Page 83 of The Governess and the Brooding Duke
He would act out his every fantasy with her.
She was his.
And there was no need to speak of what it was, and what it could not be. He would not insult her by making it clear he could not offer marriage, for she knew that already. She was a smart woman. He was a duke, and she was a woman of unknown parentage from Scotland.
She knew.
As well as he did. What this could be, and what it could not be.
But here, between them, and in his bedroom, it would be everything.
He had been married.
He had loved his wife, and it had not been enough.
He had his heir, he had his way, and by default he even had a spare. The child was not his in blood, the world would never know that.
He had no need to ever marry again.
And he would not.
But he would have this. With her.
But there could only be this one moment before they kissed.
Where they both knew that it would happen, and yet it had not yet.
And he aimed to enjoy it. To let it draw out.
She began to tremble beneath his hand, and he felt the same harsh kick of desire work through his own body.
‘Beautiful,’ he whispered, his voice rough. Gruff.
He moved his thumb over her lip. And this time, he would not pull away.
He had this one moment. This single solitary moment of sanity before they touched and this spark became a conflagration. He knew that.
And so he wished to live in it.
Anticipation was part of desire, at least he had always thought so. But this was different. Remarkably different to anything that he had ever experienced before.
With his wife, sex had been a dutiful and respectful act.
He had found pleasure in it, in her, but he had been bound. By propriety.
He had been restrained in his actions with her, because it was what love meant.
As he understood it, love was first and foremost about ensuring that your own needs were never put above others’.
He had been respectful. He had been caring in regard to her pleasure. And methodical in figuring out the ways in which she could reach her peak. He was a man, and for him an orgasm was as simple as a timed number of strokes.
Yes, there were other things he enjoyed, but it was much like food. A man might like a five-course meal but he did not need it to survive.
Then with harlots, there was no anticipation. It wasn’t a game. It was a transaction. He did not linger in moments of anticipation. Wondering what it would be like when their lips finally met. No.
But here, now, he did. Relished this space where need was so very raw. So very real.
And what was to come would be as decadent as they decided it to be. It would not be dictated solely by his tastes, but by hers as well.
