Page 87 of The Governess and the Brooding Duke
‘Thank Christ,’ he ground out, tearing her chemise, pulling it down and exposing her breasts.
‘I... I don’t have many of those.’
‘I will get you more. Whatever you need. Whatever you want.’
He made promises to her, even as he used his brute strength to push her down, down all the way, to expose her breasts.
It was rough. There was no finesse.
And yet it was still as far away from what had happened to her all that time ago as anything could be.
Her nipples were tight, begging for his attention.
Begging for his touch.
Her entire body was crying out for release.
‘So lovely,’ he said, his voice hard. ‘Such beauty.’ He reached up to palm her breast, her soft, pale skin a contrast against that dark, rough hand of his.
He pinched her, and a short cry rose up in her throat.
He was not gentle.
She did not want him to be.
For this was not to be a watercolour on that blank canvas of her soul.
It was to be bold. Great daubs of paint, vivid lines, and she was standing in his strength, and in hers.
And she was being renewed.
A kiss at a time.
With every touch of his callused hand over her untried skin.
Then he lowered his head, sucking one nipple deep into his mouth, his teeth scraping along that sensitised flesh.
She let her head fall back, a raw cry escaping.
‘Good?’
‘Yes,’ she affirmed.
‘More?’
And she knew then. Whatever she wanted, he would give her.
He was dominant. Strong. But when he’d said that he needed her absolute surrender, he had meant it.
And he was going to ensure, every step of the way, that whatever he did she wanted.
It was like the last vestiges of her resistance crumbled away. That very last bit of fear.
There was nothing to fear with him. And this was the glory of great strength in a good man.
It made her want to cry.
For this was something she had never yet seen.
