The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(46)

But she was no longer that girl, and he was not that boy. And now, he promised not to refuse her, and she found she could not refuse him, either. It was her turn to lift her hand. Her turn to set palm to cheek. Her turn to ravage.

And she did, feeling more powerful than ever when he exhaled, loving the edge of breath that whipped over lips like memory. As though she’d burned him. And she might have. They’d always been oil and flame. Why not let it happen? Just once? Just for a moment? Just to see if the combustion remained.

She leaned up to him. Or he leaned down. It did not matter.

He was whispering at her lips, and she did not know if he spoke to her or to a higher power. “Forgive me,” he said. Whom was he asking? For what?

She found she did not care.

The kiss unlocked her, breaking her open, letting light and air into the dark, dank places in her. It thieved the protection she had built over months and years, casting it out and leaving her with nothing to keep him away.

And still, she did not care.

Just as long as he did not stop. She was not ready for him to stop. It had been years since he’d touched her, and longer still since he’d touched her like this—with desire and passion and a commitment to nothing but pleasure.

She sighed into the kiss, and he, too, was unlocked, moving, his strong, warm hand sliding back, fingers threading into her hair, pulling her closer as he pressed his mouth to hers, somehow turning the clock back to another time, when all that was between them was this—nothing.

He tasted the same, like some mysterious, tempting spice, and she could not stop herself from wrapping her arms about his neck and pressing closer. Licking across his lips, bold and desperate to relive him. He growled at the sensation, the sound low and wicked, and then his arms were around her waist and he was lifting her, turning her, pressing her up against the closed door—thank God it was closed—and she was his.

As though years had never passed, and they were here, in love, once more.

Dear God, how she’d loved this. She’d believed she’d been broken all those years ago, ruined by pain and loss. And perhaps she had been. But she was no longer. Somehow, in his arms she found it all again.

Except it was not a surprise. She’d always found herself with him.

She tore her mouth from his, reaching for air, and he pulled back to watch her for a long moment, his gaze raking over her face, taking her in. “My God,” he whispered. “You’re more beautiful now than you’ve ever been.” And then he was tilting her chin up to expose her neck and setting his lips to her flesh, before she could blush or turn away.

She gasped at the sensation, so delicious and familiar, and was rewarded with another deep, animal growl, as though he were unable to keep his desire at bay. Her fingers threaded into his hair, pressing into the curls at the nape of his neck, stroking in slow, encouraging circles—just as he liked. Another growl.

Lord, how she loved those growls.

And then his hands were at her bodice, pulling at the buttons of her pelisse, spreading it wide and finding the scalloped edge of the gown, lower than it might have been, and altogether too tight as she fought for breath. At her ear, he said wicked, wonderful things. The kinds of things she would not let herself remember in dark, lonely nights.

“I remember how pleasure finds you, Angel . . .” Long, deft fingers found their way into her bodice, sliding like a delicious promise. “I remember how you reach for it.” He stopped just beyond one straining nipple—making her want to scream. “I remember how you hem and haw, doing everything you can to avoid telling me what you want.”

The words shot through her, reminding her of the woman she had been even as he took the soft lobe of her ear between his teeth and bit gently, threatening to destroy her with pleasure.

He was right. She had been nervous around him, afraid to tell him too much for fear of being wanton. Of losing him.

But she had lost him. And he already thought her a wanton.

He’d already made her one.

So when she pulled back to meet his eyes, wild beneath lids heavy with the desire she knew coursed through him, she did not blush. And she did not hesitate. She tugged on the little bow that kept her gown tight to her skin, loosening the fabric just enough. And then she pressed her hand to his where it remained still and full of promise, and moved him. Pressed him to her. Urged him to take what she wanted to give.

Another growl, sending unimaginable pleasure straight to her core.

“Sera,” he said, disbelief and desire at war in the word.

She brushed her lips over his cheek as he lifted one breast, testing its weight. “I remember how pleasure finds you, Duke,” she repeated his words. “I remember how you reach for it. Shall I tell you what I want this time?”

He cursed, low and wicked, and she took that as a yes.

“I want your touch.” He gave it to her, a long slow slide of his thumb. “I want your kiss.”

He did not hesitate, leaning down and taking the tip of one breast into his mouth. Working it with lips and tongue until she thought she might perish from the pleasure of it. Sucking until she was gasping and writhing against him, one leg wrapped around him as he pressed her into the door.

When his hand came to her ankle and he slid to his knees, she knew she should stop him, but it had been so long—so long since she’d been touched. So long since he’d touched her. And then her skirts were raised and her leg was over his shoulder, and her fingers were in his hair and his mouth was on her with glorious certainty.