The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(85)

It was too late for it, of course. She was no blushing virgin, and had not been that night, either. But she wanted him, nonetheless. She wanted the night, with the hope and the promise and everything she would never have.

She wanted the fantasy.

He opened his mouth to speak, and she was instantly terrified of what he might say. So, instead of allowing it, she slid a hand up into his hair, playing at the nape of his neck as she lifted her hips to his, rocking against him once, twice, a third time before he growled his desire.

“Give me that night,” she whispered.

Perhaps if she had that, she could find the courage to leave.

She pushed the thought from her mind as she took his lips again, mirroring his long and slow kisses, the ones that made her willing to do anything for him. It was a glorious, heady feeling, knowing that he would soon do the same for her . . . until he tore himself away and pushed off her, moving to the edge of the bed and sitting, back to her, ribs heaving with exertion.

No.

He wasn’t going to leave her. Not after the afternoon. Not after his confessions. Not after undressing her and spreading her across the counterpane, making her ache for him. She scrambled to her knees behind him. “Mal?”

He bowed his head, holding it in his hands as he struggled for breath.

“Mal—”

“Will this matter?”

He was not looking at her when he asked, and for a moment she did not understand his meaning. “I don’t—”

He turned back, his beautiful eyes nearly black with emotion. “I don’t just want to fuck you. I want to love you.”

Her lips parted at the word, the way it whipped around them. The way it sent wicked pleasure pooling through her. It should have shocked her, not stirred her.

But it only made her want him more.

“Am I not able to have both?” she asked.

“God help me, I don’t think I would be able to stop myself,” he said, and she heard the self-loathing in his word. “I think you could tell me it did not matter. I think you could tell me it meant nothing at all, and I would do it anyway. I’ve never been able to resist you.”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to.”

She left the rest unsaid. You matter. This matters.

None of that had ever been at issue.

For a long moment, she thought he might stop, after all. And then he moved, bending to remove his boots before he stood, his hands going to the falls of his trousers, unfastening buttons and sliding fabric down his legs, turning to her, hard and perfect.

Pleasure spooled through her like silk at the portrait he made. “You are beautiful,” she said. “You always have been. From the moment I first saw you.”

Color rose on his cheeks at the words, as though no one had ever told the Duke of Haven he was handsome. He made to reach for her and she shook her head, wanting to watch him more, wanting to explore.

Wanting to give of herself.

“Wait,” she whispered, and the magnificent man did, a muscle ticking like mad in his cheek, the cords of his arms and thighs straining when she sat back on her heels and spread her thighs, testing his resolve, loving the way his gaze fell to the place she so brazenly revealed.

He tore his attention from it instantly, as though he was embarrassed to have been caught staring, but she saw the way he tensed. Knew what he wanted.

He nearly leapt from his skin when she touched him, running her fingers over the muscles of his chest, exploring the dips and rises of his warm body, reveling in the way he labored to breathe beneath her touch.

She let her fingers dance down the ridges of his torso, and he caught her hand in his before she could touch him where he strained, proud and stunning. “No,” he said.

She looked up at him, twisting her hand from his grasp. “Yes.”

He shook his head, something like pain chasing over her.

She came up on her knees and kissed him, long and slow and lush. “You said you would give me anything I asked.”

He groaned. “You are too good at our game.”

It was her turn to shake her head. “Not our game, Mal. This is our due.” Her hand slid lower, finding him hot as fire and hard as sin, and they both sighed at the touch. “Show me,” she whispered.

And he did, without shame, wrapping her hand in his, showing her just how he liked to be touched. She leaned forward, her lips skating over his chest, her hands learning his pleasure. Reveling in it until he released her with a groan. “No more.”

She did not stop, instead looking up at him, capturing his gaze. “Do you not wish it?”

He laughed, the sound pulled from him in disbelief. “I have wished it for three years, love. For longer.”

She stroked, long and lush, loving the way he responded, the way she controlled him. “As have I.” She watched her hand working over him, riveted to the beautiful strength of him, to the smoothness, to the way she could command his breath. “I have wished for more than this.”

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of him, never feeling so powerful as she did when he swore, harsh and angry and full of want, his hands coming to touch her, to slide into her hair. “You shouldn’t—”

But he did not stop her, and if he had tried, she would never have allowed it. Of course she had to. If this was to be the only time she could take this pleasure with him—this power—of course she wanted it.