The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(84)

He kissed her then, his fingers threading into her hair, scattering hairpins as he rained kisses over her cheek and jaw and lips, eager for her, following one kiss with another, another, another until she was meeting him caress for caress, drawn to him, starving for him.

The kiss was beautiful and honest—nothing frantic or angry. A meeting of lips, a quiet silken slide of breath. Her name. His. Her sigh. His. He lifted his lips from hers, just enough to whisper, “I love you.”

And, for the first time since the start of their time together, she let it come, let him wrap her in it. They shared the twin aches of their sorrow and pleasure, past and present, and she took everything she’d ever dreamed. And he gave it to her, as though they had never shared another life.

And it was glorious.

His fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her to him. Or perhaps she was pulling him to her. For all the days and weeks of chasing, of battle, of pretending not to want him, of him pretending not to want her, it was a gift to meet in the middle, here, on their knees, in their rooms.

Just once.

He tilted her chin up and set his lips to her cheek, to her ear, and following the ridge of her jaw to the column of her neck, following it down to the place where it met her shoulder, leaving soft, welcome kisses in his wake. His tongue swirled there until she sighed, her hand coming to his head, finding the soft hair there, holding him to her.

He lifted his head and took her lips again, long and slow and sinful, as though they had spent a lifetime kissing and had another lifetime to offer. She met him kiss for kiss, breath for breath, until he sucked her lower lip between his teeth, biting gently before following the little sting of pain with a devastating lick of pleasure.

She gasped at the sensation and he released her, kissing across her cheek to her ear, where he took the lobe between his teeth, sending a thrill through her. “Mal,” she whispered, the first word since he’d lifted her onto his horse and brought her here, home. He stilled at it, then—dear God—he trembled, as though his name in that moment, on her lips, gave him immeasurable pleasure.

Which was possible, of course, as it gave her the same.

“Say it again,” he said.

She did, whispering his name against his lips before it was lost in another wild kiss, this one accompanied by his hands working at the front fastening of her riding habit, shucking it to the floor as he consumed her with the caress. He lifted her with him as he came to his feet, turning her in one fluid motion, releasing her lips only to settle his own on the back of her neck, sending chills through her as his fingers found the long line of buttons at the back of the dress.

He began to undress her, her name a litany on his lips, as he loosened the frock with quick, efficient movements, until it came away in a glorious release, falling to the floor in a pool of linen and lawn. He set to work on her corset then, pulling the strings with long, fluid movements as his tongue swirled patterns across her skin, and then that, too, was gone, followed by her drawers, until she was left in her stockings and nothing else.

She should have been embarrassed when she turned back to face him, but the supreme pleasure on his face was like nothing she’d ever witnessed, and all she wanted was to bask in it. To bask in him.

He reached for her, his hand hovering a breath from her skin, his gaze transfixed on her bare body for what felt like an eternity. Finally, she whispered his name, unable to keep the pleasure and pride and self-satisfaction from her words.

His eyes shot to hers.

She smiled. “Are you planning to touch me?”

He swore, harsh and wicked in the quiet room, and moved with impressive speed, lifting her, carrying her to the bed and laying her on it, staring down at her wicked wanton intentions as he shucked his coat and cravat and pulled his shirt from his trousers, sending it flying across the room.

He followed her down after that, pressing her into the soft mattress, his chest warm and wonderful against hers, the crisp mat of hair there teasing her in all the places that had been constricted for a day. For a lifetime.

She opened her legs wide, eager to feel him between her thighs again. It had been so long. He found space there, hard and perfect at the notch of her thighs, and he gasped at the sensation, his eyes sliding closed at the pleasure there. Sera’s, too, closed, and she lifted her hips up to meet him, her body aching for him. Asking for him. As though it knew where he belonged.

He let himself meet her movements. Let himself match them for a heartbeat. Once. Twice. They pulsed together. They rutted. The word, filthy and erotic, whispered past as the movement made her ache with need, and she found she could not stop herself from opening her legs wider. “Please,” she whispered, “Mal.”

He caught the words with his lips. “Anything you wish. Ask.”

She tilted her hips to him.

He understood. Pressing into her. Thrusting. The hard ridge of him making wonderful promises.

She couldn’t stop herself from leaning up and catching his bottom lip in her teeth, sucking at it until he groaned his pleasure. She released him and pulled back, as much as their nearness would allow, and asked him for the only thing she’d wanted since the moment they’d met. “I want my wedding night.”

The words were out before she could imagine their impact, on them both. He froze above her, the truth of the statement, the promise of the moment, the memory of the past, all of it was there, between them, hovering.

She couldn’t stop herself from continuing. “We married, but I was never your bride, Mal.”