His bold, mischievous, passionate Aideen.
And so, holding her gaze, he lowered his head and flicked a tongue over the veiling material. She jolted…and then moaned. So he did it again and fingers clenched in his hair, pulling him close.
Her hips bucked as he sucked silk and skin into his mouth, and gasping pants escaped her. Aideen’s long fingers explored his shirted chest, pulling at the material and creeping into the open neck. The scads of material must have frustrated her because she stole around to his sensitive spine and as her fingers scratched along it, control slipped away; he grunted, tugging her strap down, desperate for naked skin.
So white as to be virtually translucent, that skin heaved, and he slid a palm gently over her breast, not wanting to mark her. But it seemed Aideen desired firmer, thrusting herself into his touch.
Alas, his hands were calloused from fights and so forth, but she didn’t seem to mind; in truth, the wilder he caressed her skin with rough fingers, the louder she moaned.
Fervently, he shoved the silk down, over her hips, heard something tear, and paused.
Control.
Maintain control.
But Aideen took that moment to explore, her fingers sliding past the band of his breeches.
A guttural groan absconded as she brushed his groin, a tender skim, but then she returned, firmer, bolder, moulding her palm to his rigid length.
Rakecombe’s hands shot down to capture her wrists.
“Bed. Now.”
It must be the first time their thoughts had ever concurred, thought Aideen, as the harsh command was growled out.
What he didn’t seem to consider was that she was backed up against the wall and he was gripping her wrists. She couldn’t stir.
Not that she minded her entrapment.
In fact, two hours ago, she’d thought she would be spending her wedding night with the fictional Corsair, as she had done quite a few nights since meeting the duke. A good substitute, she’d thought at the time, but now, gazing at her husband’s handsome face, she much preferred the corporeal.
He’d bathed somehow as she’d heard peculiar sloshings from the master bedchamber next door and his hair was damp. It wasn’t sleeked back as usual and now she could see why he brutally supressed it, as a dark curl dangled over his forehead.
Curls and the Duke of Rakecombe dare not mix.
His breath panted, and his features appeared harsh and unforgiving, but his eyes… They gleamed with want and a wildness that both frightened and excited her.
“I cannot move, Your Grace,” she whispered. He stood fully clothed, and she should have felt intimidated or nervous but instead the sensation of linen against her breast and his breeches rubbing at her thighs caused an awfully strange rumpus within.
He leaned close to her ear, still clutching her wrists, hot breath causing a squirm. “Say my name.”
“The Duke of Rakecombe.”
His lips minutely quirked. “Say it.” And he bit her lobe.
“Alex.”
“My full name… Please.”
“Alexander.”
“Again.”
“Alexand–”
She was grasped from standing, twirled around in sturdy arms and plonked on the soft bed. A tenacious body followed, bracing itself on forearms, before even more tenacious lips claimed any additional words with swirling possession.
The feel of his weight was ravishing. She’d landed with legs a tad splayed and he took full advantage, easing them apart with his feet and thrusting his hips.
