He leaned over her, heavy and unrelenting, pinning her open with the sheer force of his body. And his eyes held hers. Wanton tried to look away.
But he caught her chin and brought her gaze back to his.
“Your Grace,” she gasped, voice wobbling, “it is well documented that prolonged eye contact may induce elevated heart rate, loss of motor control, and—”
“I want to see you,” he cut in, voice low and jagged. “All of you.”
Her breath faltered. A flush crawled up her throat, burning across her chest. There was something unmooring about being held like this—pinned open, trapped beneath that gaze.
He flicked her clit, hard and fast and bold. Then a devastating press that sent her scrambling for coherence, for oxygen, for some stable law of physics to cling to. But there were none. Only his body driving into hers, and his fingers stroking her as if she were his private instrument, and he meant to wring every possible note from her.
“Oh lace and logic, for research purposes—ohhh—I must document this—”
“Wanton,” he growled, “shut up and come.”
And oh, she did.
It detonated inside her, a ferocious, unstoppable climax. Her body arched beneath him, back bowing, thighs trembling, muscles locking tight as if trying to imprint him there in her lady bits.
She wrapped around him, her cry spilling out, reverberating off the stone walls like scandal given voice.
His arms trembled as he held her tight, burying himself again and again with desperate, final thrusts, until he roared, wild and uncontained. And came. Pouring into her with a force that made her tremble anew.
He convulsed. Then collapsed—heavy and glorious atop her.
Skin on skin. Heart to heart. Breath to breath.
He pressed a kiss to her cheek, braced himself on trembling forearms, and met her gaze.
“Did I hurt you?”
She smiled against his shoulder, breath still uneven, brain somewhere between bliss and collapse.
“No,” she murmured. “But when it’s time for us to leave... you should probably ask the footmen to bring a stretcher.”
Chapter twelve
In Which She Lies Sore and Finally Admires the Duke’s Backside in Its Full, Post-Coital Majesty
The marble beneath her was still warm.
Or perhaps she was. At this point, it was rather difficult to distinguish between architectural heat and post-ravishment glow.
Her limbs had staged a full mutiny. Her thighs trembled like debutantes after too much champagne. Her nipples were positively outraged—tender from their enthusiastic duet with ancient Roman stone. And deep inside, her traitorous inner muscles were still fluttering, clenching pitifully around nothing, as if attempting to conjure him back through sheer desperation and pelvic telepathy.
It was not ladylike.
It was not dignified.
It was, frankly, a problem worthy of sonnets.
The Duke lay draped over her like a very heavy, very muscular blanket. His breath was hot at her neck. His arm rested acrossher belly, fingers splayed like he meant to hold her together in case she unraveled again.
He hadn’t moved.
Neither had she.
The remaining lanterns flickered with golden laziness, casting a honeyed glow over the aftermath of their mutual undoing.
