Page 50 of The Duke’s Unwilling Bride

He pushes the bench to the side until he looms over me and palms my throat, wrapping his fingers around until I can barely breathe. “It’s not the song itself I would have heard, my little doll. But your moans lifted up high. I would have forced you to cry out even more. I still can.”

With that, he slides his hand down my thigh, bringing it around to cup my sex. Try as I might to resist, the low moan slips through my mouth before I can stop it.

“What a naughty girl you were,” he whispers in my ear, setting off a cascade of shivers that wrack my body. “Misleading me like that. It makes me wonder what else you’re hiding. Hmm?”

Before I can answer, he grips me by the waist and twirls me around, setting me down on the top of the pianoforte. I want to cry out, to beg him to stop, possibly even remind him that his affections are not desired, but I can’t. I’m so wound up that I let him have his way with me.

My shoed feet smack against the keys, setting off a discordant sound so similar to the off-key banging I did when playing for him. I move to leave, but his heavy hand presses against my breastbone, forcing me to lie back on the wood. Such a scandalous display, and yet, the very thought of someone seeing me like this, of catching me, does nothing more than make my body burn even hotter.

He wrenches my thighs apart, surprising a squeak out of me. “Your Grace, someone will hear us.”

Rising, he spears me with a heated look from between my legs. “You are my wife. They are bound to hear noises at some point.”

“Please,” I beg, but this time, it’s for his touch rather than to get him to stop.

“What is that? I’m unable to hear you.” His fingers slide into me with one easy stroke, aided by the slick gathering in my core.

My feet bounce with the force of his jostling, setting the keys to ring out once more. “Please,” I cry out louder, shame at the idea of someone hearing me twisting my body about even more.

Without answering me, he grabs the edge of my dress and flips it up, baring me to his gaze. He lowers his face to my apex and runs his nose along the seam of my sex. I nearly groan from the pleasure.

Pulling out, he slides his thumbs up and down my lower lips, spreading me out, before applying his tongue to that bundle of nerves that makes my eyes cross. I’m undone, unable to push him away, to demand that he stop. The pleasure is so great, so needed.

Though I’ve done my best to see to my own needs, it never feels like this. His touch is electric, making me squirm. Perhaps it’s because my own touch is always too tentative. I’m far more concerned with the propriety of the situation as opposed to the pleasure I know I could give myself.

But here, now, under the forceful hand of my husband, I am helpless to resist. I can allow my body to relax and just feel. No one can fault me for obeying the word of my lord and master. And so, lying on top of the pianoforte, like a wanton, I cry out as his fingers breach me once more.

My shoes hit against the keys, the small sound almost swallowed up in his groans and my cries of pleasure. But I still hear them. Plinking away as if some phantom is playing while I’m being ravaged. Just the very idea of Foxford playing the pianoforte as his tongue dances along my nerves nearly sends me careening over the edge.

Throwing my head back, I almost scream as the exquisite euphoria zips through my body. “That’s it, my little songbird,” he rasps out, pulling away from me. “I want to hear the melody of your pleasure.”

My body ripples at his command, my inner walls clamping down on his fingers as he thrusts them into me. I no longer care about our stupid quarrel or the fact that the servants are probably even now listening at the door. I need the relief that only his forceful hand can give.

Everything coils tight as I near that precipice I long for. The harsh rasp of his tongue as he licks me causes me to buck up against him. I need more. I need harder. I need… him.

Again, he slams his fingers into me, pulling out just long enough to add another thick digit, stretching me out, a sad mimicry of his enormous cock. I long to tell him I take it back, that I want to be in his bed once more, but the thoughts just burst and dissipate the moment they’re formed. Once more, he renders me unable to do anything but lie there and feel.

So close. So very close. Everything in me bows up, tightening in preparation for a much-needed release. And then he stops. Everything ceases. I can feel him pulling away, stepping back away from me.

Lifting myself up onto my elbows, I blink at him, unsure of what’s going on. I open my mouth to ask him, wondering if perhaps I wasn’t loud enough or melodic enough for his taste. But I never get the chance.

“Forgive me, my duchess. I wouldn’t want to force you. As I’ve stated before, when you’re ready to share my bed, I will avail myself to you. But only if you beg me prettily enough.” With that, he walks to the door, leaving me all alone to compose myself.

A myriad of feelings pour through me, like ice water sluicing off a roof. It’s just as cold, just as startling. I want to call out to him, to beg him, just like he said I would. Tears prick my eyes as I hear the door slam behind me, leaving me alone on top of the instrument that used to give me such joy.

Spreading my legs again, I touch myself, rubbing that bundle of nerves that his tongue so expertly teased. I chase that feeling, closing my eyes as I force myself back on the path of completion. Unfortunately, behind closed lids, all I can see is Foxford’s face as he looms over me, his lips calling out to me, demanding me to find release.

And when it comes, I cry out, but this time it’s not all from pleasure. The emptiness inside threatens to swallow me up as I ease myself off of the top of the pianoforte. With trembling hands, I put everything to rights, making it so that no one can see the evidence of its defiling.

But I’ll know. I’ll always know. Every time I sit down to play, I’ll remember Foxford and the dastardly things he did to me. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s my punishment for being less than honest with him—to live with the knowledge that he holds my pleasure so keenly in the palm of his hand while I’m powerless to stop him.

CHAPTER 25

Teresa

Days have gone by since the incident in the drawing room, and in my solitude, I thought I’d be able to get over the affair, to put it behind me. But I find that my mind continues to drift, drawing phantom aches through my body. How hard would it be to just say I’m sorry and go back to his bed?

I grip the pencil in my fingers so hard it almost snaps. No. I can’t do that. I can’t give in to his demands, whether spoken or not. He holds some grudge against me, harbors some ill will that I cannot fathom the reasonings.