A Duchess in the Dark(11)
“Ashton.” She arched into him, pressing her warmth against him as he licked the swell of her breast, savoring the sweet, salty taste of her skin. She was exquisite, his little minx. He could explore her forever, with his hands, his tongue, languidly memorizing each dip and curve. From this moment on, when he closed his eyes each night, he’d imagine her like this, warm and passionate, writhing beneath him. His name on the tip of her tongue.
As he lavished attention on the other breast, he gathered the hem of her nightgown with his free hand, drawing it up, exposing her inch by glorious inch. He pulled back to look down at her. She was so beautiful.
With a low growl, he bit her rib cage—gently—and worked his way down her body, nibbling her soft flesh, enjoying her little gasps of shock and pleasure as he slowly descended. She was so ready for him, the scent of her desire hot and heady. He feared he’d never get enough of this, that he’d be caught in a cycle of want and longing his entire life. He hadn’t lied earlier when he told her they had something rare. In all his years, bedding a woman had never felt so…right, as though he were meant to be here, with her.
With one hand, he spread her thighs wide. As he gazed down at her, desire slammed into him—hard. She was wet, vulnerable, completely open, and a wave of male pride flooded him at the sight. She was wet for him. He’d broken down her barriers, at least partially, and it was only a matter of time before she gave herself to him wholly.
Dipping his head, he licked the seam of her entrance in one leisurely stroke. She tasted like honey, sweet and slick, so damn good.
She drew in a sharp breath and shifted her hips, trying to squirm away. “W-what are you doing?”
“Tasting you. Would you have me stop?”
She fisted the sheets and shook her head sharply but said nothing.
He needed to hear the words from her lips. He needed to know she wanted this just as much as he did. “Tell me you want more, Daphne. Say it.”
Silence stretched between them for long seconds before she finally surrendered. “I want more, Ashton. Please…don’t stop.”
Triumph pounded in his chest, quickly replaced with pure, undiluted desire for this woman. “As you wish.”
Nudging her wider, he gripped her hips and slipped his tongue inside her. She thrust upward, her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging. “Oh, Ashton. Sweet heaven, what—oh!”
He devoured her, his tongue moving inside her, swirling, drawing out every gasp and moan. He drank her in, inhaled her lavender scent, took her essence into his lungs. She was his, whether she knew it or not. There was something powerful between them, something potent and real, and he wanted it. More than anything, he wanted this. He’d fight for it with everything in him.
He slid his tongue deeper, taking more of her, until finally she froze, every muscle drawn tight. With one final flick of his tongue, her hips arched off the bed, her fists balling the sheets. Her climax came hard and quick, but he didn’t stop. He continued to lick her, wringing every last tremor from her body.
At length, her body went limp and he pulled away. She panted beneath him as he smoothed her nightgown back over her legs and pulled the coverlets over her.
“That was wicked,” she said, turning onto her side facing him, looking as content as a freshly fed kitten. “And it shall”—her words were broken by a yawn—“never happen again.”
Even as she spoke the words, her eyes drifted closed, a gentle smile playing on the edges of her lips. He brushed back the red tendrils framing her face, and stared at the woman who’d managed to ensnare him with her passion and vibrancy.
“Fate has put you in my hands, little minx.” He traced the line of her delicate jaw with his finger. “And I’d be a fool to lose you to Wallingford.”
She let out a loud, indelicate snore.
* * *
The next morning, Ashton sought out the privacy of the library. Now that he’d discovered his mystery woman, he had business to tend to—letters to write, preparations to make. He sat at the only desk, mahogany inlaid with ivory, and penned a letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury, requesting a special license be sent through Ashton’s man of business, who resided in London.
He was just sealing the letter when a quiet thud on the far side of the room drew his attention. Daphne. He looked up to see her straightening the small table she’d apparently bumped coming in.
He stood, his chair sliding back on the thick blue-and-green carpet. “Daphne.”
She turned abruptly, a book clutched to her chest. She must have snatched it off the shelf before he’d spotted her. He leaned against the desk, arms crossed over his chest.