Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(9)

“I’ve decided I want my turn,” he said.

She blinked, wishing she could better see his expression through the darkness. Wishing she could read him, but the man had her at a complete loss. “I’m sorry, Your Grace?”

“You asked me before if I wanted a turn.” His hand traveled from her waist to cup her jaw with a tenderness that belied the strength radiating from him. The unexpected gentleness shook her. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, sending a rush of sensation through her frenzied body.

Ah yes, so she had, foolishly upon their last meeting. But she had meant to taunt him, to wring from him the truth of why he had seemed to dog her every move through society. It could have all been coincidence, of course. Anyone else—anyone whose mind didn’t operate the way Daisy’s did—would have likely never taken note. Would have never wondered. Would never have been suspicious. Dear Lord, not of a peer of the realm, and a duke at that.

But Daisy wasn’t anyone else. She was herself, and she knew herself well enough to know that she was something of an oddity. She didn’t seem to fit in with anyone anywhere, though her father had done an admirable job of attempting to force her into any number of roles that suited him. Thus far, she had dodged them all, and she didn’t intend for that to change four days from now.

Which brought her back to her plan. Her necessity.

She needed the Duke of Trent to compromise her. Tonight.

She took a deep, steadying breath and exhaled over the thumb that continued its slow exploration of her lip. “So take your turn then, Your Grace. Take it now.”

He made a deep sound in his throat, and she couldn’t tell if it was a growl or a hum of satisfaction. “I believe I will.”

In the next breath, his mouth was on hers, hard and demanding as she had imagined it would be. Daisy had been kissed many times before, but never the way the duke kissed her. His lips angled over hers, fitting perfectly, with a voracious hunger. This kiss claimed. It sent a flurry of something foreign washing over her, something that was part languor, part need.

She caught his broad shoulders, clutching him to her as he ravaged her mouth, feeling the powerful muscles hidden beneath his evening finery. His tongue swept the seam of her lips, seeking entry, and she opened without hesitation. Nothing about the way the Duke of Trent affected her was feigned or forced. There was something indefinable—something primitive and raw—within him that called to her. That told her she was where she belonged.

In his arms.

Yes, if she had to marry any man, please Lord let it be a man who kissed the way the duke did. Who smelled the way the duke did. Who looked and felt as he did. Let it simply be him.

Only him.

His mouth left hers to trail a path of fire down her throat, lingering over the sensitive hollow beneath her ear. Who had known such a place would not only long to be kissed but that his lips grazing her there would send a pulsing ache of pleasure to her core? And then he licked her, his tongue darting out to tease her flesh, to taste her. To drive her mad.

A mewling sound tore from her. She wanted more, even though she didn’t know what more was. He caught her earlobe in his teeth and tugged, tongued the whorl of her ear. His breath was hot and decadent upon her as he moved his mouth lower still, to her collarbone, and from there downward to her décolletage.

He kissed over the swell of her breast, and she knew a poignant longing. How she wished for him to be unrestrained by her gown and corset, to be free to move his lovely mouth over every inch of her body. Especially to the aching tips of her breasts that had begun tingling in a most alarming fashion.

She wondered fuzzily why no man before him had ever taken such a liberty, and then she was instantly glad they had not. For she couldn’t imagine enjoying this wickedness with anyone save him. She felt that she was made for him.

And then, he snagged the delicate tulle of her sleeve and tugged. The sound of fabric rending split the night, sending a rush of cold air over her. She stiffened in his arms, training so ingrained in her that despite seeking her complete compromise tonight, she nearly pushed him away. A torn bodice was the ultimate hallmark of sin. What could he be thinking? Daisy could not face her aunt or return to the ballroom with a ball gown that had been damaged.

Perhaps he had lost his head, for he seemed undeterred by the spoiling he’d just done, continuing to kiss his way across the bare expanse of her bosom. An odd calm settled over her then, a calm she hadn’t felt in as long as she could recall.

She was ruined.

And it felt, in a word, divine.

Overcome by the urge, she ran her fingers through his thick, soft hair and then pressed an impulsive kiss to his crown. Even his hair smelled good. He stilled in his exploration, his lips still pressed to her skin.

Had she gone too far? Had he realized how far he, in turn, had gone? She’d never know, for he gave a quick, strong yank, and everything—her bodice, corset, and chemise—went down with it. Her breasts were bared, on full display in the moonlight.

Daisy, wicked girl that she was, forgot that she had only meant to allow things to reach a certain point before demurely demanding he return her to her aunt along with a marriage proposal. She forgot that they stood not far removed from a ballroom full of people. Forgot that she had no business guiding the duke’s kisses lower, to the place she wanted them the most.

Because in the next instant, he took her into his mouth.

And in the next instant, she heard the shocked exclamation of none other than Aunt Caroline, who stood in the moonlight, gawping at them with a stranger by her side.