Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(71)

Without speaking he kicked the chair away so that they sat together in front of the fire all alone.

He leaned into her, softly kissing the tender skin under her ear, and whispered, “Wrap your legs about me.”

She shifted languidly, for there was no reason as far as she could see to hurry this. But when her softness was open and exposed by her position, she could feel how hard he was. How insistent. He might not have the same mind as she about the urgency of the matter.

When he slid a hand between them, she twined her arms around his neck for balance and leaned back to watch. He was working at the falls to his breeches. She cocked her head as he fumbled one handed, his other hand braced against the floor to keep them both upright.

She looked back up at him from beneath her lashes. “Would you like some help?”

He punished her for her amusement by nipping at her mouth. For a moment she became lost in their play, in the impatient kisses he gave her.

She leaned away and unbuttoned his falls with calm deliberation.

He, sadly, was not as calm as she.

“Diana,” he growled, cutting off his own words with an oath as she worked his penis free of his falls and breeches. It was the first time she’d held him—held any man—and she took the opportunity to examine the prize in her hands. His skin was soft, and it surprised her that this most masculine part of him was so velvety. She stroked him with her fingers, marveling at the hardness under the skin, the thick ropes of veins climbing the length. His foreskin had retreated back from the broad head, and a bead of liquid pearled at the tiny slit. She delicately touched her finger to the drop, stroking the liquid over his ruddy head. The column in her hand flexed at her touch and she wanted to laugh. To sing, though her voice wasn’t anything wonderful. This was so special, so curious, how he was built. That he would let her play with him.

She shot him a look from under her brows and saw that he had an extraordinary expression on his face—a kind of fond hunger.

“Diana,” he breathed, and caught her lips with his.

Suddenly she no longer wanted to play. There was a coiling within her, drawing her body tight again, building to what she now knew was unbearable pleasure.

She shifted closer, rucking her skirts up and bringing the tip of his hard penis against her folds. They still kissed as she rolled her hips, her breath stuttering when she used him to rub herself.

He opened wide his mouth and kissed her deeply, shoving his own hips up. She knew what he wanted—what he probably needed at this point—but she, too, needed.

Just a little more.

She caught her breath, writhing as she slid him through her slippery folds. He was so hard, so wide, so absolutely perfect, he might’ve been made expressly for her.

Well, in a way he was, wasn’t he?

But his patience broke.

He grasped her waist and raised her, looking her in the eye fiercely. “Hold me there.”

So she reluctantly put him to her entrance, holding him steady as he let her weight bear down.

As he joined with her.

He watched her even as she gasped at the intimate intrusion. She was still a little sore from the day before, and she stiffened.

He paused, his fingers stroking the small of her back through the frail materials of her chemise and wrap. “Easy.”

She nodded as her flesh accepted him, and he seemed to understand it as the permission it was. Slowly he impaled her on his cock. She was aware of the fluttering of her heart, of the short, staccato pants of her breath, of the way his face was set and grim as if it took all of his considerable control to keep from simply thrusting up into her.

But the soreness was fading now, being replaced by the lovely feeling of being stretched full. She bit her lip, arching her head back, staring at the ceiling as she rotated her hips gently, screwing herself down on him until she felt the smooth silk of his breeches against her bottom.

He groaned, deep and very male, and bowed his head against her for a moment, his hot breath panting across the slopes of her breasts. She ran her hands over his upper arms soothingly and felt when they bunched beneath her fingers.

That was her only warning.

He shoved her up, his cock sliding exquisitely through her tunnel as he withdrew, then he set his feet flat on the floor and drove his hips into her. Fast and hard, he set a punishing pace.

She’d once imagined lovemaking as a sweet joining of souls, a gentle wave surging and retreating. An act both respectful and honored.

What Maximus was doing to her was anything but sweet. He gasped, his great chest working as if he fought off demons. Sweat beaded on his brow and shone in the fine hairs on his chest. His movements were sharp and abrupt as he drove himself into her again and again. He was nothing like the sophisticated aristocrat he was in front of others. One corner of his mouth twisted in a sneer, his eyes a glaring furnace. He used her body for his own pleasure, for his own need, working her up and down on his cock. He was little more than an animal now.

And she gloried in it. She—she—had driven him to this. Had made a man who captured kings and foreign diplomats with the surety of his eloquence quite simply lose his mind.

He pushed up with all his might, shoved to the hilt within her, and froze, head thrown back in an agony of pleasure.

She leaned forward and delicately licked the salt sweat from his lips as his seed flooded her.

THE NEXT MORNING Craven attended Maximus in his rooms and was excruciatingly correct until Artemis left to dress herself in her own rooms.