“Harder,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Please… don’t stop.”
He caught her up against his chest, one arm around her waist, the other guiding her chin back to meet his kiss. Their mouths met fiercely, all restraint gone, until she shattered once more in his arms.
He groaned into her kiss, the words escaping raw and unguarded. “Mine—my wife, mine.”
They sank together, breath mingling, her body pliant in his arms. He kissed her temple, her jaw, the damp curve of her throat, his voice a low murmur of reverence and want.
But he was not finished.
Lifting her gently, he carried her upstairs and laid her across the vast bed. The firelight touched her skin, turning it to gold, the sheen of their shared desire still upon her.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his gaze dark with hunger and awe. “So beautiful… my perfect wife.”
His hand moved over her with slow precision, drawing from her a sigh that deepened as he lowered his mouth to her. He was tender, relentless, coaxing pleasure until she could no longer contain the sounds rising from her throat.
“Adrian—please—don’t stop,” she gasped, clutching at his hair.
He made a low sound against her, his lips and tongue working with reverent purpose until she shattered, trembling beneath him. Only when she lay still and breathless did he rise, claiming her mouth once more before sliding into her with exquisite care.
This time, his movements were slower, deeper—each thrust a promise, each breath a vow. She clung to him, whispering between kisses, “I love you. I want you. Forever, Adrian—yours, always yours.”
Her words undid him. His rhythm faltered, grew rougher, until at last they were lost together, the world narrowing to the rhythm of their bodies and the beating of their hearts.
When it was over, he gathered her close, brushing a damp curl from her brow, his voice softer now but steady as steel.
“You are mine,” he murmured. “I don’t share. What’s mine stays mine.” His hand traced idle patterns on her bare back. “Venetia never understood that.”
Her lashes fluttered. “What do you mean?”
“She took other lovers. Thought I wouldn’t care as long as she was discreet.” His hand stilled. “I ended it that night.”
“But the gossips say—”
“The gossips say what she wished them to believe,” he replied, his tone cool. “She let her friends whisper of my temper, my supposed excesses. It served her better than admitting she’d been dismissed.” He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. “Let them think what they please. I would rather be thought dangerous than dull.”
He turned her gently to face him. “You, however,” he added, voice low, “could never bore me. You exasperate me, challenge me, drive me to distraction—but never that.”
“Is that enough,” she asked softly, “for a marriage?”
He gave a faint smile. “It’s more than most ever manage.”
But not love, she thought. Never love. Not from a man who had built such high walls around his heart.
“Adrian?”
“Mm?”
“Were there others? Before Venetia?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation, no apology. “Does that bother you?”
“I’m not certain.” Her fingers traced the faint scar upon his chest—the bullet wound from India. “Will there be others… after me?”
His hand closed over hers, pressing it flat against his heart. “There is no after you,” he said quietly. “You’re mine now. Which means I am yours as well. Entirely.”
“Even if I bore you?”
A hint of amusement softened his voice. “Impossible.” He bent to kiss her, slow and lingering. “You’re my wife. My duchess. My beautiful disaster. There’s no room for anyone else.”
