And still, his fingers moved—drawing out the final, trembling tremolo, coaxing every last note of pleasure from her until she collapsed against him, boneless and spent.
Above them, the Turkish lamp swung at a jaunty, broken angle—glass shards glittering across the tiles like the aftermath of a particularly sensual séance.
He brushed a palm down the curve of her spine, as if to sign his name in invisible ink.
“You shattered a Turkish antique.” Another stroke. “With your scream.”
Wanton groaned into his thigh. “There must have been… a seismic event. A minor tectonic shift. Possibly fault lines under the frigidarium. We should report it.”
The Duke’s fingers drifted lazily over the curve of her backside. “Yes,” he murmured, low and lethal, “there was.”
He leaned in, and pressed a kiss just behind her ear. “It was the earth-shattering orgasm I gave you.”
Another stroke—this one darker, lower, a preview of wicked things to come.
“And now,” he growled, “I’m going to fuck you so thoroughly the continent realigns. And you, Wanton Wallflower… you’ll scream my name like it’s the only one history remembered.”
End of Movement III.
Curtain falls on Symphony No. 69 in Arousal Major.
Chapter eleven
In Which Wanton is Bent, Stretched, and Shouts at Heaven (With Feeling)
One moment, she was draped across his lap. The next, the world tilted. Strong arms slid beneath her thighs and shoulders, and with effortless command, he lifted her. She barely had time to blink before she was upright—planted firmly on trembling legs.
His gaze raked over her like armor-stripping fire, and she could feel his restraint, his devastating hunger—coursing across her skin like a storm front. It wrapped around her, curled low in her belly, and sent a sharp thrill between her thighs. Her pulse kicked up wildly. Her thoughts scattered.
Observation: the subject appears to be radiating unholy ducal heat. Recommend containment. Or further exposure.
He seized her hips and bent her over the hammam’s heated slab, folding her forward like a lamb being arranged for sacrifice.
Her palms landed with a wet slap. Her breasts flattened against the marble—heat licking her nipples. Her breathhitched. Her thighs clenched. She wasn't even sure in which direction her bones had fled.
By all that was scandalous, this was not in the spa brochure!
The Duke's body came flush behind hers, heat meeting heat, his bare chest brushing her spine, breath searing against the nape of her neck. Her knees almost betrayed her again, but before she could melt into a post-symphonic puddle, he caught her hips.
And then—oh. His penis—thick, hard, and unmistakably ready—slipped between her folds. Not pushing in. Just gliding, spreading slickness as if conducting some obscene topographical survey of her most sensitive terrain.
Wanton whimpered. What was he about? "Are you… studying my angles, Your Grace? Is this part of some preparatory…flesh geometry?"
He didn't answer. Just rocked forward. Enough for her to feel the ridge of him press and slide, spreading her open with nothing but teasing threat and devastating promise.
A low, dark laugh spilled against her ear—rich as honey, thick as sin. "Are you wet for me, Wanton?"
She raked her nails against the tiles. Wet was a polite Regency understatement.
She huffed. "Any more moisture, Your Grace, and we’d need a gondola and an oar.
He growled—a sound that vibrated against her spine.
“Then prepare yourself, my Wanton Wallflower.” His palm slid around to grip her slick inner thigh. “Your body’s about to make waves. And I intend to drown in every last ripple.”
She barely had time to brace. He thrust—hard, deep, and devastating. (Attention to the Oxford comma in the last clause. Not important? Well, some people believe in proper punctuation!)
The Duke growled like a man about to conquer new territory. Wanton trembled under his advances. If this was colonization, she would surrender her provinces immediately! And possibly sign a treaty with her ankles behind her ears.
