Page 103 of Tempting the Reclusive Duke

She gasped, color flooding her cheeks. This was no translation, no theory on a page. This was shockingly real, scandalously alive. Yet when his hand stroked her hair, urging, she obeyed, kissing him gently, reverently, as though he might break beneath her inexpert touch.

“Oh, my love.” His breath hissed through clenched teeth. “Look at me.”

She obeyed once again, cheeks blazing, her scholar’s pride faltering in the face of his command. The sight of her, clever Eveline, kneeling with flushed lips parted around him, dragged a guttural sound from his chest.

“My amazing wife,” he rasped. “My stubborn, wicked bluestocking. You’ll ruin me.”

Her own moan vibrated against him, and he swore sharply. His grip guided her rhythm, coaxing, commanding. She tried, faltered, then tried again, and the noises he made — ragged, desperate groans — spurred her onward.

But then, with a curse, he pulled her up, kissing her hard, nearly shaking. “Enough. If I let you go on, I’ll spend like a schoolboy. And I want to be buried inside you when I lose control.”

She might have argued, stubbornness flaring, but he lifted her easily, laying her on the bed, scattering pearls across the sheets.

“Now,” he murmured, stripping her gown with deliberate patience, kissing every patch of skin revealed. “Every night, I dreamt of this. Undoing you slowly. Tasting you until you begged.”

Her chemise followed. She flushed, instinctively crossing her arms, but he caught her wrists and pinned them above her head. “No hiding,” he growled. “Not from your husband.”

“Adrian...”

“You will give me everything tonight.”

His mouth descended. Her throat, her breasts, her stomach, the insides of her thighs...every kiss wetter, hungrier. She writhed, half-laughing, half-crying, her stubborn composure splintering.

“Please,” she gasped.

“Say it properly.” His voice was velvet and command entwined.

Her pride warred with need. “Touch me. Please Adrian, touch me there.”

His mouth replaced his hand, and she sobbed his name, clutching at the sheets. She tried to analyze the sensation, to categorize it as she had with Latin texts but there was no analysis here, only raw abandon. Her cries filled the chamber as release overtook her, violent and glorious.

When she stilled, trembling, he kissed his way back up, his eyes dark with triumph. “Now, wife. Now I claim you.”

She nodded, legs parting. “Yes, yes... Please.”

He entered her slowly, carefully, and she gasped at the sharp stretch. He stilled, kissing her temple. “Mine. Always mine.”

“Yours,” she whispered, stubbornness breaking at last.

The ache turned to heat, to fullness. She moved experimentally, and the sound it drew from him was feral. His control shattered, and he thrust harder, faster, until the rhythm of their bodies filled the chamber; the slap of flesh, the creak of the bed, her cries unrestrained, his groans guttural.

“Say it,” he growled into her ear.

“I am yours!” she sobbed, nails raking his back. “Adrian...I am yours!”

He roared her name as he spent, her climax tearing through her at the same moment, the bed shaking, their cries loud enough to drown the rain outside.

After, he held her close, both of them trembling. Eveline laughed weakly, her scholar’s wit returning. “So that is la petite mort.”

He pressed a kiss to her damp hair, his voice rough. “If that is death, my stubborn, brilliant wife, then I will die a thousand times with you.”

The End