Sins of a Wicked Duke
Page 26

Elation she had no business feeling. She could not _have _ him. Anymore than he could have her.
“Impossible.”
“Why?” His lips twisted, eyes storming over a tumultuous gray. “Because it offends your oh-so-proper sensibilities?”
“We can’t _have _ each other. You’re a duke. I’m a maid.” She swallowed in the face of his darkening scowl. “And we don’t even like one another.”
He laughed darkly, the menacing sound rippling through her and giving her goose bumps. “Ah, you’re going to try and pretend nothing exists between us now. Interesting tact. And so easy to disprove.”
He leaned closer, his hard chest pressing into her, arching her back over the table.
“W-what are you doing?”
He scoured her with a fierce glare. “Putting it to the test. Never could pass on a challenge—”
“No,” she denied, shaking her head fiercely. “I did not mean to—”
“Too late,” he pronounced, his gaze dropping, fixing on her lips with feverish intensity. “I’ve longed to continue where we left off in the pantry.”
Her chest lifted on a sharp exhalation. “You promised I would be safe in your household.”
“A promise I seem to recall retracting in my carriage.” Still gazing at her lips, he replied distractedly. “I did not take into account that I would not be safe from you.”
“Me?” she squeaked.
“You’re far too tempting.” He shrugged. “So I changed my mind. Never was the honorable sort.”
“Convenient,” she bit out, arching her back over the table. An image of the parade of women to breeze through his life since they first met flashed through her mind.
“You were warned.”
“Certainly you don’t need me to slake your lust. You can find any number of eager females and leave me be. Shall I send for one? Perhaps you’ve forgotten their names? Celeste, Gracie, Jenny.
I confess even I cannot recall the names of the two females in the carriage with you the night we first met, but I’m certain I could try to—”
“Always a cheeky remark.” His gaze flicked from her eyes to her lips. “No wonder you’ve met with such trouble. Your past dismissals must have held some merit.”
Fury swam through her at his words. All the more because she feared there was a kernel of truth to them, feared that her bold ways may have resulted in her inability to maintain a post.
“And perhaps,” she spit out, aiming for his Achilles, “your grandfather is _right _ about you.”
His eyes darkened. An utter stillness came over him as he pressed against her. “Tread carefully.
You know nothing of what you speak.”
Still, she could not hold her tongue, could not stop herself from forging ahead with her final stinging accusation, flinging the very words he claimed his grandfather charged him with:
“Perhaps you are the devil.”
He moved then, grabbed her by the back of the head, fingers digging cruelly through her hair as he tilted her face toward his. “And what kind of fool does that make you? Toying with such a man as me— the devil himself? ”
Her heart squeezed in her chest. In a panic, she wondered, indeed, what kind of fool that made her. She tried to speak. Words gurgled at the back of her throat, incomprehensible.
“And have you not toyed with me from the start?” He shoved his h*ps against her, trapping her lower body between the table and the hard wall of his body.
She gasped. Hot desire licked her body. Her hand fumbled behind her, knocking several bowls aside, closing around an object on the table. She brought it up in the air, only realizing at the last moment it was merely a thick wooden spoon. Grand. Unfortunate she couldn’t have grabbed a heavier piece of crockery. She swung the spoon toward his head.
The slap of his hand around her fingers echoed in the cavernous room. His harsh laughter scraped the air, rising to the rafters and infuriating her. His fingers squeezed until she dropped her would-be weapon.
He flicked a disgusted look down at the spoon. “A great fool, it would seem. What were you going to do with that? Serve me soup?”
“I had hoped to crack it over your skull.”
His lips twisted in a savage smile. She eyed the arms on either side of her, imposing and hard.
He trapped her so effortlessly against the table. Her eyes moved to his and she couldn’t look away. Slowly, she stopped struggling, stilling altogether, forgetting all the reasons she needed to fight him. She saw only his eyes. His face. His mouth.
His fingers in her hair softened, but his grip was no less firm as he angled her head back, upturning her face for him.
Her breath rattled loose in a hoarse hiss as he pressed the side of his face against hers, his cheek rough and scratchy against her own. “You think running away will make you forget me?” His warm breath puffed against her ear and her belly trembled, tightened. Remembered.
No. She knew she wouldn’t. But then she didn’t have to forget him. She just had to get away.
Taking small sips of air to control her ragged breathing, she shook her head, which only brought her face closer, rasping against his. Her pulse skittered at a mad rate, her heart thumping hard as a drum in her chest. The barrier of the table dug into the back of her hips.
With a suddenness that made her gasp, his hands circled her waist. He hefted her onto the table, settling himself between her thighs as if it were the most natural thing to do. For him, she supposed it was. And strangely, it felt natural—right—to her, too.
Thinking, however, no longer felt natural. Or right. All thought fled as his hands moved from her waist to her skirts, gathering them in his fists and hiking them to her waist in a single rough move. His fingers grazed a searing trail along her quivering thighs. Her breath hitched in a strange little hiccup of sound. Feelings ruled. Sensations sang through her body.
He spread his hand over her thigh, a large searing brand on her quivering flesh. His mouth closed over her lips, kissing her until her hands fell on the table, palms flat on the worn-wood surface.
His hands moved between them, fumbling first at his trousers, then between her legs. The sound of tearing fabric rent the air. Then his fingers were on her, playing against her. He found the little nub buried in her folds and rubbed, pressed, squeezed until she bucked against his hand.
She whimpered, thrusting her h*ps off the table to meet him. He eased a finger inside her, working it slowly in, stretching her until a low moan spilled loose. Ducking his head, he claimed her lips, taking the sound deep into his mouth. He drank greedily from her, his kiss deepening, slick tongue sliding against hers in a sinuous dance.
She groaned as his finger withdrew, her h*ps moving forward, seeking. Her center burned, ached, clenched with need…
He tore his lips from hers with a broken gasp. Their heavy breaths mingled between them, warm as vapor. He dropped his forehead to hers, his silvery eyes clung to hers, probing, seeking, reading in her own unblinking stare what her mind—body—screamed. Yes.
Then she felt him nudging at her opening, pushing inside her. Bigger. Harder than the earlier stroke of his fingers. Thrilling. Frightening. Invasive.
She hissed at the burning pleasure, the searing stretch of her inner muscles. Deeper, he penetrated her, until the pleasure ebbed, giving way to pain.
Wincing, she tried to slide back. With a groan, his fingers seized her hips, anchoring her.
Holding her still, he surged against her in a final push, burying himself to the hilt, his member pulsing inside her.
She cried out at the swift and piercing pain, her arms trembling where they braced upon the table. Cursing him, she tried to wiggle free.
One of his hands flew to the back of her head. His mouth was on hers again, feverish and hungry.
He kissed her until the pain dulled, eddied. A low-throbbing ache started between her legs, matching the pulsing rhythm of his member buried there.
He slid himself out, nearly withdrawing completely before easing inside her again. She whimpered, a long mewling sound that did not sound quite human. Something else burned at her center now, and her legs parted wider without will or volition. Her pelvis turned upward on the table, seeking with an instinct she did not understand.
He held himself still inside her, kissing her until she could no longer feel her lips. Until breath eluded her, unnecessary fuel to her lungs as long as she had him. His mouth, his hands…his body fused with hers.
His hand fell on her breast. He palmed the mound through her gown, his fingers finding the peak, rolling and squeezing her nipple until it poked against the front of her dress in an aching little point. Moisture gathered between her legs, but still he did not move.
She writhed on the table beneath him, dark, desperate sounds escaping her lips. She tangled a hand in his hair, pulling roughly on the strands. He awarded her the barest movement, grinding himself in little circles inside her, rubbing the sensitive little nub. She broke free of his lips, hissing her need with a sharp cry. She lifted her calves and locked her ankles around his hips.
“Please,” she begged, rocking against him.
His eyes stared down at her, silvery as the moonlight streaming from the window far above.
With a knowledge she did not know she possessed, she clenched her inner muscles around him in repeated clutches.
Moaning, he dropped his head to the crook of her neck and began moving. Fast and fierce, thrusting in and out of her, pounding with unchecked savagery. And still she wanted more.
Wanted all. Head tossing back, a scream poured from her lips, drowned out as his mouth covered hers. She shattered inside.
Ripples of delight washed over. She trembled as he pumped into her, the smacking sound of his body against hers thrilling and primitive in a way she never imagined. With a shudder and deep groan of his own, he finished, pouring himself deep inside her.
Panting from exertion, she flexed her fingers where they clutched his head, holding him close as realization slowly dawned. The demon duke had just ravished her atop the kitchen table. And she had loved— exulted—in every minute of it.
The remnants of desire gradually ebbed from her body, faint tremors playing out along her nerves. She trembled as he lifted his head, his gaze colliding with hers. Still lodged inside her, she felt him pulse, twitch. The sensation was surreal and not a little intoxicating. It was almost as though they were one being. Connected. A bond she had never felt before. From the intense gleam in his eyes, he did not appear any more eager than she to sever that connection.
For moments, they did not move, did not stir beyond their chests rising and falling with matching breath. Staring into his eyes, her fingers curled in the silken strands of his hair, she wished that she never had to move, never had to break the magic of the moment. She closed her eyes in a pained blink. An impossible dream.
He must have reached the same conclusion. Mouth pressing into a recalcitrant line, he withdrew himself from her body, leaving her bereft, empty. The same as before. And yet not.
Different because she now knew what it felt like to lie in his arms and hold him so tight that she did not know where she began and ended. To feel him move over her. In her. A bloodyduke . A man she could never have.
But one she would forever want.
Chapter 24
Dominic quickly rearranged his clothing, his gaze never straying from her. Taking her hand, he helped her slide from the table. On her feet again, she wobbled, her legs clearly unsteady.
He cursed himself for taking her on a kitchen table with all the finesse of a thoughtless bastard.
She had been a virgin, for God’s sake. A virgin. She deserved more. Better. He would give her that still. He tried to convey this with his eyes…while not uttering an apology. Because for all his lack of finesse, he did not regret making love to her. Virgin or not. Kitchen table or not.
Selfish bastard or not.
“Come,” he murmured, leading her from the room. She followed, readily, willingly. Without question. Surprising perhaps for her. He led her silently up the servants’ stairs, down empty, hallowed corridors of flickering light and shadows. Directly to his bedchamber.