Page 50 of The Duke’s Suspicion

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Only a little.” Suddenly she wanted to cover herself with her hands, to hide from his knowing gaze. “I think somehow it helps me focus. Most of the time, I don’t even know I’m doing it.”

The seriousness of his expression seemed to grant the act far more weight than it warranted, in her opinion. Biting her lip was just another bad habit she’d been unable to break.

“Am I interfering with your concentration?”

A nervous laugh caught in her chest. “Oh, yes.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see what can be done about that.”

How he lifted her onto the bed so effortlessly, and without losing his balance, she could not afterward explain. In the moment, it was the most natural movement in the world, the steps of a dance through which for once she did not stumble, and when it was over, she was lying on her back in the middle of the ducal bed. With the duke looming over her.

When he lowered his mouth to hers, she understood at last what he’d meant when he’d called their earlier kisses chaste. What a difference it made when their lips weren’t all that touched. The hair on his chest tickled her breasts, and his member was hot where it rested against her hip. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, but somehow, he’d pinned her hands at either side of her head, their fingers tangled, and that was good too, so good that she caught herself wishing he would tighten his grip.

How could possession be a kind of freedom? She only knew that she wanted his weight and his heat, and when he drove his tongue into her mouth, she yearned to take him deeper still. As if he could read her mind, he stretched her arms above her head until he could take both of her hands in one of his. His free hand settled over her throat, stroking along her jaw, coaxing her to open to him fully. She sucked greedily on his tongue, and his answering grunt was accompanied by a sharp thrust of his hips. Reprimand? Or reward? Either way, she did it again.

His hand slid from her throat to her breast, and he traced its curve and cupped its weight before rubbing the flat of his palm over the sensitive peak. That gentle abrasion was the sweetest torture, and her hips rose from the bed, seemingly of their own volition, seeking something to ease the growing ache. He shifted then, lowering his hand to her waist. The kiss grew shallow. “Easy, love,” he murmured against her lips. “Your eagerness made me forget myself. But this is new to you. Let’s take this slow, shall we?”

“I don’t want to go slow.” Patience had never been her strong suit.

She felt his mouth curve into a smile as he kissed his way across her cheek to whisper in her ear. “Whatever gave you the idea that you’re in charge?”

While he nibbled at her earlobe and traced the whorl of her ear with the tip of his tongue, she took stock of her situation. Naked but for her stockings. Pinned by Tristan’s hands and his weight. Entirely at his mercy. A frisson traveled along her spine—not fear. She wanted this, that much she knew, even if she wasn’t entirely sure what this was, and even if she didn’t quite understand why.

He nipped the delicate skin at the base of her throat, and the momentary sting was like an electric charge, snapping her attention back to him. Not unlike the way she bit her lip when something demanded concentration—that prick of sensation drove back the distractions and, for a moment, everything was clear. He’d watched her do it. He knew. He understood.

She thought of her journal, lying abandoned on the floor. That awful list of her mistakes, her feeble attempts to correct them. What else did he understand?

Promise me you didn’t come here tonight to punish yourself further…

But there was a kind of punishment in the way true pleasure fluttered just out of reach. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the scent of his skin, the temptation of his mouth, and the frantic scrub of her pulse. Oh, she was tired, tired of trying to maintain control. Let him have it. Just for tonight.

He soothed the tiny bite with his tongue, then brought his lips back to hers, and his kiss was gentler now, and sure, as if she had communicated her resolve to him. The hand that pinned her wrists relaxed, and a whimper of protest rose in her throat. “No. Don’t let me go.” She needed him to hold her, needed to feel his strength, his power.

“Shhh,” he soothed. “I won’t.”

He shifted, reaching for something, and in another moment she saw the cord of her corset in his hand. “I could tie them. But only if you wish…”

It was nothing she had ever imagined. And yet…didn’t gardeners often tie a delicate vine to a trellis, to give it the support, the security it needed to thrive?

Her hair slipped over the smooth linens as she nodded. Carefully, he wound the cool silk around her wrists. When she tugged against it, it did not relent.

Now both of his hands were free to roam. They sought and found her breasts, traced the pebbled edge of her areola. He dragged his mouth down her throat, over her collarbone, then his lips closed around one nipple as he teased the sensitive peak with his tongue. Her spine arched, lifting her chest to him, as if she imagined he could be coaxed into giving her more.

The touch of his tongue became whisper light, the merest flicker of wet heat. At the same time, he ran his palm more roughly over her other nipple before taking it between his first finger and thumb and squeezing lightly. The pressure shot a charge from her breast to the secret place between her thighs, and tears stung in her eyes.

“Too much?” The words whispered across her damp skin, a cool breeze that stoked the fire higher.

“Yes.” More groan than speech. “Please, do it again.”

He didn’t, though. Not right away. Instead, he brought his lips to the place he’d pinched and began to suck in earnest. One hand ministered to the needy breast his mouth had abandoned, rolling and plucking the taut peak. The other hand slid lower, over her ribs and the sharper bones of her pelvis, pausing to play in her private curls before dipping lower still.

She was already wet and swollen with wanting; the way his fingertips slicked through her folds would have told her as much, if she had not already known. Was there nowhere she wasn’t sensitive, no touch he couldn’t teach her to crave? His fingers were gentle, teasing, but every bit as focused as the pull of his mouth on her breast. And they were linked, somehow, so that every tug at her nipple sent a ripple of delight into those hidden recesses of her body and back again, until she didn’t know where one sensation ended and the other began.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t not move, lifted her hips to his hand merely for the pleasure of having him pin her more securely beneath the weight of his arm. This was madness, utter madness, when she’d so hoped for peace, but she trusted he could give it to her, if only…if only he’d…

“Come,” he ordered, his hot breath striking her breast as he pinched her other nipple firmly between forefinger and thumb.