Sarah MacLean - No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

He shook his head. “I run a casino. I know better than anyone that the roll is final once the ivories leave one’s hand.”

“I didn’t know what happened to you for months. I went to Yorkshire, and the news there was spotty at best. I didn’t even know the Killer Duke was you until . . .”

He nodded. “It was too late.”

“Don’t you see? It wasn’t too late. It was never too late. But I was terrified that if I returned . . .” She paused. Collected herself. “My father would have been furious. And I was still betrothed to yours. And I was afraid.”

“You were young.”

She met his understanding gaze. “I did not come back when they died, either.” It had occurred to her. She’d wanted to. She’d known that it was the right thing to do. But. “I was afraid then, too.”

“You are the least fearful person I’ve ever known,” he said.

She resisted the label. “You’re wrong. My whole life, I’ve been terrified of being controlled. Of losing myself to another. My father. Yours. Kit. You.”

His gaze caught hers. “I don’t want to control you.”

“I don’t know why,” she said.

“Because I know what it is to be controlled. And I do not wish it on you.”

“Stop,” she said softly. “Stop being so kind.”

“You would prefer harshness? Haven’t I given you enough of that?” He shifted beneath her, clasping her face in one hand. “Why did you do it, Mara? Why tonight?”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He was asking why she’d unmasked in front of all of London. Why she’d returned, when he’d made it clear that she needn’t.

“Because I was afraid of who I would become if I didn’t.”

He nodded. “Why else?”

“Because I was afraid that if I stayed hidden, it would only be a matter of time before someone found me.”

“Why else?” he asked again.

“Because I am tired of living in the shadows. Ruined or not, tonight, I live in the light.”

He kissed her then, taking her lips in a long, lingering caress, his hands sliding down her sides, pulling her closer, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

When he stopped the kiss, he pressed his forehead to hers and said, almost too softly to hear, “Why else?”

She closed her eyes, loving the feel of him so close to her, wishing she could live there, in his arms, forever. “Because you didn’t deserve it.”

He shook his head. “But that’s not why.”

She took a deep breath. “Because I did not wish to lose you.”

He nodded. “And what else?”

He knew. He saw the truth, yawning beneath them, a great chasm. All he asked was for her to say it aloud. To leap.

And on this, their last night together—their only night together, she leapt, her gaze on his, her body entwined with his.

“Because, somehow, in all of this . . .”

She resisted the truth, barely, knowing that if they were said, they would change everything. Would make everything more difficult. “ . . . you—your happiness—your wishes—they mean everything.”

But what she said in her mind was: I love you. I love you. I love you.

And perhaps he heard it, for he stood, and in one fluid motion, lifted her in his arms and took her to his bed.

She’d never felt so valued as she did at his bedside, draped in silk, still warm from his touch and the promise of what was to come. His fingers trailed over her cheek and jaw, down the column of her throat, and over her racing pulse.

He traced the line of her collarbone and then the curve of her breast, lingering when she drew in a heavy, ragged breath. His black eyes met hers. “Do you wish me to stop?”

“No,” she said instantly. Wishing he would start again. Wishing he would keep going. Forever.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said.

She stilled at the words, at the way the promise came from deep inside him. She wondered how many times he’d had to make that same promise to other women. To calm them as they stood an arm’s length—closer—to the Killer Duke.

“I know,” she said, capturing his bad hand in one of hers, pressing his fingers against her skin, holding his touch to her. She reached her other hand up, threading her fingers through his hair, pulling his lips down to her. “You’ll never hurt me,” she whispered against his lips.

He groaned his desire, snaking his free arm around her waist and pulling her tight to him. He whispered her name and took her mouth in a powerful kiss, more devastating than any they’d shared before. Where the previous ones had been rivers of temptation, tickling at the seams of her, this was a wide sea filled with wicked promise. It was wanton.

It was wonderful.

His hand was everywhere—lush, stroking sin—and hers followed suit, sliding up the soft wool of his coat and into his hair, holding him close, matching his kiss with her own, not stopping until he groaned his pleasure and pulled away from her, leaving her gasping for air and desperate for more of him.

“No,” he whispered, turning her away from him, to face the massive bed, at once ominous and irresistible. His hands came to the fastenings of the gown, working the buttons and ties.

“Faster,” she sighed as he fumbled at the fabric. “Hurry.”

The buttons were stubborn beneath his touch. Or perhaps it was his choice to move with such slowness. “I will not allow you to tempt me to speed,” he whispered in her ear as he worked, the breath of the words sending shivers of anticipation through her. “I want the whole night.” He pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder, his tongue coming out to stroke along the skin there as the fabric of her bodice came loose and she caught it to her chest.

He lifted one of her hands, kissing her palm, then worrying the pad of her index finger with his teeth. Her dress fell to the floor, his gaze falling to her fine-spun chemise and beautifully boned corset, desire flaring hot and wonderful. “I want longer.”

She sighed at the words. Of course, she knew they couldn’t have longer. But they could have tonight, and he was enough to make her forget everything else.

Tomorrow, they would return to their lives—he, to the one he’d too long missed, and she to the one she’d too long deserved.

He guided her hands to the bedpost, leaving her there as he worked at the ties of her corset, his fingers pulling at silken strings, loosening the piece until it dropped to her feet, and his strong touch sent her silk chemise after it.

She was naked in the clocked stockings he’d bought her, the ones she’d imagined him removing when she’d donned them—even as she’d desperately tried to ignore the thought.

And his hands, those strong, wonderful hands that she’d come to love for their gentleness as much as their force, slid over her bare skin as his lips settled on the curve of her shoulder.

Not hands. Hand.

Always one hand. Always the good hand.

She turned to him. “Wait.”

He waited. Because she told him to. And she loved him all the more for it. She lifted his wounded hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, letting her tongue slide out to dip into the valleys between them. He watched, his eyes dark with passion, but something was missing. Something she might not have seen if she had not been looking.

He couldn’t feel her.

She turned the hand over, pressing a kiss to his palm. Whispering there, “What have we done to you?”

He snatched his hand away, but she would not let him escape.

Instead, she lifted his other hand and repeated her ministrations until his breath caught in his throat and he shifted with desire and want and a dozen kinds of lust.