Page 77 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
Arabella nodded her head, unable to trust her voice. Something in his tone settled deep within her that was quieter than before, but no less certain. She did not hesitate again and, without further delay, led him out of the room and up the stairs. She was aware of him behind her, of the weight of his presence in every step she took.
The door had barely closed before he reached for her.
Her breath caught as his hand found her wrist and turned her back toward him, not roughly, but with enough insistence that she felt it. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then his hand rose— slow this time, deliberate— brushing along her arm, her shoulder, until it came to rest at the back of her neck.
“Arabella…”
Her name was quieter now. Not restrained. Something else.
She did not answer, just stepped into him instead.
That was all it took.
Her hands found his clothing first, though there was less coordination than urgency in it. His coat slipped from his shoulders under her finger, and he answered in kind, his hands moved to her waist, then higher, as though he could not decide where to settle. Fabric gave way quickly beneath them, each layer abandoned more hastily than the last.
When her dress fell, he stilled long enough that she felt the hesitation. His gaze moved over her, slower now, and her chest tightened.
“Do not stop,” she whispered, and that broke whatever restraint remained.
His mouth found her throat, and this time, there was nothing measured in it. The press of his lips was firmer, his breath uneven as he followed the line of her neck. Arabella’s hand tightened in his hair, the reaction immediate, unthinking.
He lifted her then, more quickly than before, and she clung to him without hesitation, her legs wrapped around his waist as though she had done it a hundred times. The contact pulled a sharp breath from her as he drew her in fully, leaving no space between them. The gasp from her dragged in his ear as he pressed his arousal hard against her slick, heated core.
“Maxwell—” she did not finish it.
He barely made it to the bed before his body took over instinctively, but he guided her softly onto the pillows and hovered above her. Arabella’s hips tilted up slightly to meet his; the heat was almost unbearable to resist a moment longer.
“Tell me,” he demanded, one hand braced beside her while the other slid along her thigh teasingly.
She met his gaze. “Yes.”
That was enough.
When he moved, it was not slow nor was it careless. The urgency remained, but it was guided by instinct. Her breath broke against him as she adjusted, her hands finding his arms, holding there.
Her moans and soft gasps fell into a rhythm that he conducted. He saw her in flashes of pleasure with each thrust, her expression changing each time he buried himself in her until she gripped his arms, eyes wide.
“Maxwell, please,” she barely whispered, but it was enough. He pulled her legs around his waist as he dug into her deeper and rougher still until finally her felt her crash around him in waves of ecstasy.
Her soft cries drove him mad until he finally found his release in her. And as the night settled around them, Maxwell found that the certainty and silence that he had once relied upon no longer stood as firmly as it had before.
CHAPTER 19
Morning light reached the study in a way it did not in the rest of the house, filtered through tall windows that softened its brightness without dimming it entirely. Arabella paused just inside the doorway for a moment, taking in the unfamiliar ease of it. The room itself remained unmistakably Maxwell’s—orderly, deliberate, every surface bearing the quiet mark of purpose—but there was something altered in the atmosphere, something less rigid than she suspected it had once been.
Maxwell sat at the desk, though not with the papers she might have expected. Instead, a tray had been set between them, breakfast arranged with care that suggested it had been requested rather than assumed.
“You have made a habit of this already,” she said as she crossed the room, her tone light as she took the seat opposite him. “I should be concerned.”
Maxwell looked up, his expression composed, though there was a subtle shift at the edge of it that she had begun to recognize. “Concern would be premature,” he replied. “It is only the second occurrence.”
“That is how habits begin,” she returned, reaching for her tea. “Quietly, and without proper acknowledgment.”
“Then we will acknowledge it,” he said. “If it continues.”
Arabella smiled faintly, lifting the cup to her lips before setting it aside again. The morning had settled into something easy between them, a continuation of the evening before, though softened by daylight. There was no urgency in it, no expectation beyond the simple act of sharing the space.
It was only when she reached for a piece of bread that she noticed the movement beneath the table.
