Page 49 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

And as she writhed, desperate for something she didn’t understand, he finally touched her where she needed him the most.

“You’re so wet,” he said, almost wonderingly, drawing a finger through her folds.

Jessamine caught her breath, trying to roll her hips closer to him. The shock of pleasure from his touch almost shut down her brain. It was too much, but already she craved more.

He pressed another kiss to her hipbone as he found a sensitive pearl with his fingers and drew small circles around it. Jessamine gasped, one hand pressing against her mouth as she begged him silently to never stop, to keep going, to keep going, to keep going.

With a murmur of praise, he withdrew his hand and kissed down her thigh. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he said, although she was so dazed with this barrage of new sensations that she could hardly parse his words.

Kiss her? But he had been kissing her this entire time.

“Wha—” she started, but before she could finish the question, his lips pressed where his fingers had been so recently, and he gave her a soft, chaste, closed-mouth kiss.

Jessamine tipped her head up so she could look at him and the expression of very male smugness on his face as he peered up at her.

He was kissing her there.

And as she watched, he kissed her again, this time more thoroughly. His mouth opened, and she watched the movement of his jaw as his tongue came to lick her.

Too much.

Everything was too much, like the colors inside her body were too bright, and she wasn’t quite sure how she would contain all this within her body. Tension coiled tight in her lower belly, and despite her shock, she found herself digging her fingers in his hair once again, gripping tightly, staring down at the dark head and the concentration in what little of his expression she could see.

Her inclination toward modesty gave out, and she gasped, crying out as his tongue stroked her toward a conclusion that felt both a mystery and inevitable. She drew closer and closer to it, approaching it as one might approach the very edge of a cliff, the wind in their face.

“That’s right,” Andrew murmured, the vibration of his voice doing terrible, wonderful things to her. “Just let go. Do it for me.”

“I don’t know—” She writhed under him. “What’s happening to me?”

“It’s your peak,” he told her. “Let go. This is meant to happen.”

His finger joined his tongue, a little lower, circling her entrance, and that small pressure was enough for her to shatter. She felt as though the pleasure ripped from her in one violent wave, crashing over her and dragging her under the surface.

All her thoughts splintered. The only thing left in her mind was how intense this pleasure was. Truly a peak—she felt as though she were falling.

And Andrew… he caught her.

He whispered praises against her skin and held her as her body jerked uncontrollably. If it weren’t for him, she might have been self-conscious, but he made her feel beautiful instead.

When the last dregs of that pleasure left her system, he tenderly tucked her skirts back down her legs and positioned himself beside her.

“There,” he told her, kissing her forehead.

The gesture made her feel strangely warm and fluttery inside. All the emotions of the day, everything she had felt about her mother and Percy and then Andrew, now felt distant. As though her peak, everything he had done to her body, had purged it from her.

“That’s right,” he murmured, stroking her hair back from her face. “Go to sleep. The hour is late. Sleep, Jessamine.”

She could not have resisted his command even if she had wanted to. With the reassuring presence of Andrew by her side, she drifted into oblivion.

When she woke again, she was in the cold sheets of her own bed. Andrew was nowhere to be seen.

She wore only her chemise, her other clothes neatly folded over the back of a chair. He must have removed them from her, keeping only her chemise in place as a nightgown.

He had brought her back into her own bed.

She clamped her legs tightly together as she recalled precisely what Andrew had done to her. With his mouth. He had not seemed even remotely self-conscious about the act. Perhaps it was usual between a husband and wife; she certainly could not make the argument one way or the other.

Yet here she was. After the event. He had urged her to sleep, had kept watch over her while she drifted into unconsciousness, and then he had returned her to her proper place.