Page 42 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
“Come here.”
The words were not a command, not quite, but they carried a quiet certainty that left little room for hesitation.
Arabella placed her glass beside his, then crossed the small distance between them. Her hand found his, her fingers fitting into his grasp with a familiarity that felt at odds with how little time had passed. He pressed her palm flat against his chest, and she felt it then. His heart was pounding in the same, remarkably quick and thundering pace as hers.
Her eyes flashed up to meet his, and he pulled it away from his chest to lead her toward the bed.
Her breath quickened with each step, the awareness of what was ahead pressing closer with every movement. Yet when he turned to her, there was no haste in him, no impatience.
“Sit,” he said, guiding her gently.
She obeyed, smoothing her nightgown over her knees as she settled at the edge of the bed. The fabric felt suddenly too light, too insubstantial, as though it offered no protection against the intensity of his attention.
Maxwell remained standing for a moment, studying her as though ensuring something she could not see. Then he reached out, his hand lifting to brush lightly against her arm.
The touch was deliberate, unhurried.
Arabella drew in a breath, the contact sending a quiet shiver through her. It was not the first time he had touched her, not after what had passed between them before, and yet it felt different now. Slower. Considered.
“You are cold,” he observed.
“I do not feel cold,” she said quickly, though her voice betrayed her.
His hand moved, not withdrawing but shifting, tracing a path along her arm in a way that seemed less about the destination than the act itself. The warmth of his touch spread gradually, easing some of the tension she had carried with her.
“We will not rush this,” he said.
Arabella’s gaze lifted to his, searching. “No?”
“No.”
The word settled into her, unexpected and steady.
He sat beside her then, close enough that she could feel the heat of him without their bodies fully touching. His hand remained at her arm, his thumb brushing lightly over her skin in a motion that was almost absent, as though he did not fully realize he was doing it.
Arabella let out a slow breath, her shoulders easing despite herself.
“This is not so terrible,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
Maxwell’s gaze landed on her. “No,” he said. “It is not.”
The quiet that followed was different from the others they had shared. Then Arabella swallowed, her hands resting in her lap as she gathered her courage, aware that the moment was shifting, drawing them both toward what could no longer be delayed.
She turned slightly toward him, her voice softer now. “And now?”
Maxwell’s hand stilled briefly against her arm before resuming its slow, deliberate movement.
“Now,” he said, his gaze holding hers, “we continue.”
His touch did not change, and that, more than anything, steadied her.
Maxwell’s hands remained careful, deliberate, as though he were guiding her through something unfamiliar rather than taking from her what was owed. The warmth of his palm against her skin lingered, moving in slow, measured paths that allowed her to adjust, to breathe, to understand what was happening rather than be overwhelmed by it.
Arabella kept her gaze lifted toward him at first, searching his expression, trying to read what lay beneath the mask he never removed. The candlelight softened the edges of him, casting shadows along his shoulders and across the sharp line of his jaw. There was a moment, brief but unmistakable, when his hand lifted toward his face.
Her breath caught.
For a heartbeat, she thought he would remove it.
