Chapter 23 #2
Her fingers tightened instinctively around his. The sound of the fire seemed louder now, the air thicker, her heartbeat wild and unsteady.
“Let me show you how deep my well of compassion sinks,” she whispered.
He rose slowly, never once releasing her hand or breaking eye contact. The chair scraped softly against the carpet as he stood over her, the fire painting his silhouette in gold and shadow.
“You have tended to everyone else’s needs for so long,” he said, his voice roughened by something she could not name. “Now I will tend to yours.”
He reached for her chin, tilting it upward until her eyes met his. The intensity in his gaze stole what remained of her composure. For a moment, he said nothing, only studied her, and the weight of his gaze sent her pulse racing, heat blooming through her in dizzying waves.
“Duncan,” she managed.
“What may I do for you?” His thumb brushed a lock of hair away from her face. “Ask anything of me. I will give you everything.”
She leaned far forward and brushed her lips gently against the corner of his mouth.
And then he kissed her.
It was not the careful restraint she had known before.
This kiss was deep, claiming, the kind that left no space for air, no thought but his mouth and the warmth of his body leaning into hers.
She rose to meet it without realizing she’d moved, her fingers catching at his shirt, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath her touch.
When he drew back, she chased his taste without shame. His breath grazed her cheek.
“You forget,” he murmured, his tone softer now, “I am yours as much as you are mine.”
Her reply was lost when he bent again, slower this time, his lips tracing the delicate curve of her throat. Each kiss lingered, warm and unhurried, his breath catching against her skin as though he meant to memorize her taste.
The slide of his mouth left a trail of heat that made her tremble, every exhale from him answered by a sigh from her.
He guided her back in the chair until she reclined against its curve, his hands steady at her waist. Only sensation remained. The scent of him, the warmth of his breath at her collarbone, the quiet command in every movement.
He kissed her again, softer, then drew back just far enough to look at her properly. His eyes darkened, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Tell me,” he said, his tone low, “how I am please you.”
“I will.” The words trembled out of her before she could think.
He laughed lightly.
“Very well…” His hands framed her face, rough and careful all at once, his thumbs stroking her temples. “What would you have me do next?”
“I do not know,” Catherine admitted. “I have no experience to draw upon and…”
“Shall I show you what I want to do next?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she gulped nervously. “Please.”
He stifled a dry laugh before moving with quiet certainty. The whisper of fabric slid over her skin as he removed her nightdress in one quick motion. The air that met her was warm and heavy, and yet it felt shockingly cool against her newly bared skin.
She shivered from the awareness of him, of his nearness, of the way his gaze traced her as if he were memorizing her through sight alone.
For one unsteady heartbeat, she almost reached to cover herself. His hand caught her wrist first—firm, reassuring, utterly sure of its right to be there.
No hiding, that touch seemed to tell her, and something inside her obeyed.
He steadied her even as it made her pulse quicken, the balance between fear and trust dissolving into a single, breathless need. She had never felt so exposed, nor so strangely safe.
He bent down, kneeling between her legs.
His breath brushed the inside of her thighs, a slow, deliberate claiming that made her tremble before his lips even touched.
Then his mouth touched her skin, and each kiss he laid upon her was patient, a promise in motion; each pause between them a command for her to yield.
The warmth of his tongue lingered where it touched, spreading through her like wine, loosening every thought, until the tremor in her limbs had nothing to do with the chill of the room.
She had never known that tenderness could feel so consuming.
His lips trailed upward until his tongue finally found the folds of the skin between her legs.
She gasped, moaning his name. “Duncan.”
He didn’t stop. His rhythm was measured and mercilessly slow, the kind of tenderness that demanded surrender. Pleasure built by degrees, steady and insistent, until the edges of thought began to blur with each stroke of his tongue.
She remembered feeling this same sense of elation when they were in the garden together, but then she had also been worried that someone might happen upon them and ruin their tryst. Now, in the privacy of the Duke’s bedchambers, she was free to experience this moment fully and feel all that he offered her.
She could no longer tell whether she was drawing breath or merely moving in time with him, every inhale matching the rise and fall of his.
When release came, it was quiet and devastating all at once. Not a single cry, but a series of soft, broken breaths. The world seemed to tilt and steady beneath her as his hands anchored her, holding her through the trembling, as though he alone knew how to keep her from falling apart.
“Breathe,” he said softly, when she forgot. “Just breathe, Catherine. Look at me.”
Her eyes fluttered open. He had stealthily moved to a standing position so that his face hovered just above hers. The candlelight broke against the hard planes of his cheek and softened them.
“Do you…want more?” he asked, his pupils dilated, dark, hungry.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Duncan’s mouth curved faintly, as though that small act undid him more completely than any vow could.
He brushed a damp strand of hair from her temple, his thumb lingering at her pulse. “Good.”
When he finally moved, it wasn’t with command but with reverence. His hand traveled down the curve of her arm, tracing the faint line of veins beneath her skin as though committing them to memory.
Catherine shivered. She could feel her heart racing beneath his palm, an erratic flutter she couldn’t disguise.
“Are you frightened?” he asked quietly.
She wanted to deny it, to summon the proud retort he so often drew from her, but the truth hovered too close to her lips. “Not anymore.”
He gave a small nod, a quiet exhale that sounded almost like relief, then bent to kiss the hollow of her throat.
The touch stole her breath all over again—soft, searing, unhurried.
Each brush of his mouth swept away the last trace of fear, replacing it with something far more dangerous: trust, awe, the dizzying certainty that she wanted whatever he offered.
When his arms closed around her, he lifted her as though she weighed nothing at all, carrying her to the bed carefully.
He kissed her again, slower this time, his lips tasting of salt and devotion.
When he drew back, his forehead rested against hers. “Tell me to stop if you don’t want any more.”
She shook her head.
“No. Don’t.” Her voice broke; she caught it again. “Please… don’t stop.”
His arms came around her, gathering her to him as though she was something precious he could no longer risk letting go. The movement made her gasp; every nerve seemed to ignite where their bodies met.
She clung to him, fingers sliding into his hair, holding him there when her body might have faltered. The world blurred, the room tilting around them; all she knew was the heat of him, the sound of his voice low against her ear, the way he whispered her name as though it was a prayer.
“Relax for me, darling,” he reminded again, softer this time.
Then, he stripped with quiet urgency, the soft sound of fabric falling away marking each breath between them.
In moments, his shirt and trousers were gone, leaving nothing but the warmth of his skin and the weight of his electric blue gaze, burning with something fierce and unspoken.
He seemed carved from restraint itself, power held tightly in check, the warmth of his skin a striking contrast to the cool command that usually cloaked him.
His chest and abdomen were so finely drawn that she might have taken him for a statue wrought in marble—had it not been for the unmistakable heat that emanated from him, alive and near.
The space between them felt suddenly, perilously small.
When at last he entered her, the world seemed to narrow to that single, breathless instant.
The sensation was unlike anything she had ever known, an ache and a wonder all at once, so intense it stole thought and language alike, leaving only the feeling of him and the unsteady rhythm of her own heart answering his.
“Are you all right?” he asked, though she could hear the restraint in his voice.
She nodded, “Yes, quite. Please… continue.”
He exhaled, as though in relief. “With pleasure, dear wife.”
His movements began slowly, each one drawing a tremor from her until breath itself became an effort. Then his rhythm deepened, quickened, gathering a force that stole her composure entirely.
All she could do was gasp his name as the intensity built, her body answering his with helpless urgency.
The sensation of him, the rhythm they created together, the exquisite shock of such closeness…
it was overwhelming and yet never enough.
Her thoughts unraveled, slipping beyond words, until there was nothing left but feeling: the heat of him and the weight of his body.
“Breathe,” he murmured, the words low, steady. “Just breathe, darling.”
She obeyed without thought, drawn by the quiet certainty in his voice. His hand found hers, guiding her, anchoring her when the storm inside threatened to pull her under.
“That’s it,” he whispered, each word an unspoken promise. “With me.”
The world narrowed to the sound of his voice, the heat where their bodies joined, the rhythm that bound them together.
And then she broke—shattering into a thousand bright, soundless pieces—as his name tore from her lips, half a cry, half a prayer. The world vanished in that instant; there was only him, the fierce rush of his breath, the pulse that matched her own.
His release followed a heartbeat later, and she felt the warmth of it, the final merging of breath and body that left her trembling and undone.
He stayed there for a moment, their hearts still racing in unison, before easing beside her. His chest rose and fell as raggedly as hers, the quiet between them broken only by the slowing cadence of their breaths.
“Come here,” he murmured against her ear, his voice impossibly gentle.
He drew her close, his arms encircling her with a steadiness that made her eyes sting.
They lay together in silence after that, listening to the wind moving outside the shutters. His hand drifted through her hair until her eyes grew heavy.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered to her.
“So are you, dear husband,” she mumbled back, and he chuckled.
Heavens, she was so tired, but she could hear him laugh forever.
She tried to fight the pull of sleep, unwilling to lose even a heartbeat of this closeness, but resistance was futile.
Snuggled safely against her Duke’s side, Catherine’s quivering stopped, all her fears subsided, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.