Page 52 of The Duchess He Couldn’t Resist

A sigh that almost sounded needy escaped her lips. He replied by sitting up, bringing his face closer to hers.

“Are you still angry at me?”

His breath fanned her cheeks, turning the small fire inside her into a blaze. Blood rushed to her cheeks, and she couldn’t control her heartbeat.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he demanded.

She obeyed instantly. There was something inside of her that snapped each time he ordered her. It was not fear or discipline. It was a deep need to make him happy while she thrived on his approval.

“Good girl,” he purred. “Tell me, are you still angry at me?”

For the life of her, she couldn’t even remember why she was angry in the first place. There was no way for her to form words, so she just shook her head.

“Good. That’s good,” he whispered, leaning forward.

She found herself tilting her head just right, just the way she knew would make the kiss deeper. And deeper it was. Hungry and desperate, his tongue demanded instant access to her, tasting her, exploring her mouth, teasing her tongue again and again.

His fingers slid down and found the tie of her robe. He stopped and pulled back a little, looking at her, asking for permission. Her response was to untie the rope herself and push it off her shoulders, feeling it pulled behind her.

“Good job, sweetheart,” he said, and his thumb brushed her collarbone.

With one sudden move, he pulled her down onto her back on the mattress. Despite his injured body, he propped himself on one elbow beside her.

“You did such a good job taking care of me,” he murmured. “Now, it’s my turn.”

He traced his fingers down the thin fabric of her nightgown, and Marigold exhaled sharply just from this touch.

“I do not particularly like this nightgown, sweetheart,” he said.

Before Marigold had time to decipher the meaning of his words, he used both hands to tear the nightgown apart from her body, throwing it like a rag on the floor. And she didn’t even care.

“Look at you on my bed.”

His fingers traced skin from her neck down between her breasts to her stomach then her thighs, up again, soft and feathered.

“Do you like that, sweetheart?”

Marigold was completely given to the sensation, allowing herself to feel every little touch. But it stopped.

“I asked you a question, Marigold.” His voice was darker. “And when I ask you a question, you will answer.”

Marigold looked up at him, stunned. His tone was not harsh, and she felt exactly what she needed to do to make him happy.

“I like your touch.”

“There you go. Tell me what you like.”

He rewarded her with one soft caress over her breast, his thumb rolling over her nipple.

Marigold moaned softly, and she somehow found it in her to look up into his eyes. He was fixated on where he was touching her, but when he felt her look on him, he concentrated on her.

“Do you want me to touch you more, sweetheart?”

Marigold nodded frantically. He chuckled, satisfied, and leaned closer to her.

“Use your words, Marigold. Tell me what you need,” he demanded. “And if you’re a good girl, I might just give it to you.”

“Please,” she breathed, “touch me more.”