushed his hand against her back, flattening her against the desk’s surface as he thrust again and again. At last he let out a ragged, animal moan and she felt the splash of his seed across her backside as he came.
For a while they remained like that, their panting breaths merging in the otherwise quiet room. But at last he withdrew, smoothing her skirts down over her and refastening his trouser front. She stood and faced him only to find his expression back to being unreadable despite their passionate joining.
“You see,” he said. “You haven’t displeased me.”
She nodded. “Good.”
He stepped closer and kissed her once more. Then he went back around his desk and sat down. “I have some work to do. I’ll see you at supper.”
She blinked at the sharp change from passionate lover to this disconnected and disinterested duke who sat before her, his attention already back on his work like she was a servant to be dismissed.
“Very well,” she said, backing toward the door and letting herself out. In the hall, she looked around her, the pleasures they had just shared mingling with her anxiety about what she was expected to do and be to this man.
He was in pain. That was evident. Everything in this stark house said he had locked himself away. Everything in his expression told her that when he was forced to speak of his sister, as did his hesitance when it came to discussing his scar.
It was none of her affair, of course. She had been brought here for his pleasure. All she was giving him was the physical. But he couldn’t be truly happy until he had let go of the past. And a part of her that wanted to help him do just that, the dangers of making that kind of connection with him be damned.
Chapter Eight
When Alexander rounded the corner into his parlor a few hours later, he almost came to a complete halt. Marianne was already there. She was seated in a chair beside the fire, her legs curled up beneath her as she pored over the book in her hand. He was struck not just by how lovely she was—that was obvious. That was overpowering.
But it was how comfortable she looked that truly took him by surprise. Like she…belonged there. In his chair, in his parlor, in his house.
For a moment, that realization struck him and he wanted to…run. He wanted to turn tail and run like a coward from this slight, fascinating woman who had given him her body as trade for her safety.
“Alexander,” she said, her face brightening as she stood to greet him and cut off any option he had for escape. “Good evening.”
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” he said, stepping into the room.
She shook her head. “No. I came in early to read. I didn’t want to be late. I have guessed you are a man who values punctuality.”
He couldn’t help the smile that twitched briefly to his lips. “Somehow I don’t see you as a lady who keeps a sharp eye on the clock.”
She blushed but a giggle bubbled from her lips. That sound was so light that Alexander actually stepped toward it.
“I admit, I can sometimes be forgetful when it comes to the time,” she said. “I get distracted often by a book or a chat with Juliet or my father.” Her smile faded. “Or I did.”
His brow wrinkled at the sadness that entered her gaze. Her father had torn apart her life and yet Marianne still mourned him. Despite the fact that there was color to her gown. He tilted his head at the pretty blue that caught the firelight.
“You are not wearing black,” he said.
Now the color in her cheeks darkened, but this time it looked like guilt that brought the pink there. “I…I want to,” she whispered. “But my cousin only allowed me to purchase one mourning gown and I had no time to dye any other gowns. After the travel, it needed to be laundered, so I packed other items. It is not out of disrespect, I assure you.”
