Oh, how she wished he was indeed hers. Longing lanced through her, fervent and painful at once. He could never be hers. Not truly. Nor could she be his. They could pretend, however. They could seize this moment and each other and make the most of this furious desire whilst it lasted.
“Tell me what to do,” she said, uncertain despite her enjoyment at being the one who would decide upon their pace and pleasure.
He grasped his rigid staff, running the blunt head over her sensitized pearl.
“Mmm.” She could not quell the moan of delight that rose from her.
“Lift yourself,” he said, voice thick and low with longing.
She rose on her knees obediently.
He aligned himself with her, the tip of his cock brushing against her entrance. “Take what you want, Mira.”
His gruff urging was all the impetus she required. She sank down upon his straining member, slowly at first and then with greater intent. Until he was lodged inside her, deep and thick and pulsing.
“Dear God,” she said, the pleasure so intense, she found herself crumpling against his hard chest.
“We’ve had this talk before, love. Not God.” He grinned up at her, his hands grasping her waist in a grip that was somehow possessive and tender. “Just Demon Winter.”
“Damian,” she corrected him, because she did not like Demon.
It made him sound evil instead of wonderful.
“Damian Winter then,” he allowed. “Still not the Lord. Not a lord at all. Just a bastard.”
“Hush.” Mira pressed a hand to his lips, her finger settling in the perfect dip of his philtrum. “You are notjustanything.”
He kissed her forefinger. “Then ride me, my girl. Have me however you want me.”
She did not know what he meant, though she was willing to learn. He seemed to understand her hesitance, for his hands tightened on her waist, gently guiding her up and down. He allowed her to find the pace she wanted, just as he had promised.
Making love in this position was intense, not just because her body regulated their mutual pleasure, but because there was no hiding from the carnality of the act. She was on him, taking him in slow and steady plunges, her hips finding the rhythm her body needed, rocking into him again and again. Her breasts were bare and bouncing. His eyes were dark and intense on hers. Soon, slow and steady was not enough.
She needed faster. Harder. Deeper.
She planted her hands on the pillow at either side of his beautiful face, and she worked harder, trying to find the next release her body so desperately required. He spurred her on every moment of the way.
“Yes, Mira. Harder. Ride my cock.”
His shocking words had their intended effect. She did everything he asked, closing her eyes as she gave herself up to the intensity of the sensations. Her hair cascaded down her back. The wet sounds of their lovemaking filled his chamber. No moment in her life had ever been more erotic.
“Like this?” she managed to taunt him as she moved with greater confidence.
“Yes.” He groaned, hips working beneath her to drive himself higher, deeper. “Just like that. Fuck me, love.”
Vulgar words from a lowborn man. He had been born to a different class. She had been born to be a duke’s wife, to snare the coronet her mother had wanted for her. And she had done her duty all this time, had lived above reproach. If anyone who knew the Duchess of Stanhope could see her now, they would have been disgusted.
And Mirabel herself? She should have been shocked. Horrified. She should be mired in so much shame that she would never again find her way to Lady Fortune or to this man’s arms and bed.
Except she knew she was going to do so.
Again.
And again.
And again.
As often as she could. Because she wanted this man as she had never wanted another. And because after so many painful years of being the submissive, passionless duchess she had been forced to be, she deserved this man. Deserved this desire, this passion, this uncontrollable flame.
