Page 55 of The Duke
The duke pressed a searing kiss into Celine’s palm. Her welcoming palm.
She had never realised how palms were made purely for receiving. How her palm could do nothing but take the duke’s kiss and take it and take it. That tender part of her had no capacity for thought, no defence against feeling.
It just received pleasure.
The duke pulled back, panting. Her eyes collided with Celine’s horrified gaze, and then she dove in to kiss Celine’s palm again, this time without closing her eyes, this time watching the pleasure hit Celine.
Her breath.
Her lips.
Her mouth kissing Celine’s but for the barrier Celine’s hand made between them. She hummed and rubbed her face deeper into Celine’s palm, her hair softly brushing Celine’s fingers.
What Celine felt then frightened her so badly she found the strength to push herself away. Her head smarted where the duke’s fingers had been wrenched from her hair. They stood staring at each other, panting. When the duke took a step towards her, Celine held out her hand and stepped back.
“Just,” she said, “let me think.”
“No,” the duke said, then advanced on her again.
God, she felt terrible. Wrong. Her whole body like a coat she’d fished out of the Seine, half-decomposed and pulled on. A moment ago, she had been on top of the world, flush with victory. Then the duke had—the duke had—
“What are you trying to prove?” she said, her voice startled and shrill.
The duke kept coming, as though Celine hadn’t spoken.
“If you think I’ll let you near me, then you have taken absolute leave of your senses.”
The duke stopped at that, and awareness entered her body. Their eyes caught and held. In a way Celine didn’t entirely understand, it felt like she was speaking to the duke for the first time in threeyears. That they were alone, together, for the first time in three years. Tears rushed into her eyes.
You left me, Celine thought, looking into that brutal face, those drowned-god eyes.You left me.
“You left me,” she said, the words ripped from her. She had wanted so badly to live, and the duke had left her to die. “Youleft me.”
The duke’s expression became inscrutable, the heat in her eyes cooling. “Yes,” she said at last, an aristocratic drawl, “and yet here you are. Not even a little bit dead.”
The words robbed Celine of breath, her anger splintering and breaking up until the wreckage scattered over her skin, making her shiver and shake. She stared at the duke and her throat felt raw, like she had been swallowing down screams all morning.
“Not even a little bit dead,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Not even a little bit.” Her voice was rising. She thought, in a remote, alarmed way, that she sounded hysterical. She began to laugh and couldn’t stop. Up and up it came, these surges of laughter, up from her guts and spilling out her mouth.Not even a little—
KATE HAD THOROUGHLYcocked up. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about kissing Celine, touching Celine, her breasts, her hot, slick mouth and cunt, Celine with her hair unbound all the way to her arse. The fatty cheeks in each hand, the tender heat between them.
She had thought Celine would welcome her advances. She had thought because blackmail was no longer enough to deterherthat it wouldn’t deter Celine, either.
Celine stopped laughing and turned away. Kate thought she might simply leave, but after a moment she said quietly, “All right… All right.” A hesitation. Then she grabbed an upright chair and dragged it, scraping and shuddering, across the room. She placed it in front of Kate and sat, slipping one foot out of its shoe and tucking it up beneath her. She looked drawn and veryserious. “Let me tell you about how I didn’t die, after you left me in Paris.”
Kate didn’t want to talk about Paris. She wanted to kiss. “We are not doing this.”
“Bastien wasn’t killed straightaway. Were you aware of that? They held him for three months before the trial even began, as beheading the king took some precedence.”
“Miss Genet, I—”
“So you may think I lingered in luxury a little while, but landlords do not wait for the jury to pass its verdict. I was tossed out of the rooms Bastien rented for me a week after he was taken. They were sweet rooms. Rather fine, I would have said, before I came to live with you.”
She both wanted and did not want to hear what Celine was telling her. They had never spoken of personal matters—of autobiographical context. What might she discover, if she allowed Celine to keep speaking?
“Celine,” she said quietly. “That’s enough.”
She had noticed it before—when she spoke Celine’s name it had a physical, traceable effect. It seemed to shiver over Celine now, who wrapped both arms about herself, hands tucked into her armpits. Celine still had one foot on the floor, balanced on the ball, and the heel bounced energetically in and out of its shoe. Celine’s eyes fixed on her, bright and hot. “It’s where I found your letter. My apartment.”
