Page 109 of The Governess and the Brooding Duke
This was elevated.
And she wanted him.
Could she not have what she wanted?
She wanted to wail. With joy, with deep, wrenching suffering.
He was what she wanted. She didn’t care how she had him. She had been willing to take him like this, but oh, she could spend the night in his bed. She would be in the room connecting to him. He would buy her beautiful clothes. She would have servants.
Was there something wrong with her that she wanted that? That she wanted those things? She had struggled so much, and her mother had said she was a whore. So perhaps she would be. But a fine one. One that was safe and cared for. One that was with a man that she...
Oh, how she loved him.
And she wanted to be his.
She dropped slowly to her knees, stroking him through the dark fabric of his breeches. ‘I will be your mistress,’ she said. ‘I’m yours.’
He grabbed her hair, angled her head back so that she was looking up into his face. ‘Tell me.’
‘I’m yours, Your Grace.’
‘Yes, you are,’ he said. ‘Mine. No one else’s. You will never belong to another man, do you understand?’
They were possessive words, but they were a promise to her. A promise of security, of safety and, most of all, of his loyalty.
It was brilliant. Bright and glorious inside of her.
‘Show me,’ he said. ‘Show me your devotion.’
She undid the falls of his breeches with her now expert hands, and took out his gloriously familiar manhood, moving her hand along his thick shaft. She leaned forward, tasting him, before angling herself so that she could take as much of him as possible into her mouth. He was so big that it was near impossible to take him all, and she had discovered that she had a gift for pleasuring him this way. He had told her. Had told her that she was better than any woman he’d ever had. Perhaps it wasn’t true. But she had a feeling that it was. Because West was, even when difficult, brutally honest with her.
Even in this.
He had never offered her pretty words. Had never spun her fantasies.
Never.
She hummed as she tasted him. As a flood of emotion rioted through her.
She was his.
She was his.
She showed him what that meant. How deeply she wanted it.
He held her hair, pulling and guiding her with his fists.
The pain was welcome, the pain kept her grounded.
Their play was always like this. Tinged with desperation, and an edge of something dark. But had their lives not been dark? Always.
He with his father, she with hers. They had always known, both of them, that life was not safe or easy or pretty.
But what they had together was brilliant and ugly all at once. Beautiful and hard enough to leave a bruise.
How she loved to be marked by him.
For she had been marked by so many other things in life.
