Page 67 of The Duke’s Unwilling Bride

Joseph

Her body is damp with sweat as I push her further into the nest. With questing hands, she reaches out and grabs me, the need stark on her face. I should make her beg. I should deny her until she’s nothing but a quivering mass of need. But I can’t.

The need I see in her is nothing compared to mine. Since claiming her arsehole the night before, I’ve wanted nothing more than to be inside her again. It’s a consuming desire that feeds this madness encroaching my body.

I don’t want to give into the rut fully. I want at least some part of me to be coherent enough to enjoy this. However, with each passing gasp and moan, I find myself slipping further down into the animalistic part of myself, the part that only wants to feel and devour. My fingers skim her body, drawing out her songs of ecstasy.

Even now, I’m reminded of that time I caught her singing, and truth be told, this sounds even lovelier to me. I want nothing more than to keep making this music with her. But this time, it’s a song only meant for my ears.

No one else will hear it, at least not with such crystalline clarity. No doubt there are servants even now gathering at the doors, hoping to drain their bollocks from the sounds within. But it will never be like this.

Not when I can look down into the eyes of my omega and see the unabashed lust swirling in their depth. Mine. The word pounds in my brain, and deep inside, I know it’s not just the rut talking.

I’ve already felt this possessive pull toward her. This just solidifies it. My little songbird, my fragile doll, my wife is all mine. And any man who tries to harm her or even cast evil aspirations her way will rue the day.

In this insatiable haze of passion, I can no longer see her as the woman set at odds against me. It no longer matters. Right now, whether she’s false or true, she’s the one that makes my heart soar.

I’m just glad I can finally realize that. After all our weeks surrounded by accusations, anger, and stony silences, I can look past and see my omega within. The other half of my soul.

Dipping low, I run my nose up her pussy, drinking in the scent of her arousal. Stretching her open, I slide three fingers in at once, knowing nothing I do to her right now will cause her any pain. As evidence, I look up between her splayed thighs to see the look of relief and unadulterated pleasure as it crosses over her face.

I pump in and out, curling my digits until it hits that spot deep within that makes her toes curl. Teresa’s head drops back as she lets out a needy whine. It’s not enough. I know it’s not. She won’t be fully satisfied until my knot is forcing her open.

And even then, until her heat retreats, she will crave it over and over. Pulling out, I grip the base of my cock, angling it so that my tip slides into her entrance. “You’re mine, Teresa,” I growl as I snap my hips, impaling her in one long stroke.

I know in her heat-addled mind, she doesn’t understand the words I’m saying, just the sensations I’m forcing into her body. But that doesn’t stop me from uttering them. With every slide of my cock deep inside her pussy, I extol her virtues, telling her the things she does that drive me wild.

Perhaps on some level she actually does understand because her eyes turn a bit hazy, misty almost, yet tears never fall. She continues to claw at me, her hips jutting up in a desperate frenzy to meet mine. It’s a clash of flesh, that age-old rhythm, the act of love between an Alpha and his omega.

As my knot begins to swell, I slam into her, allowing the stretch to drive her crazy. Keening wails and moans dance around us as I grip her hips, holding her steady as I piston in and out. My strokes falter as my knot grows larger, changing my smooth movements into a more stuttering pace.

Gripping her hair in my fist, I turn Teresa’s head to the side, exposing her neck. There, where the long column meets her shoulder, I run my tongue at the juncture, preparing her for my bite. The moment my body seizes, as cum pours into her willing vessel, I bite down.

She squirms a bit as pleasure and pain collide, but I hold her steady, not willing to allow her frantic movements to cause her harm. Soon, arousal seems to win out as her pained whines turn to shouts of exultation. Her inner walls clamp down hard around my knot, milking me as she grinds up and down.

I bite a bit harder, needing to connect us fully. My teeth dig into her soft flesh until it finally gives way, coating my tongue and lips with her blood. Even that somehow tastes sweet, as if my mate is a confection all on her own.

From deep inside my chest, I feel an odd sensation, like strings, silken webs connecting her and me. The longer I stay clamped down, the stronger it becomes. Eventually, we’re so enmeshed that I cannot tell one apart from the other.

Memories flood my brain, lighting my synapses on fire. These are not mine. All of them are hers. As if going backward in time, I see us last night, feel the absolute love and lust that flooded her body as I took her in that room.

From there, I continue looking through her mind, combing through thoughts I’m sure she’d rather I not see—the decision to lie about her talents, the drawings she made of my cock. That one gives me pause, however, almost derailing me from my mission.

These aren’t the memories I care about. Honestly, besides her artistic talents, where it comes to capturing my manhood in such lovely detail, I’m well aware of these instances. Pulling away, I lap at her wound, cleaning it as best as I can while in this animalistic state.

Even with me separating myself from her, I find I’m still able to see into her heart and mind. Granted, she seems to be asleep beneath me, and more than likely that’s why I can go through her mind at will. No doubt when she’s conscious, it will be a lot harder.

Gathering her into my arms, I roll us about, putting her on top of me so she can sleep in comfort. My knot still connects us, holding us together far more intimately than anything else. I close my eyes again as I continue my mission, needing to know once and for all what happened that night I was trapped. But before I can get there, different memories come into view, things that eat at her soul and steal her joy.

In a clarity that feels akin to actually being there, I watch as she sits by her father’s side. I can feel the sorrow as it rolls off of her. Even now, as she sleeps on top of me, she squirms, her brows furrowing. How often does she relive these moments? How often are her dreams plagued with such sadness?

It tears at my heart, reigniting the desire to hold her close and keep her safe, even if it’s from her own recollections. Pushing past, I focus in on the conversations they have, the tones muted and soft, as if listening through water. Her father said she would be taken care of, but that’s it. He mentions a will, and yet, to my knowledge, one has never been produced.

Curious. That should have been the first thing brought to light after her father’s death, and yet, Middlehey made no mention of it. My blood runs cold as my own memories burst to the surface, overlaying hers in an odd visual cacophony. Is that what he was looking for in the study?

Teresa snuggles into me, seeking comfort, and without thinking, I purr until she relaxes, once more going slack in my arms, my knot tying us together. This time, her memories have nothing to do with her father. Instead, it’s as if a montage of heartache passes in her mind. I watch, helpless, as everything she holds dear is taken away from her.

I feel the dejection and abject sorrow as she stands there stoically, taking it while dying on the inside. From what I can tell, she has no idea why this is happening. And in fragmented segments, I both see and hear Middlehey lecture Teresa about her father, the late Thomas Baker, and his numerous gambling debts.