Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(62)

And then he was moving to the other nipple, and he sucked it as well until she thought she would scream from the tension.

He licked, flicking her nipple with his tongue on one side and his fingers on the other, and at the same time he ground down on her, shoving her chemise into her pussy, rubbing against her clitoris, until the silk was sodden with her wetness. Until she could hear the soft, slick sounds he made, his body on hers, him pleasuring her, while he would not let her move.

He wasn’t gentle. But then perhaps he didn’t know how to be gentle, and the thought made something inside her weep, even as he drove her up that peak. Maybe this was all he knew: flesh and liquid heat.

Maybe that was all she would ever have from him.

She wasn’t certain it was enough.

But it didn’t matter now because she was at the cliff, racing straight over the edge. Falling into space.

It was almost painful, this physical jolt, this sudden heaving of her heart, and for a moment she hung frozen in space and time, unbreathing, unmoving. And then she came back to life, her limbs flooding with warmth and sweet lassitude, the backwash of that height of pleasure.

She opened her eyes and saw him rise over her spread body and thrust between her thighs, separated from her flesh by only the wet silk.

Once.

Twice.

Once more.

And still. His lips twisted, his eyes hollow and almost pained.

Staring at her as he came between her thighs.

Raphael walked into the breakfast room at the unfashionable hour of half past nine the next morning and kissed his aunt on her soft cheek. “Good morning, Zia.”

“Up at last,” was her tart reply as she peered at him over her gold spectacles.

The remains of Zia Lina’s breakfast was already on the table, and he knew well that she’d probably been awake for over an hour.

“Perhaps I’ve grown soft,” he said, sitting across from her.

Or perhaps he’d woken to silken limbs and a tangle of golden hair and simply wanted to linger for a while in that warm feminine embrace.

But then the memory of what he’d told her—the shame of what he was—had flooded him, and he’d fled the room.

He wasn’t yet ready to gaze into her blue-gray eyes and find out how she looked at him in the light of day now that she knew.

His aunt humphed to herself as she sorted through the morning mail. “You have many invitations for a recluse. I can’t think why.”

“Perhaps it’s the title,” he replied drily, pouring himself some coffee.

A footman entered, bringing plates of sliced meat and shirred eggs.

“It must be,” his aunt decided. “Because it’s certainly not your charming wit.”

He let his lips curl for a second before they fell again, then helped himself to eggs and several slices of gammon. “From whom are the invitations?”

His aunt looked up sharply. “There are only two in this batch, but I have a stack on my desk. Shall I send for them?”

“Please.”

She signaled a footman and made the request.

He felt her eyes on him as they waited for the footman to return with the invitations and he ate his breakfast.

“I never thought I’d see you married,” she said softly. “I am glad.”

He kept his gaze on his gammon. He wasn’t entirely certain Iris would wish to remain with him after she thought about what he’d told her. “Are you?”

“Yes. I think she will be good for you.”

He had a far-too-sarcastic rejoinder on his tongue—for he doubted he was good for Iris—but the footman arrived at that point.

“Ah,” Zia Lina said, gathering the stack of papers in front of her. “Let me see. Do you want to look through them yourself?”

He shook his head and then swallowed his bite of gammon. “Read them to me.”

“As you wish.” She held up the first invitation. “An afternoon musicale to—”

He held up his hand. “Pardon me, but I think only evening events.”

“That will eliminate several of these.” Zia Lina paged through the invitations, setting aside the invitations that didn’t meet the requirement. “Here is one—you are invited to a ball given by the Countess of Touleine in honor of her granddaughter’s introduction to society.”

“Not that.” He cut a piece of gammon.

“Hmm. An evening masquerade at the home of Lord Quincy?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Another ball—this one being given by Lord and Lady Barton.”

“That’s the one.”

She looked up, her eyebrows raised. “Indeed? It’s in only two days.”

“Nevertheless.” He took the invitation from her and read it. This would do. If he remembered correctly, Barton’s wife was a good friend of Viscount Royce’s wife. Royce was bound to be at the ball. Raphael could corner the man when he wasn’t expecting an assault and ask about Dockery and the Dionysus. It would be interesting to find out if Royce had a different story from his younger brother.

He looked up at his aunt, who was watching him with too-shrewd eyes. “Can you respond for me? I’ll be attending.”

“With Iris?”

“Naturally.” Assuming she didn’t change her mind about him when she awoke.