The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(72)

It was one night. One night of truth. One night to exorcise the past and pave the way for a future free of their demons. Her hand slid to his face, to the shadow of his beard on his strong, firm jaw. “Every day.”

His eyes closed at the confession, as though it had struck him like a blow. “Sera,” he whispered.

“You haunt me,” she said, the words unlocked. “You have haunted me every day since I left.”

“I wish I had,” he said. “I would gladly have been made spirit to watch over you. Christ, I ached for you. I ached for this.”

He pushed her gown over her hips, following it with his kisses, and she recalled the marks there, on the place that had once been taut and smooth and ideal. She covered the soft, round swell of her belly with her hands.

Silently, he kissed the backs of her fingers, running his tongue along the seam where she hid herself from view, tickling there, just enough for her to move, for him to find purchase in that private, secret place. And then he said, “You are so beautiful here, more than ever.”

The tears threatened again at the reminder of how she somehow belonged to him there, of how she would never be free of him where she was marked in white, puckered lines by their past.

He stopped, and she looked to him, finding his eyes, filled with the same emotions that consumed her—too many to name, and all overpowered by an intense understanding that she had never thought to find in another. But of course, she found it in him. It had always been him.

He rose over her, strong arms holding him, corded muscle in his shoulders reminding her of his immense strength. And he kissed her again, long and soft and beautiful, until her breath was caught in her throat and she was ragged with agony and pleasure.

She lifted her hands to his face, her soft touch ending his kiss, pushing him back to look at her, eyes dark and full of sin. “You are perfect.”

She closed her eyes at the sting of the words. “I am deeply flawed.”

He stayed still and silent until she opened them again. “Your flaws are perfect. A map of where we have been.” She caught her breath at that we. At how much she wanted it to be true. He went on, “I have dreamed of you here. Look up. Look at us. Look at how beautiful you are. Watch how I worship you.”

Her gaze flickered past his shoulder to the domed ceiling, black and bright with their image as he returned to his worship—to her worship—the scrape of his teeth and the silk of his tongue along that flawed place sending heat through her, agony and pleasure, regret and promise, the emotions crashing through her as she watched him in the domed ceiling, consumed by their reflection, her hair spread wild beneath her, her breasts and body bare, one hand spread wide over her ribs, holding her still as he moved lower, his broad, muscled back, hiding her stomach, then her thighs.

“Do you see it, Sera?” he asked, the words low and dark. “Do you see how we are together?”

She took a deep breath, air shuddering through her. Bit her lip. His words promised so much—they tempted her with forever. But this was not forever. This was tonight.

He nipped at the soft skin of her stomach and he soothed the bite with his tongue when she gasped. “Do you see?” he repeated.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He moved lower, speaking to the dark hair that covered the place that had only ever been his. “What do you see?”

“Mal.” The word came out sounding like she was begging. And perhaps she was. She simply didn’t know what she was begging for.

He did, though, parting her thighs and settling himself between them. “What do you see, Angel?”

“I see—” His fingers came to her core, warm and firm, and she gasped again. “Mal.”

He stopped. “Tell me.”

She looked up at the ceiling. “I see . . . I see you.”

He spread the soft folds of her sex then, like a reward for her honesty. “Yes,” he said, the word licking like flame against her. She could not stop herself from lifting herself toward him. “And what else?”

Desire pooled, thick and desperate. “And me.” He set two fingers to the center of her, sliding them up and down her sex, up and down, again and again, until she thought she might die of the pleasure of it. Of the teasing. She writhed against the touch, desperate for him to find purchase—to stay in one place—to give her what she wanted.

What she needed.

“Mal . . .”

He removed his hand. “Tell me what you see.”

“I told you already, dammit.”

He laughed at that, the bastard. The feel of it nearly did her in. “Tell me more.”

“I see you,” she said sharply, irritation and desire in the words. “I see you touching me.”

And, like magic, he touched her. One finger, circling that magnificent place where she was desperate for him. She gasped her pleasure. “Dear God.”

The finger slowed, and she instantly spoke, desperate for him to continue. “I see you touching me,” she repeated. “Exploring me. Finding all the places I want you.”

And he did, sliding one finger into the hot, wet core of her, the sensation sending her arching into him even as her eyes widened, riveted to the wicked, wanton image above.

That’s when she saw what he was doing. “Merope,” she sighed.

His grunt punctuated another long, languid slide, this one with a second finger, the sound deep and dark and demanding that she say more.