Page 64 of The Duchess Games

And then he licked lower.

She wasn’t a spinster with secrets, a sister, a smuggler defending her territory.

She was the sweetest dessert. And she was being devoured.

Callum licked at her, groaning his pleasure. He nipped and lapped, using the flat of his tongue, the very tip. He pushed his fingers in and out, slowly, deeply, keeping a rhythm that threatened to drive her mad. And then he sucked her clitoris into his mouth, hot and desperate, rolling it gently, then deeply. Over and over again.

The coils of pleasure sharpened and tightened, tightened. Her release came in waves, cresting so suddenly that she arched, her back leaving the bed. She might have been embarrassed at the soft mewling sounds she made if she’d had the presence of mind to be. If they didn’t so clearly and thoroughly drive Callum to distraction. If he wasn’t so hard and hot against her, so smooth when she was finally able to take him into her hand.

“My turn,” she said. “My turn.”

She circled her fingers around his length, drawing them up and then back down. He twitched against her palm, groaning. “Cat.”

She smiled at the raw need in the single syllable of her name. She commanded a gang of smugglers, several animals who would happily rend a man limb from limb but here and now was where she felt like a queen.

She worked him harder and then slid down the mattress to take him into her mouth. She licked up the side of him first, around the head. And then she glided down the length, swallowing him down as far as she could, hollowing her cheeks.

His hand fisted in her hair, tightened.

And then he jerked her up abruptly. She protested. She’d barely just started. She wanted him as weak with pleasure as she was. “No, siren,” he said. “Too good. I can’t spend before I get a chance to sink into those beautiful thighs, into that perfect pussy.”

She ran her hands over his chest, the sculpted muscles of his arms, veins straining as he reined himself in. She bit his collarbone and the sound he made was thoroughly vindicating. “Hurry, Your Grace.”

“You’ll pay for that,” he promised, and she fervently hoped so.

He dragged the tip of his cock between her lips, nudging against her swollen bud. He eased in, just a little, torturing them both. “So warm and wet,” he said roughly in her ear, breathing ragged. “Let me in, Caitriona. For God’s sake, let me in.”

She lifted up to meet his thrust, pulling one knee up to widen the space between her hips, to welcome him, to steal the long hot moment and burn it into both of their memories. If she was a smuggler, stealing brandy and lace, then she could steal this for them. Just them.

He groaned, slamming into her. She lifted again and again, gasping, whimpering at the friction and the steady, ruthless pace he set. The weight of him was delicious, perfect. She felt another release building inside of her. She squeezed her intimate muscles around him as she came and he cursed, half-strangled half-awed, body straining. She followed, falling, spinning. Gasping.

Eventually she remembered how to breathe. He grinned at her, looking so much like the Callum she knew so long ago that she clenched around him. Her body didn’t want to let go.

Her brain, that traitor, was already taking over.

He gripped her chin firmly. “Cat.”

She blinked, looking at him.

“You’re thinking too hard.”

She smiled weakly.

“It can all wait until morning.”

“You were nearly killed.”

He shrugged, even as he disentangled himself from her. The air touched her sweaty skin. She shivered. “Hardly the first time,” Callum said, bringing a cloth and the pitcher of water. “I went to Eton, remember?”

He ran the damp cloth up her thigh, and she moved to take over the task. It was somehow more intimate than the acts that had required the cleaning up. He stopped her with a sharp look of disapproval and continued to wash her, to run his strong hands over her until her muscles relaxed and her eyes drifted shut.

His voice again, soft this time, the perfect lullaby.

“Go to sleep, little thief.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Stealing from a bed at dawn was harder than it sounded. Harder than stealing lace and French brandy, apparently.