Page 29 of All Duke and Bothered

And then his fingers were diving into the folds of her sex, and she jerked and gasped.

“Duke—” she tried, alarmed, bothered, wanting him there.

“Shh,” he said, his hooded eyes dark and burning with desire. “This will be good. You will enjoy it. Come here.”

He covered her mouth with his again and returned to the kiss, the kiss that left her head empty and her body full. Full of sensations, of pleasure, of need.

His fingers moved in her folds, exploring, teasing. And then he found a place that felt like the epitome of all that was sweet and good in her body, the center of everything.

She gave out the most decadent moan, not caring if a footman would pass by, or the Countess of Whitemouth, or even Mr. Turner himself. All that mattered was this throbbing that needed to be satisfied, something beautiful and wonderful that her body required—and that he could give her.

He kept rubbing and rubbing, and the sweet agony was increasing, building, bringing her higher and higher, somewhere close to the sky. She was getting broader and heavier, and her muscles as pliable as honey.

And when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, he gently pinched her in that wonderful place and tugged a little.

And something came over her…like the moon pushing away the darkness of the night clouds. Pleasure greater than that of seeing all the paintings in her whole life combined came crashing over her.

He closed his palm over her mouth as she whimpered, moving in waves, clutching at his shoulders as his other strong arm held her tight to his chest and wouldn’t let her fall.

Then the ocean of pleasure was gone, and she was like a heavy sack of muscles and molten bones, saggy in his arms. She breathed against his hard chest, inhaling the scent of his clean clothes and his masculine cologne, and his body. There was something large and hard pressed against her belly.

“What was that?” she asked him as she looked up at him, meeting his dark gaze.

“A demonstration of the pleasure that I can give you when you’re in my bed,” he said, his voice like brandy. “In three days, you will become my wife in every sense.”

“What?” She frowned, the closeness and intimacy of the moment gone. She straightened and stepped back to the wall.

“Do you remember our agreement? An heir and a spare. Then you can live your life however you want, without me.”

Anger burst through her at his cold treatment. How could he be so tender and caring one moment and the next throw her away like a used carpet? And how could she have responded to his touch so?

“Life without you?” she scoffed and pushed the curtain away. “I cannot wait, Duke.”

13

It was exactly one week since Penelope and Preston had gotten married.

Penelope’s hand shook, and the line of the bark of a tree that she drew in her sketchbook became wavy and uneven. The summer garden she’d been sketching from her imagination looked stormier and more gothic than she would have liked.

Her husband, who sat on the sofa opposite her reading a paper, expected to bed her today.

After the world-shattering experience he’d given her behind the curtain of Lady Leroy’s soirée three nights ago, he had gone cold as stone again, confusing her. How could he be ice-cold one moment and then ignite her with one touch the next?

And that release of pleasure he’d given her at the ball… She’d never known something like that was even possible. Clearly, even with his harsh and unforgiving ways, he knew what he was doing.

She thought about packing her belongings and escaping. Despite the way Preston had made her feel, and her delicious dreams about him, the thought of any more physical closeness with him made her very nervous. She had already given him her freedom.

Now he wanted her body.

“Lord Beckett to see Your Grace,” said Porter as he came into the sitting room.

Penelope’s head shot up, her pencil frozen over her sketchbook.

The duke dropped the paper onto his knees.

“Papa is here?” asked Penelope.

“He is, my lady,” said Porter, a fleeting expression of concern passing over his face.