Sarah MacLean - No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

Shock rocketed through her. His hand. They’d stolen it from him.

“Temple,” she said softly, reaching for it. Loving him more for it.

“No,” he resisted, turning her once more, returning her hands to the bedpost. Kissing the spot behind her ear, the place where neck met jaw. Where shoulder met neck. Her spine.

Distracting her with pleasure and wickedness. “You are trembling.”

And she was, too wrecked by his touch, by his nearness, to stop. To return the conversation to his hand. “I can’t—” she started. “It is too much.”

He growled, low and dark and promising at her ear. “It is not nearly enough.”

He kissed his way down her spine, the tip of his tongue licking and swirling as he marked his path. As he marked her, as cleanly and clearly as if he’d done it with a needle and ink.

And when he reached the place where back met bottom, he worried the soft, untouched skin there until she was gasping her pleasure. Only then, once she’d given herself over to his touch, to his kiss, did he turn her to face him.

She should not have been surprised to find him there, on his knees staring up at her once more, but she was, a thread of panic and desperation coursing through her. A desperate desire to repeat the events of the previous morning in the ring. A desperate desire never to repeat them again.

“Temple,” she whispered, reaching for him, letting him catch her hand in his, letting him press it to his cheek.

“William,” he corrected her.

Her gaze flew to his. “But you—”

“You’re the only one who thinks of me as such. The only one who has ever seen me.”

The truth ached. Reminding her of all she’d done. Of all this night could be. Of all it couldn’t be. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “I never—”

He came to his feet with stunning grace, pulling her to him. “No. You mustn’t regret it. Your seeing me has changed everything. It’s changed my life. It’s changed me.” He kissed her, long and thorough, and added, “Christ, Mara, of course it’s you. It’s always been you. It always will be.”

The words shattered her. “I cannot stand.”

“Then don’t. I have you.”

She fell into his strength, and he laid her back on the bed, spreading her legs wide as he sank between them, draping them over his shoulders, leaving long, lush kisses along the soft skin of her inner thighs, coming closer and closer to delivering on their promise as she writhed on the silk bedcovers and wondered how it was that she had come to be here. Come to deserve him.

She hadn’t .

She hadn’t, and this would be her greatest sin—taking this night. Stealing it from someone who might deserve it. Who might be more for him. Who might be better for him.

Taking it, with no regret.

Taking it for the memory.

For her lifetime.

For his.

And then his mouth was on the heat of her, and her fingers were in his hair, and he was giving her everything she desired, and she couldn’t stop herself from moving against him, from lifting to meet him, from begging him for—

He stopped, lifting his head. “What is it, love?”

The word was enough to send rivers of pleasure through her, if not for the slow slide of his fingers, the way they dipped and teased, the way they stroked, but not deep enough to give her everything she wanted. She raised her hips to him.

“My, that’s a pretty sight,” he said, and she couldn’t stop herself from watching him, his eyes on her, his tongue sliding over his beautiful bottom lip, as though he couldn’t wait to taste her again. “All pink and perfect.” His gaze found hers. “Tell me, when I did this in the ring . . . did you see it? How hot you get? How pink? How wet?”

She closed her eyes at the wicked words. Nodded.

“And you liked it.”

She nodded.

“One day, when I have more patience, we’ll try it again, with a smaller mirror. Closer. More private. I’ll let you tell me what to do. I’ll let you watch yourself come.”

The words sent a thrill through her, even as she resisted the idea of giving herself over to something so unexpected. So unclear. So strange and perfect.

He saw it—the hesitation—and raised one brow in a wicked challenge before he blew a long stream of cool air over her hot, desperate center. “You don’t think you’d like that?”

She exhaled on a shaking sigh. “I—”

“You are so perfect—” He flicked his tongue over the heat of her, sending a shock of sensation through her, her body somehow not her own when he was involved. “So wet.” She gasped as he licked and sucked, working her with unbearable pleasure, sending her spiraling tighter and tighter and higher and higher until his fingers joined his tongue in symphony, exploring and moving in glorious circles, teasing and touching. “I want you like this, open to me, aching for me, forever.”

To punctuate that word forever , and all its temptation, he slid one finger deep, and she could not keep her moan from escaping.

“Now that ,” he said, his voice as dark as his gaze, “might be the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.” That wicked digit retreated, and she bit her lip, face flamed with embarrassment even as she wanted to clasp him to her and demand he repeat the experience. She did not have to. “Let’s see if we can make it happen again.”

A second finger joined the first on a long, irresistible slide.

Dear God, he was ruining her.

He played her like a virtuoso, as though she were an instrument he had studied for a lifetime. She moaned again, louder and longer, and he rewarded the sound with his mouth, working her in that dark, secret place that was suddenly the center of her. She would never think of pleasure in the same way again.

It was forever entwined with him.

She came apart in his arms once more, lost to his kiss and his touch and the scent and sound of him. Lost to the knowledge that this man was everything she’d ever desired and dreamed and imagined. Lost to pleasure. Lost to him.

And somehow found.

She returned to earth in his arms, all strong, corded sinew, holding her to his chest, where her head rested on his good shoulder and she was easily lost in the heat and scent of him. His fingers stroked through her hair, spreading it long across his massive bed, and he pressed a kiss to her temple, whispering against her skin, worshipping it, “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

She shivered at the words and curled into his warm body, her hand spreading across the white of his shirt. She spoke to the wide expanse of linen there. “You scare me.”

His touch stilled. “How?”

Her fingers worried at his shirt. “I never thought I would be so drawn to you. So connected. I never thought you would own me so well. That you would have such”—she hesitated over the word—“control over me.”

He captured her hand in his, sliding out from beneath her to face her. To have a better look at her.

She sat up, trying to explain. “Even now . . . with you inches away . . . I can’t help but mourn the loss of you.”

He reached for her at the confession, his hand stopping short of touching her, as though he did not know how to proceed. “Mara,” he said softly, as though he might scare her away. “I don’t want you to ever think that I take pleasure from—”

Her fingers moved to his lips, stopping the flow of words. “No,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “You don’t understand. I ache for you when you’re not with me.” His eyes went black with desire, and her breath caught at the vision of him. At his promise. “I am in your thrall,” she said. “Of your touch and your kiss and your beautiful eyes. Quite desperately.”