The Historical Collection 2018: The Duchess Deal / From Duke Till Dawn / His Sinful Touch / His Wicked Charm. Candace Camp
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rough suction and nuzzling under the soft orbs to lick the sensitive flesh beneath. Each sigh and moan that fell from her lips shot straight down his spine and gathered in his cock. His erection pulsed against his falls, desperate for contact.
He pulled away from her breasts. Gripping the armrests of the chair for control, he gave his next contrary command. “Don’t put your hands under your skirt.”
If she was shy or surprised, her expression didn’t reveal it.
She placed one hand on the back of the chair and leaned forward on it, pressing her breasts closer to his face. Then she reached between them and slid her other hand up her thigh, taunting him.
“Shall I touch myself?” she asked coyly.
God yes, he thought.
But he shook his head no.
She gave him a smile as she worked her hand in naughty circles. He couldn’t view her fingers like this, but just the suggestion of her pleasuring herself drove him wild.
He wanted to see.
He had to see.
He released his grip on the armrests and shoved her skirts to her waist, revealing a view of paradise. Her delicate fingers, parting those dark curls and stroking the pink petals hidden within.
His mouth went dry. Holding her skirts high with one hand, he grasped her tempting bottom in the other, tilting her hips to get a better view.
“Don’t push them inside,” he said hoarsely. “You intractable woman, don’t you dare.”
Two of her slender fingers disappeared inside her, buried in her soft heat to the first knuckle.
“No deeper,” he scraped out. “Not another inch.”
She purred with pleasure, disobeying him again, sinking down on her fingers as far as they would go.
He thought he would explode. “Don’t raise those fingers to my lips.”
At that, she hesitated.
“I forbid it,” he said, bringing forth his sternest, most aristocratic voice.
She raised her hand palm-up, offering it to him.
He gripped her wrist and drew her first and second fingers into his mouth, sucking them down to the webs between her fingers and lapping up every bit of her tart-sweet nectar. The rose-red blush on her cheeks became an erotic bloom of crimson across her throat and breasts.
“Ash,” she whispered. Her dark eyes were pleading.
Teasing her this way was sublime, but even he had his limits.
He reached between them, fumbling with the buttons of his trouser falls and freeing his cock. She moved closer, trapping his erection between his pelvis and hers, sliding over his shaft on the dewy sheen of her aroused sex. Grinding against him in tiny circles to heighten her bliss.
He could have wept with the beauty of it.
Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she wriggled until the tip of his cock fit just where it needed to be, sinking down on him with a breathy sigh. He grasped her by the hips, guiding her up and down his length. She removed his hands and pinned them to the armrests. She didn’t need his guidance, apparently. She rode him in a lazy yet relentless rhythm.
“Don’t stop,” he moaned.
She stopped.
He growled with frustration. “Don’t don’t stop.”
She began to move again, accelerating her pace.
“You are incorrigible.”
“And I’m yours. Entirely yours. You won’t be rid of me.”
God. The pleasure was keen, and he was tempted to surrender to it, arching his hips to pump her hard and fast until she came around him and he spent into her. But he forced himself to hold back.
Not yet. Not yet.
He wanted more than pleasure right now. She was giving so much of herself to him, freely and without reserve. In ways he’d never given himself to anyone—not before, not after. The courage within her small frame was profound, her generosity boundless. He felt like a coward in comparison.
Make love to me. Be brave with me.
“Don’t touch me,” he whispered. “Don’t touch me everywhere.”
One of her hands slipped beneath the shredded linen of his shirt, drawing the panels aside to expose his chest. Her fingers skimmed over his skin. And his scars. Her touch pained him in places, and he was dead numb in others. In moments, his blood sang with bliss. No matter what the sensation, each moment was exquisite. He closed his eyes, lost in her caress.
Emma. My love, my love.
“Don’t kiss me,” he choked out.
Without hesitation—as though she’d been waiting and hoping for the invitation—her lips were on his, softer than her touch. Warmer, too. Each brush of her lips was a blessing he didn’t deserve, but he was powerless to turn her away.
She kissed her way up the ruined side of his neck, tracing his misshapen ear with her tongue and running her fingers through his patchy hair. Then she blazed a path down the other side, from his jaw to his shoulder, dragging openmouthed kisses over his skin.
She lavished both sides of him with equal attention and sweet, sweet tenderness, until he felt his two halves knitting together in the center. Somewhere close to his heart.
Her brow pressed to his, and she held him tight.
It was time.
She braced her hands on the back of the chair. He framed her waist in his hands. Pulling her down, straining upward—not content any longer to let her take the lead. He wanted—needed—to battle out of himself, find refuge in her. Reach the place where they could be one.
“Don’t love me.”
The words came unbidden from his throat. Not a thought, but a plea.
“Too late,” she whispered in his ear.
“Don’t tell me so. Don’t say the words.”
“I love you.” She cupped his face in her hands and brushed a kiss to his lips. “I love you so much.”
There was nothing left for him to resist. He held her to him, and as they tumbled over the edge together, no joy could have been more complete.
He was complete.
He held her tightly in his arms, pressing kisses to her hair. “I love you. You will never know how much I love you. There aren’t words.”
She levered herself to a sitting position. Her drowsy eyes came into focus. She stared down at her hands where they lay against his red, twisted scars. All color drained from her face. The expression that overtook her face was no longer one of love or pleasure, but one of faint disgust.
“Emma?”
God, please. Not again. Not you.
Don’t leave me. Not now, not ever.
“I’m sorry,” said, slipping off his lap. “I’m so sorry, I . . . I have to—”
She fled the library in a rush, darting into the connecting room.
As he drew to his feet and pulled up his trousers, he heard it.
The wrenching, unmistakable sounds of his wife being sick.
Emma straightened, pushing the hair from her face. The perspiration on her brow and chest had turned ice-cold.