Chapter 19 #2
When he finally drew back, it was only far enough to look at her, stormy eyes dark with intent.
His large, calloused hands, hands that had steadied looms and directed hundreds of workers, lifted to her hair.
Pin by pin, he removed them with affectionate care, setting each one aside on the bedside table as though they were precious.
When the last pin was gone, her hair tumbled loose in a silken cascade around her shoulders and down her back.
He drew his fingers through it slowly, watching the firelight catch the strands, and the gentle tug against her scalp sent a shiver racing straight down her spine.
“You have been very patient,” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing her temple.
Josephine was not feeling patient now. Heat pooled low in her belly, a restless ache she had never known with her late husband.
She reached for the buttons of his coat, her fingers faltering more than she would have liked under the weight of his watchful gaze.
He let her work, observing her with that focused attention that made her feel both exposed and cherished.
One by one, the buttons yielded. His waistcoat followed, tossed carelessly behind him onto a chair.
Then came the stubborn hooks and laces of her evening gown, well-made, modest, and now an infuriating barrier.
Between them, they managed the layers until the firelight kissed her bare shoulders and the upper swells of her breasts above the edge of her chemise.
His shirt hung open, revealing the broad, muscled plane of his chest dusted with dark, curling hair that arrowed down toward his waistband.
He bent his head and put his mouth to her throat.
Not a gentle kiss. Nay, this was slow, intentional pressure, warm and open-mouthed, trailing along the sensitive line of her neck until he paused at the frantic pulse just below her ear.
He lingered there, sucking lightly, and the sensation echoed through her entire body, tightening her nipples into aching peaks and drawing a helpless whimper from her lips.
His hands mapped her waist, the dip of her spine, the flare of her hips, learning every curve with the same meticulous thoroughness she imagined he brought to his ledgers and his looms.
Josephine was no passive participant. Her palms slid beneath his open shirt, gliding over warm, firm skin and the shifting muscles of his back.
When her nails grazed lightly down his spine, he drew in a sharp breath, and the sound sent a thrill of feminine power through her.
He was not as composed as he appeared. Tension coiled in him, and she discovered she had the power to tighten it further.
She pressed closer, exploring the breadth of his muscled shoulders, the narrow taper of his flat stomach, delighting in the way his breath hitched when she traced the line of his ribs.
He drew her down with him onto the bed, the green velvet hangings pooling shadow around them.
Firelight painted his face in shifting gold and amber, stripping away the usual discipline of his expression.
He simply looked at her … wanting her openly, hungrily …
and the raw honesty of it reached past every defense she had ever built.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, while his hands continued their leisurely journey.
They skimmed the curve of her waist, the swell of her hip, then lower, bunching the hem of her chemise until cool air kissed her thighs.
His fingers traced the sensitive skin there, then higher, parting her gently.
When he found her already slick and swollen with need, a low groan escaped him.
“Josephine,” he rasped against her mouth, voice rough with restraint.
She could not form words. His touch was thorough.
Fingers circling her most sensitive bud with studied, patient strokes that built the pleasure in slow, inexorable waves.
He paid attention to every catch of her breath, every involuntary roll of her hips, adjusting until she was gripping his shoulders and gasping his name like a prayer.
When he slid one sturdy finger inside her, then two, curling them just so, she arched off the bed with a broken cry.
“Alistair … please …”
“I hear you,” he said, lips brushing her collarbone.
He did not rush. He stayed exactly where she needed him, mouth and fingers working in perfect concert until the coil of pleasure inside her snapped.
She came apart with a sharp, keening sound, inner walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers as waves of ecstasy crashed through her.
He stayed with her through every shudder, murmuring low words of praise against her skin.
Only when she lay trembling and boneless did he withdraw his hand.
He shed the last of his clothing with dynamic grace, revealing the powerful lines of his body, broad shoulders, corded arms, the thick, heavy length of his cock rising proud and flushed against his abdomen.
Josephine’s gaze dropped to it, a fresh pulse of desire stirring despite her recent release.
He was larger than Jerome had been, but the sight did not frighten her. It thrilled her.
Alistair settled between her thighs, careful of the gentle swell of her belly.
One large hand braced beside her head; the other guided himself to her entrance.
He rubbed the broad head of his cock through her slick folds, coating himself, then pressed forward slowly, inch by thick inch.
Josephine’s breath hitched at the stretch, the delicious fullness.
He paused when he was seated to the hilt, buried deep inside her welcoming heat, forehead resting against hers.
“God, you feel …” His voice was strained, jaw tight with the effort of holding still. “Perfect.”
She wrapped her legs around his hips, drawing him even deeper, and rolled her own hips experimentally. The groan he gave her was raw, unreserved. That was all the encouragement she needed.
They moved together then. Slow at first, a deep, rolling rhythm that let her feel every ridge and vein of him dragging against her sensitive inner walls.
He was thorough here too, angling his thrusts to hit that perfect spot inside her with every stroke.
Sweat gleamed on his skin; his auburn hair clung damply to his forehead.
Josephine’s hands roamed his back, nails digging into muscle as pleasure built again, sharper this time, more intense.
“Alistair … harder,” she gasped, surprising herself with the demand.
He obeyed readily, hips snapping forward with more force, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room alongside their ragged breaths and her soft, broken moans.
He reached between them, thumb finding her swollen pearl and circling in tight, relentless strokes.
The dual sensation was overwhelming. She came again with a cry that echoed off the ancient beams, her body clamping down around his cock in rhythmic pulses that dragged him over the edge with her.
Alistair thrust deep one final time and spilled inside her with a guttural groan, hips jerking as he filled her with hot, pulsing jets of his release. He held himself there, buried to the root, shuddering through the aftershocks until he collapsed half over her, careful not to crush her.
They lay tangled together as the fire burned down to glowing embers.
Josephine’s head rested on his chest, listening to the steady, slowing thud of his heart beneath her palm.
His arm lay heavy and warm across her back, fingers idly stroking the length of her spine.
The room held its quiet warmth and intimacy close around them.
Not mere satisfaction. Something deeper. A partnership of bodies and souls, honest and raw and entirely new.
Josephine did not want to be anywhere else in the world.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, but inside the ducal bedchamber, the new duke and his duchess had found a sanctuary neither had expected … and both had desperately needed.