A hint of warmth touched his expression. "I shall treat you as though you are made of the finest porcelain," he replied. "Fragile only because you deserve care."
The words stirred something deep within her. No one had ever spoken to her as though her comfort truly mattered.
"You may," she whispered.
His touch was heated as he pushed her nightdress up to her waist. She gasped, feeling exposed. Seraphine felt relaxed despite every attempt to remain composed.
She studied him as he concentrated on the task before him, kissing her milky white thighs. He possessed the strength of a soldier and the composure of a duke, yet every movement displayed remarkable patience. It struck her that beneath his cold reserve lived a man capable of profound sensuality, though he guarded it fiercely.
Warmth spread through her chest, not because of the touch itself, but because she found herself trusting him completely. She opened her thighs wider.
He moaned, "You will drive me mad."
As he lavished her with kisses, she allowed herself to wonder whether duty alone had truly brought him to her—or whether, hidden beneath all his discipline and fear, there had always been the beginning of something far more precious.
His kisses moved closer and closer to the mound of curls between her thighs. "If you wish me to stop, I shall," he said quietly, searching her face.
The gentleness of the question startled her almost as much as the tenderness in his voice. A gentleman of Damien's standing was accustomed to commanding, not to asking permission.
"I..." She swallowed. "I do not want you to stop."
A faint smile touched his lips. "I am relieved."
Her pulse fluttered.
She had spent weeks convincing herself that the Duke of Wexford was carved from marble, a handsome statue who understood responsibility but little else. Yet the man before her seemed astonishingly human, and that discovery proved far more dangerous than his intimidating silence ever had.
He resumed kissing her with slow, measured movements. Seraphine became acutely aware of how close he was to her womanhood.
Too close. Surely, he will back away soon.
A proper lady ought not to relish such nearness. She ought to move away. She ought to remind herself that this marriage had begun as an act of necessity, born from scandal and obligation rather than courtship.
Instead, she remained still.
What is becoming of me?
Everything about the moment encouraged hope, and hope had betrayed her before. He had already told her that duty had brought about their marriage. She must never forget that. Yet when she looked into his eyes, she found it increasingly difficult to believe duty alone could produce such patience, such attentiveness, such unmistakable concern for her comfort.
Without thinking, she reached out and lightly smoothed a stray lock of dark hair away from his forehead.
The gesture was small and innocent. Yet the instant her fingertips brushed him; they both fell still.
Then she felt the most delicious sensation as he placed his lips over her sacred place. Her breath caught.
Every sensible instinct urged her to retreat. But every beat of her heart urged her to remain exactly where she was.
Seraphine scarcely realized she had leaned towards him until the space between them vanished altogether.
She felt his tongue press against her rosebud.
"Oh…" she whispered.
His hand rose with deliberate care, his fingers brushing lightly against her hips as though she was something precious that might shatter beneath careless hands.
The simple touch sent a shiver through her, not from surprise but from the tenderness behind it. Damien had always seemed so controlled, so impossibly restrained, yet there was nothing cold about him at that moment. Every movement spoke of patience rather than haste. Every glance seemed to ask for permission rather than demand it.
"Seraphine," he murmured, her name little more than a breath between them. "You taste like heaven."
