Page 90 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“They’re beautiful,” she breathed. “Like the beautiful warrior that you are, Malcolm,” she said softly before she pulled him down into another deep, adoring kiss.

Then, his large hands found the silk laces at the back of her ruined green gown. Everything in the room seemed to slow to a crawl after that. The expensive green silk slid from her shoulders, pooling around her waist like water. His warm mouth followed the path of the fabric, pressing slow, intoxicating kisses against her newly bared skin, making her shiver.

The heat of his palms moved reverently over her full curves, tracing her ribs, her hips, as though he still could not quite believe she was truly his to hold, his to cherish.

Penelope let out a sharp, breathless gasp when his warm mouth closed over the aching peak of her breast through the thin linen of her shift. “Malcolm—Heavens.”

He looked up immediately at the sound of his name, his dark eyes heavy with passion. He didn’t stop his movements; he simply watched her face, tracking the flush of her cheeks, the parted line of her lips. The sheer intensity of his gaze unraveled her completely.

Malcolm kissed his way slowly, deliberately down the length of her body, pausing his lips wherever she trembled most beneath his touch, as though he were systematically memorizing every single reaction of her flesh.

When he finally settled himself between her thighs, his weight a comforting, solid warmth, Penelope’s entire body tightened in fierce anticipation, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Look at me, Penelope,” he murmured, his voice a low command.

She opened her eyes, her honey-brown gaze locking onto his dark ones. His large hand slid slowly, smoothly up the inside of her thigh, his skin burning against hers.

“You are mine, and I am all yours. All yours.”

Something incredibly fierce, tender, and deeply possessive flashed through his face at her words. Then, lifting her hips slightly, he entered her carefully, deeply.

Penelope gasped sharply, her back arching slightly off the mattress as she clutched at his powerful shoulders. Malcolm froze instantly, his muscles locking as he stared down at her face with concern.

He brushed a damp lock of chocolate hair away from her face with infinite gentleness, his eyes softening. Penelope pulled his head down into a desperate, deep kiss, wrapping her legs securely around his waist to draw him deeper.

Malcolm let out a rough, primal sound against her mouth and began to move, his strokes deep, slow, and deliberate.

Every single touch felt intentional. Careful. Malcolm watched her constantly through the shadows, kissing every startled breath from her mouth, whispering her name against her skin like a holy prayer.

The pleasure built slowly, a rising, beautiful tide until Penelope no longer knew where to place her hands, her breath, or her racing thoughts. She only knew Malcolm.

His massive weight above her. His deep voice in her ear. The fierce, protective tenderness in every single touch of his split knuckles.

When the release finally broke through her, it hit with a violent, beautiful force that stole all sound entirely from her lungs, her body shaking beneath him.

Malcolm followed her moments later with a low, guttural groan against her throat, his powerful body racking with a deep tremor as he buried his face in her shoulder, holding her as if he would never let her go.

Afterward, neither of them moved for a long, peaceful while.

The hearth fire crackled softly nearby, casting long, dancing amber shadows across the canopy of the bed. Malcolm lay half-above her, his massive frame a comforting weight, one large arm securely cradling her shoulders while her slender fingers traced lazy, aimless patterns across the hard muscle of his chest.

There was no fear in the room tonight. There was no shame, no lingering trauma, and no cold loneliness. The ghosts of Brigrock Hall had finally been laid to rest.

Penelope closed her eyes slowly, a deep, profound peace settling over her soul. Malcolm’s lips brushed softly against her hair.

“My wife,” he murmured into the dark, the words a proud, quiet vow.

A beautiful, radiant warmth spread through Penelope’s chest, filling every hollow space left by the years of pain.

“My husband,” she whispered back into the quiet room.

And for the very first time Penelope felt entirely, completely safe.

Epilogue

ONE YEAR LATER

London glittered beneath crisp, brilliant winter sunlight.