Page 76 of A Dance with the Wayward Duke
“Today,” he said, voice huskier now, “you’ll be on top.”
Her brows rose. “Oh? And what military logic led to that decision?”
He grinned. “Be reasonable, woman. I’m trying to protect your most diplomatic parts from becoming exfoliated.”
“And yours?” she asked.
“I would gladly burn in hell,” he said, “if it meant having you like this. A bit of sand is nothing.”
That—that—silenced her.
She crawled over him, water still sliding from her shift, her knees sinking into the warm sand beside his hips. She reached between them, fingers curling around him. He was already hard. She braced her palms on his chest and rose onto her knees.
His hands steadied her thighs. “Look at me.”
She did.
She slid down his length, inch by inch, until her thighs met his. He exhaled, one long, trembling breath.
The waves played a lullaby at their feet. Her shift clung to her skin in transparent folds, and her hair hung wet and wild down her back. She was salt and woman and want, and he was beneath her, open and waiting.
She rocked.
His hands flew to her hips, but he didn’t push. He let her set the rhythm—deep, slow, coaxing.
She moved again, a little faster now.
Tristan groaned and arched slightly, but kept his eyes open, fixed on her, as if he couldn’t bear to miss a moment.
“You feel . . .” he began, but didn’t finish. He only kissed her, hard and reverent.
She kissed him back. And the ocean rocked them together, salt on their lips, sunlight on their skin, and no diplomacy in sight.
Only this.
Only them.
His control began to fray beneath her. She felt it in the flex of his thighs, the rougher pull of his breath.
“Marguerite,” he said against her mouth.
He started to lift her from him, to spend himself outside of her.
She caught his face between her hands. “Stay.”
His eyes went dark. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He splayed his hands on her back, holding her to him. She bent over him, her forehead touching his, and when she moved again, it was a promise made with breath and skin and the sun burning gold around them.
She felt him lose the last of his restraint as her own pleasure rose to meet him. Her body tightened around him, and she moaned his name. Tristan answered with hers.
They came together with the sea at their feet and the sky above them, his arms locked around her, her face buried against his throat, both of them shaking through the same wave of heat and release.
Then sound returned slowly, water dragging over sand, leaves stirring in the pines, his heart hammering beneath her cheek.
Marguerite buried her face in his neck. His hand slid into her wet hair, and he kissed her temple with a tenderness that made the aftershocks inside her turn soft and golden.
