Page 72 of The Duchess Games

She kissed him because he was so beautiful. Because she wanted to. Had to. Every moment together might be their last so she would seize them, devour them. His mouth met hers, the kiss turning deep and urgent practically before it had even begun. Her body knew the things he could do now, knew how he could make her feel and it wanted more. Wanted everything.

She wanted to fall into him. Wanted it desperately but her mind and her conscience would not be denied. They hovered, taking bites out of her pleasure. A kiss, a moan, a worry that he would never forgive her. Wouldn’t understand.

“You’re somewhere else,” he murmured. He tsked like a disapproving professor. “Can’t have that.”

He yanked at the knot of his cravat, unravelling the length of cloth. His eyes never left hers, hungry, possessive.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Helping you stay right here with me,” he brushed his lips against her cheek, nuzzled into her ear. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” She wouldn’t ask if he trusted her. Couldn’t.

He lifted the cloth and placed it over her eyes, tying it behind her head. The shadows between them turned to full darkness. She was suddenly very aware of her breaths, rasping and ragged in her own ears. The weight of her breasts, the throb between her legs. The hot anticipation racing through her.

She gasped when he swung her up into his arms, disorienting her and then anchoring her into his body at the same time. She suddenly felt free, safe, wild. There was no room for anything else, just Callum.

He laid her gently down on the settee, a cushion under her head. His fingers closed around one ankle, trailed up to her knee, inside her thigh. She shivered. She expected him to touch her heat, to slide his fingers over her quim but instead his mouth was on her breast. She started and his tongue dipped under her neckline, under the edge of her stays. Then he was squeezing her bottom, drawing her nipples out from behind their confines, hot breath in her ear. He was everywhere all at once.

It was intoxicating, exhilarating. Every inch of her skin was attuned to him, to the tickle of his beard, the press of his breeches on her bare knee, the stroke of his tongue into her mouth, again and again. She moaned and he chuckled, full of mischief and authority.

It fueled a fire she did not think could burn any brighter. Especially when he bunched her chemise up to her knees, so she was sprawled out, breasts bared, quim exposed. She felt wanton, wanted. Trembling with need.

He hovered, just out of reach.

“Callum.”

“Look at you, spread out like my own personal feast.” Every word touched her, stroked her when he did not.

She squirmed.

“You know what I want to hear, little thief.” A faint whisper of a caress on her hip, a single lick over her nipple. “Beg me, Cat.”

Her thighs pressed together. Heat pulsed. Her bud tightened, swelled.

“Callum, please.”

His mouth closed over her hot bud, startling a half-moan, half-shriek from her. He pushed two fingers inside her suddenly, deeply. She was already so wet they slid in, stretching, rubbing, sparking sensations that stole her breath. His tongue circled her, the tip dragging over her bud, dipping lower. He pumped his fingers at the same time, using his shoulder to widen her legs apart. She reached for him, his thick hair, the line of his arm, muscles working. “Callum.”

She came with his name in her mouth, his fingers in her quim, his breath on her bud.

It raced through her over and over, too much, not enough, exactly right.

When it became too much she jolted, sensitive. He lifted his head, rubbing his beard on her inner thigh, tickling. She ran her fingertips over his jaw, dug them into his hair. “More,” she whispered.

“Gladly.” He bent his head, and she tightened her hold in his hair.

“It’s my turn,” she said. It was easier to demand, to give in to what she wanted when her eyes were closed. When she didn’t have to wonder if she should be embarrassed. “I want you in my mouth.”

He sucked in a breath and said her name like a curse. Or a prayer. “Cat.”

“Now, Callum,” she shimmied down the settee. “Do you want me to beg again?”

He muttered a filthy curse, one that had her smiling. She parted her lips expectantly. “Give me what I want, Your Grace.”

The tip of his cock brushed her lower lip, both hard and soft. She reached up, closing her fingers around the base, squeezing gently. His breath went ragged. She licked the underside, up and down, teasing, with just a hint of teeth.

She wasn’t the only one who would beg tonight.