“After she’d already implied I was little better than a lightskirt pretending to be a lady!”
The carriage rocked into motion, throwing her off balance. Adrian caught her, pulling her against him.
“She’s not worth your anger,” he said, his voice softer.
“She’s had you.” The words came out before she could stop them. “She knows what you like, what you need. She’s right—I’m inexperienced, common, nothing like the women you usually—”
He kissed her, cutting off her spiral of insecurity. It was fierce, claiming, his tongue demanding entrance, his hands tangling in her carefully arranged hair.
“She had my body,” he said against her lips. “Never more than that.”
“Adrian—”
“You want to know what she was to me? A convenience. A woman who understood the rules and wanted nothing beyond physical release and expensive gifts.” His hand traced a path up her thigh, the silk of her gown whispering beneath his fingers. “She never had my rings on her finger. Never wore my locket against her skin. Never made me lose control the way you do.”
“I make you lose control?”
“Constantly.” His fingers found the edge of her stockings. “Even now, when I should be furious with you for that scene, all I can think about is how magnificent you looked putting her in her place.”
“You said you were furious.”
The carriage jolted over cobblestones, lantern-light flickering across velvet seats. Within, the shadows swelled thick and breathless, filled with the heat of two people who could no longer wait.
“I am,” Adrian said, voice a growl low in his chest. His hand slid beneath her skirts, seeking her with practised precision until his fingers found the heat of her. She was already yielding to him, her breath catching as he drew slow, deliberate circles that made her tremble.
“You dared to contradict me before half of London,” he murmured against her ear. “Refused my protection. Do you know what every man in that room thought when they looked at you?”
Marianne arched against his touch, lashes fluttering. “What did they think?” she whispered, her voice unsteady.
“They thought you unclaimed,” he rasped, his breath hot against her neck. “And now I burn to prove the opposite. I shall have you against my desk, lift these skirts, and claim you so completely you’ll never again doubt whom you belong to.”
Her lips trembled, her body trembling with need. “Then prove it,” she gasped. “Take me home and prove it, Adrian.”
His restraint shattered. In one swift motion, he drew her onto his lap, her back pressed to his chest, her skirts a tangle of silk about her hips. She felt the solid heat of him against her spine, his breath unsteady against her ear as his hand slipped beneath the fabric. His touch was deft and unrelenting, each stroke coaxing from her a soft gasp that melted into a breathless moan.
“Adrian—”
“Hush,” he murmured, his lips grazing her neck. “Do you feel it?” he whispered. “How your body answers mine, without words, without thought?”
“Yes,” she managed, gripping his arm as her body arched into his hand. “It’s for you—only you. Please, don’t stop.”
Her release came swift and shattering, her whole body bowing against him as the world seemed to blur. He withdrew at once, leaving her breathless, trembling, and desperate for more.
By the time the carriage drew to a halt, she was undone—hair tumbling loose, gown half unlaced, her pulse unsteady beneath her skin. He lifted her in his arms, carrying her through the silent corridors and into his study. The door closed behind them with a decisive click.
The great mahogany desk loomed before them. Without a word, he turned her toward it, his hands firm at her waist. The cool surface met her palms as he bent her forward, her skirts spilling around her like dark water.
“You dared to challenge me in public,” he said quietly, his voice rough with desire. “Now you will yield to me in private.”
“Yes,” she gasped, every nerve alive. “I yield. Adrian—please.”
He pressed into her slowly, deliberately, his breath catching as she tightened around him. She cried out softly, the sound half pleasure, half disbelief at the intensity of it.
“Marianne,” he groaned, his control fraying. “You are perfection—made for me, every inch.”
“Yes,” she whispered, turning her head just enough to meet his gaze. “For you. Only you.”
He began to move, each motion deliberate, unhurried, yet impossibly deep. The rhythm built between them—steady, consuming, a language older than words. She met him without thought, her fingers clutching the desk for balance, her voice breaking on a plea.
