Page 73 of The Duchess Games

He pushed between her lips and she welcomed him, sucking hard. She felt his hand slam down on the back of the settee. “Fuck, Cat.”

This was the Callum she wanted for her very own. Not the duke with his perfect manners, his twelve houses, his gold buttons. Just this man, moaning her name, thrusting into her mouth, desperate but holding back. Eager but aware. Demanding but careful. Centering her just as she centered him.

She sucked harder, hollowing her cheeks, flicking her tongue. She raked her nails very lightly over his balls, then squeezed.

And then he was gone and she protested. Loudly.

Until he covered her with his body, pressing her into the cushions, thrusting into her wetness in one swift movement. She lifted her hips, meeting him stroke for stroke. They became one, sweaty and panting. Demanding. Answering.

He came with a hoarse strangled shout. She clung to him, smug with pleasure. The weight of him made her disappear, made her invisible and yet more seen than she had ever felt. Too soon, he shifted. “I’ll crush you.”

“I like it.”

He kissed her softly, her lower lip, her cheek, a nip of her earlobe. Then he untied her blindfold gently, careful not to pull her hair. She blinked, waiting for the shadows to sharpen. His eyes gleamed, searching her face. “All right?”

She felt flushed and limp and downright cuddly. “More than all right.”

He shifted so that he was on his back, and she sprawled over him, leg dangling over his. She rubbed her cheek over his chest, the hair a rough tickle.

“Cat.” He said her name softly, as though she was a rare and precious thing. His big hand splayed across her back, warm and anchoring. “I love you.”

She stilled, her heart pounding. She felt his in response, against the bare skin of her breasts.

“I’ve always loved you,” he whispered. “I never stopped.”

She knew she ought to pretend she was asleep, or make a jest, anything to lighten the moment. To shatter the sticky threads of hope and joy that threatened to tangle her up. But she had promised herself that in exchange for one lie, she would never otherwise lie to Callum.

And it wasn’t as if she could ever become his duchess.

He was tensing slightly beneath her. She tightened her hold but did not lift her head from his chest. The letters were in her pocket, burning like vinegar in a cut. She ignored them. Just for now. Just for one more stolen moment. “I love you too.”

He exhaled sharply. He gathered her closer. There was only the library, their hearts pounding together, his lips in her hair. “I should take you back to your room,” he murmured. “To a proper bed.”

“Before my dog chews your fine furniture.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“I don’t either.”

“Not yet.” She snuggled closer, logic and common sense be damned. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Penhallow was full to bursting with aristocrats.

And revenue men.

And nothing poked a pin into the bubble of a secret doomed romance like a revenue man.

The night of the ball finally arrived, and excitement thrummed through the halls. Cat found Viola in their shared sitting room, eyes shining. Piles of gowns glittered and sparkled around her. Green silks, delicate muslins, spangled ribbons. “Cat, you’ll never guess,” she said, clutching a champagne-hued gown to her chest. “Lady Summer sent dresses for us to wear.”

“That was very kind of her.”

“I think you should wear this magenta one. The color would suit you.”

Cat smiled gently. “Vi, these dresses are for you.”

She frowned. “Don’t be silly. Her lady’s maid specifically said it was for the Sparrow sisters.”