The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(73)

“I see her, as well,” Sera fairly panted. “You planned this.”

“I did,” he said, and he was so close to her, whispering the words at the place she needed him most. “I wanted you here. As beautiful as she is.”

“You wanted me naked with her.”

“I always want you naked, love.”

The words sent heat curling through her, pooling deep. “I see that,” she said, her gaze sliding over the mosaic nymph, breasts bare as her own, twisting and turning in the tilework as though Malcolm touched them both. As though in bringing pleasure to Sera, he was pleasing Merope as well.

Sera believed it as his fingers worked their magic . . . that he might be enough to please a goddess.

“Mal,” she whispered, unable to keep herself from lifting into his touch as he stroked deep once, twice, a third time. Unable to keep herself from saying more. From taking everything he offered. “I see you looking at me,” she said, and he stilled, pulling back and looking up at her, finding her gaze instantly, waiting for her to say more.

The thrill of the moment was undeniable. Her power, unmistakable. She could ask him for everything, and he would give it to her. “I see you wanting me,” she whispered.

Without breaking eye contact, he pressed a kiss to dark curls. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

She understood that—felt the same want coursing through her own body, aching for him. She canted her hips toward him, and still he waited, as though he would wait an eternity for her to ask him to touch her. For her to give him permission to take her. She whispered his name, and still he remained frozen, locked in rapt attention, waiting for her command. “I see you kissing me,” she said, the words coming more firmly than she would have imagined.

That low groan again, like she’d given him the only thing he’d ever wanted. And then he moved his hand, spreading her wide, revealing the swollen, pink heart of her. She stopped breathing, the anticipation unbearable.

“Tell me again,” he said. “I want you to be sure.”

Her whole body went bow-taut at the words. At the promise in them. At the meaning in them—that he would never take what she did not give. That he would follow her, Orion after Merope, but only while she wished to be pursued.

The realization was like no freedom she had ever known.

She did not hesitate. “Kiss me.”

He rewarded her with his glorious mouth, spreading her thighs wide and lifting her to him, his lips and tongue taking her with complete certainty and no hesitation. She cried out at the feel of him, the way he discovered every curve of her, his tongue exploring as his fingers stroked and she opened, widened, offered herself to him without pause.

He took her offering, closing his lips around her most sensitive place and sucked, pulling her to him with magnificent skill, until his name echoed through the space as she gave in to the pleasure, writhing against him, bucking into him, her fingers sliding into his hair to hold him to her, to show him where she needed him most.

His tongue swirled against her, giving her everything for which she asked, and she closed her eyes, barely aware of the tears that came with the sheer, wild pleasure he wrought. Her whole body bucked and writhed against him as he delivered his unrelenting worship, and she gasped, again and again, the emotion rioting through her until she lay beneath him and wept with it, unwilling to let him go.

This man, whom she had once loved so much, who had always known how to wring pleasure from her.

This man, who gave her power beyond her ken.

And even through her tears, he did not stop, slow circles becoming faster, tongue working against her, licking and sucking in lush motions as he slid his hands beneath her and lifted her up to him like she was a feast. Redoubled his efforts. Claimed her.

She gasped as the feeling rolled toward her, stiffening, nearly fearful of what was to come—of how he might own her if she let it come. Still, he persisted, giving her no purchase, worshipping at the pulsing, magnificent place where she most wanted him, making love to her until she cried her pleasure on his name—the only word she could find the ability to say.

He held her as she returned to the moment, to the magnificent space, the underwater dome looming above them like sky. And when he lifted his head, his face flushed and his beautiful eyes wild, the keen, unbearable want she’d kept at bay threatened to consume her.

No. She would not want him.

She could not have him.

She knew better.

She scrambled beneath him, pushing him away, and he was off her instantly, releasing her as though he’d only ever existed to do her bidding. The realization threatened to shatter her as well as his touch had.

So Seraphina did what she could, reaching for her dress, scooting back across the floor with it clutched to her. “We cannot go further.”

He did not move from where he sat, bare from the waist up, one arm resting on a bent leg, clad in dark, soft buckskin. “I did not ask to go further.”

“But you wish to.”

“I’m a grown man, Sera, and I have waited for this—for you—for years. Of course I wish to.” His gaze was hot and honest. “But I shall wait for you. Until you are ready.”

She hated the words. Hated the way they tempted her. The way they whispered a promise that he understood. Of course, he couldn’t. “I shall never be ready.”

“Perhaps not. But perhaps you will. And when you are, I shall be here.” He said it as though he had nothing to do but languish here, in his underwater lair, waiting for her to wander in and ask him to make love to her.