Page 44 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
This time, when he moved, she was ready for it.
Though not entirely.
The knowledge sat in her rather than settled, her breath catching as his hand returned to her waist and simply rested there as though waiting for her to decide if it might remain.
When she did not pull away, his thumb shifted, slow, deliberate, tracing the smallest path along her side. The touch was light, but it lingered long enough to leave warmth behind it, long enough that she felt it even after it passed.
There was still uncertainty, still the sharp edge of the unknown, but it no longer carried the same fear. His steadiness anchored her as his hands moved with care, as though he understood the weight of each small shift between them. When his palm came to rest over her breast, she drew in a sharp breath, more from surprise than discomfort, though neither feeling remained separate for long.
He did not rush it. His touch remained steady, his thumb brushing over her until the tension in her shoulders softened despite herself.
His hand slipped to the hem of her nightdress and lifted it up. The quiet control in his movements gave her something to hold on to as everything else shifted around them.
Maxwell hovered above her. She became aware of him then— the heat of him, the solid presence of him, close enough that there was no mistaking what would follow. He leaned down atop her, and angled himself toward her. It all felt right and terrifying and exciting.
He lowered his head, not to her mouth, but just beneath it and his breath warmed the curve of her throat. The first press of his lips was brief, almost restrained, and then ravenous.
Arabella’s hand tightened against him without thought. The sensation was unfamiliar, but not unwelcome, and shifted the moment from something to be endured into something she felt herself yielding to.
He still did not kiss her lips, though his mouth remained dangerously close to hers. He paused, just long enough that she felt the hesitation in him—not doubt, but restraint.
“Tell me,” he said quietly.
She nodded before she could think better of it.
When he moved, it was slow, deliberate, giving her time to feel each change as it came. The unfamiliar stretch startled her, sharper than she expected, and her breath broke against it, but he did not withdraw entirely. He remained there, steady, allowing her to adjust rather than forcing her forward.
Through his clear restraint as he eased into her deeper this time, and then back out, there were moments when she wondered what it might have been like if he kissed her. The thought flickered and faded, replaced by a sharp feeling as Maxwell eased into her fully, to the hilt, and a cry escaped her lips as his eyes darkened intensely all at once.
“Wait—” she managed, though she did not mean for him to stop entirely.
He stilled at once.
The pause helped. The sharpness softened, though it was not gone, just altered, tempered by his stillness, by the fact that he waited.
Arabella closed her eyes briefly, her breath catching as she tried to make sense of it, get used to the feel of him, of the unfamiliar sensations in unfamiliar places of her body, and the way her body responded without her quite understanding why or how she even knew how to respond.
When he moved again, the difference was immediate. Not easier, not entirely, but less uncertain. Her body adjusted in ways she had not expected, the earlier sharpness giving way to something deeper—fuller, more difficult to name.
The rhythm came gradually, not found so much as built between them. Each movement answered the last, until her breath began to follow it without instruction. It settled into something steady—full, measured, matching the pull of their breath. She rather enjoyed the smooth stretching of her body as the sensation deepened, unfamiliar but increasingly difficult to resist.
Maxwell drew in a tight breath. His hands wrapped around Arabella’s shoulders, and she felt her body arch into him without her say so. She was angling him deeper, and he obliged hungrily. The depth of it pulled a sound from her she did not recognize, the sensation cresting in waves she could not quite contain.
Moans that she had never heard herself make before. Groans from Maxwell that she had never thought possible. Heaving chests in sync with one another as he looked at her then—notbriefly, not in passing, but as though he meant to remain there, to make certain she was still with him in it. Then he pumped his release into her. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.
The stillness that followed did not feel empty. It settled around them slowly, as though the room itself had exhaled.
Maxwell did not move away at once. That, more than anything, steadied her.
Arabella lay there, her breath unsteady, her thoughts slow to return to her. She became aware, gradually, of the quiet of the room, of the faint flicker of the candlelight, of the absence of motion beside her.
Maxwell was the first to move, withdrawing with care.
The space he left behind felt immediate.
She opened her eyes, turning slightly as he moved away from the bed. There was no hesitation in him now, no lingering uncertainty. He reached for his clothing with the same deliberate precision that defined everything he did, restoring order where it had briefly been set aside.
Arabella pushed herself up slightly, the sheets gathered loosely around her. “You are leaving?”
