Page 71 of Stolen and Seduced By the Duke

Margaret blinked. "What are you doing?"

"Brushing your hair," he replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

She stared at him. "You came into my bedchamber to reprimand me, and now you intend to brush my hair?"

His mouth curved. "You asked whether I wished to waste my own time. I assure you, Duchess, I am using it precisely as I please."

Margaret ought to have refused, but curiosity defeated indignation. She sat, and Pierce stood behind her, gathering a section of her damp hair with surprising gentleness.

The first stroke of the brush sent a peculiar shiver through her. She had had her hair brushed thousands of times, yet never had she been so conscious of the hand guiding the brush or the man standing behind her.

"You are making a perfectly ordinary task seem absurdly dramatic," she murmured, watching him through the mirror.

Pierce's gaze met hers. "That may be because you are determined to make everything between us complicated."

"You are hardly helping," she replied.

"No," he admitted, his voice quieter. "I do not believe I am." He continued brushing her hair slowly, the rhythmic movement oddly soothing.

Margaret's eyelids grew heavy, and the tension she had carried since returning home began to dissolve.

When he finally set the brush aside, his fingers rested briefly against her shoulder. "Do you still want me to leave?" he asked.

Margaret looked at him in the mirror. She should have said yes. Instead, she heard herself answer, "No."

Something changed in his expression, though he said nothing about it. He moved behind her and placed his hands upon her shoulders, beginning a slow, careful massage that eased the knots of tension beneath his fingers. Then he kissed her neck.

Margaret exhaled softly and let herself relax into the chair. "You are making me lose myself," she murmured.

"I shall try not to let it go to my head," Pierce replied, though the smugness in his voice suggested he had already failed.

His hands worked gently along her shoulders and down her chest, under the neckline of her night shift, until they cupped her breasts.

Margaret gasped. She felt herself melting beneath the steady pressure, her thoughts becoming quieter with every passing moment.

Pierce’s thumbs moved in slow circles over her rosy peaks. "Do you like that?"

Margaret smiled. "I do."

His hands paused for the briefest moment before continuing. "Then I suppose I shall have to continue."

One hand moved lower over her belly. Margaret tensed in anticipation, but she found herself doing something she should not; she spread her thighs wider.

Pierce groaned, low and seductive. She felt his chest press against her back as he reached down between her thighs. She remembered this from before, and ached for it. Something she hated to admit to herself.

"You can tell me to stop if you wish," he said.

"No, she said. Please don’t."

His hand cupped her sweet mound and began to massage tenderly. Margaret threw her head back.

"Oh, Pierce," she whispered.

She felt the pulse growing deep in her belly. She squirmed on the chair.

"You will drive me mad if you do not let me taste you," Pierce moaned.

"I do not understand," she said.