While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(65)

His hand reached up to cup her face. His thumb grazed her cheek, catching on a tear. “Are these tears for him? Tears of joy and relief?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know . . .”

“I hate it.”

“Wh-what?”

“The way you weep for him.”

She knew he only cared because of this petty rivalry between him and Marcus. “Would you rather I weep for you?”

“No,” he growled, his hand reaching out, curling around her neck and hauling her closer until his mouth ghosted over her own. “I’d rather you scream for me.”

Her heart took off, wild as a bird set loose from inside her too-tight chest. His eyes, bright and dark, fastened on her.

Everything slowed. Blood rushed, a dull roar in her ears. She imagined she could hear the muffled thump of her own heart.

Then everything leapt to action. They moved in unison, coming together. Their mouths fused, lips breaking only for the time it took them to tug their clothes free in a blur of motion. Everything was frantic. Desperate. Violent in its fierceness.

They kissed and kissed and kissed.

Hot and feverish, tongues and clanging teeth. It was fierce and wild. There was nothing smooth or civilized about it, but it shattered her completely.

His free hand tugged down her bodice until there was just her corset-covered breasts. He pushed the low-cut edge of her corset down with a savage yank until both breasts spilled over the top. She gasped at the brush of air on her exposed flesh. His hands grazed over the crests, rough palms abrading the tender skin as his mouth ravaged hers. He wasn’t gentle. He didn’t treat her like some fragile piece of crystal.

His hand settled on her right breast, closing over the small mound and squeezing, making her feel voluptuous and beautiful.

“You’re wearing entirely too many clothes,” he muttered, his hands untying the laces at the front. Then she was free. Her loose chemise gaped open, exposing her breasts. His head dipped, taking her into his mouth. She cried out, her fingers latching on to his head.

They sank to the base of the tree, the carpet of grass the softest of beds as his hardness fell over her. He pulled back, looking down at her, his hand skimming her face, hard fingers burying into her hair, scattering pins. He gripped her scalp as his hot mouth crashed over hers, consuming.

Her hands dove for the front of his trousers, eagerly unbuttoning the falls of his breeches to free him. He pulled back to shuck off his jacket and shove his trousers down his hips.

She watched, devouring the sight of him. They came together again, bare skin sliding sinuously against each other. He shoved the skirts of her gown to her waist and settled between her thighs and it felt so right, like two puzzle pieces locking together.

He kissed her breasts again and she whimpered, arching her spine, wanting more. His mouth closed around one nipple, pulling deep, and she moaned, her fingers clenching in his strong biceps. He shifted his weight and brought his manhood directly against her opening.

She panted, her fingers moving to clutch the back of his neck, clinging, straining against him, pulling him closer as she rotated her hips, needing him inside her like a body needs air.

“Poppy? Are you certain?”

Yes, yes, yes. This would be all she would have of him before he learned the truth. Before she was cast out from his life.

Gasping, she shifted her hips and pushed up against him. “I want this. I want you, Struan.”

His eyes gleamed fiercely as he wedged himself between her parted thighs. She looked down between them, watching as he took himself in hand, gripping his hard member and guiding it toward her. Her mouth parted in a small O, fascinated and aroused at the sight.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and hauled her closer, holding her steady as he began to sink inside her. His eyes locked with hers.

It was a dreamlike moment, staring into the depths of his eyes, feeling his body joining with hers, stretching and filling her with a burn that wasn’t entirely comfortable.

Her body stretched to accommodate him. Gasping little breaths escaped her as she molded to fit him.

“You’re so bloody tight, Poppy,” he hissed.

Her eyes flared wide, and she whimpered as he pushed inside another fraction.

He stilled, his biceps tensing, muscles bunching tightly. “Am I hurting you?”

Just when she thought he was done, he pushed in deeper and she cried out, partly in pain and partly in relief to have him buried so deep—an answer at last to the clenching ache.

He froze again. Her grip tightened on him. “Don’t stop!”

The arm at her waist pulled her closer, mashing her breasts to his chest as he thrust himself fully inside, finally seating himself and wrenching a sharp gasp from her.

“Oh, my,” she choked.

“Poppy?” he growled, his voice bewildered. “Are you . . . have you done this before?”

She met his gaze and gave a swift shake of her head. “No.”

He stilled, his manhood lodged deep, pulsing inside her. Myriad emotions flickered across his face. “Why didn’t you—”

“I never said I wasn’t a virgin.”

He shook his head, his eyes anguished. “But you let me think . . . I called you—”

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. She pressed her mouth to his and kissed him for all she was worth, silencing what she knew he wanted to say. He felt remorse for judging her, for assuming she was something other than what she said. Given the lie she had been perpetrating, he’d reached only reasonable conclusions.