“For field research,” she whispered. “Absolutely.”
He stilled as though absorbing the syllables into muscle, memory, and motive. Then he leaned in, his lips grazing the edge of her ear.
“Are you sure?” he murmured. “Because once I begin…” A pause. A pulse. A beat that lingered between sin and symphony. “I will make your derriere sing.”
Wanton’s knees buckled. “Will it be... classical or contemporary?”
His fingers traced down the length of her spine, featherlight, as if tuning her vertebrae for performance. One large hand slidaround her backside and gripped, pulling her flush against him in one scandalous motion.
“Classical, naturally. Disciplined. Demanding. Three full movements. There will be a score,” he murmured, “and I will follow it. Notated in the firmest tradition: no improvisation, no mercy. A tempo that builds. Repeats that demand perfection. Discipline in every bar.”
His other hand ghosted up her spine. “And when I’m done...” Another squeeze. A dark promise. “The coda will make you scream.”
She wouldn't scream. That was absurd. She was a woman of science, not scandal. She'd endured botched chemical reactions, a three-day symposium on moss classification, and one very ill-advised tango with a philosopher named Bertrand. She did not scream.
At most, she emitted a thoughtful “oh!” or a briskly worded footnote. Screaming was for melodramatic heroines and women in operas with too much time and not enough undergarments. She was composed. She was empirical. She had once recited the periodic table during a pelvic exam.
She was absolutely not going to scream.
Wanton blinked up at him, breathless. A flush blooming in places rarely charted by scholars. Her lips parted, but not from astonishment—from calculation.
“Highly unlikely, Your Grace. I may... vocalize.”
His brow arched.
“Possibly emit a startled declaration.”
His grip tightened.
“A squeak, at most. Perhaps a concise critique of technique.”
He bent closer, lips at her ear. "Is that a challenge, Wanton Wallflower?"
Chapter ten
Symphony No. 69 in Arousal Major - Scored for bare palm and blushing cheek.
Movement I: Allegro – The Spank Awakens
Tempo: steadily ruinous. Instrumentation: Dominant Duke (baritone register, armed with gluteal percussion and eyebrow-based dynamics) and Submissively Curious Wallflower (mezzo-soprano, known to crescendo on contact)
He stood before her, close enough that she could feel his body heat crashing into hers like a rogue wave across a seaside promenade. The cotton of her robe might as well have been theoretical. His grip on her waist was firm, ducal brackets enclosing a very misbehaving clause. Her thighs pressed together. Her breath stalled. Her heart launched into a fugue.
She barely had time to catalogue the scent—steam and sandalwood layered over traces of a war campaign, punishment,and the exact chemical compound responsible for upper-class mischief—before he sat on the marble platform like judgment cast in flesh.
And then, without so much as a grace note, she was airborne and unceremoniously deposited across his lap like a scandalous note to a very improper sonata.
“By the trembling ruffles of Newton’s nightgown!” she gasped. “Am I to be repositioned like an experimental chaise longue?”
Too late. She was draped. Face tilted toward the mosaics. Limbs akimbo. Backside presented like a thesis statement in need of defense.
The marble beneath her was warm, sinful. Her nerves warmed up like an orchestra tuning before a truly improper overture. Wanton gripped his robe: thick, scandalous terry. She could feel the heat of his thigh beneath her hips. The breadth. The ducal tension. Her inner wallflower issued a formal complaint. Her inner wanton lit a scented candle and whispered,let’s see where this goes.
And then he ghosted his fingers down her spine. Her robe parted with a sigh, like even it had waited long enough.
“I shall commission Canova for a private sculpture of this,” he murmured, his voice all architectural appreciation and suppressed hunger. “In all its disobedient splendor.”
Her backside prickled with outrage. And need. And inconvenient pride.
