Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
In Which She Lies Sore and Finally Admires the Duke’s Backside in Its Full, Post-Coital Majesty
The marble beneath her was still warm.
Or perhaps she was. At this point, it was rather difficult to distinguish between architectural heat and post-ravishment glow.
Her limbs had staged a full mutiny. Her thighs trembled like debutantes after too much champagne.
Her nipples were positively outraged—tender from their enthusiastic duet with ancient Roman stone.
And deep inside, her traitorous inner muscles were still fluttering, clenching pitifully around nothing, as if attempting to conjure him back through sheer desperation and pelvic telepathy.
It was not ladylike.
It was not dignified.
It was, frankly, a problem worthy of sonnets.
The Duke lay draped over her like a very heavy, very muscular blanket. His breath was hot at her neck. His arm rested across her belly, fingers splayed like he meant to hold her together in case she unraveled again.
He hadn’t moved.
Neither had she.
The remaining lanterns flickered with golden laziness, casting a honeyed glow over the aftermath of their mutual undoing.
And Wanton Wallflower smiled. She felt rubbed raw. Emotionally compromised. Physically demolished. And, for the first time in days… Utterly, exquisitely relaxed.
“I can’t feel my legs,” she murmured, somewhere between delight and mild concern.
The Duke made a low sound in his chest. It might have been satisfaction. It might have been smugness. It was definitely not sympathy.
“Good,” he rumbled. “Then you’ll stop getting into danger.”
“Unlikely,” she said. “Though I might have to limp to my next adventure.”
He made another sound. It might have been a curse.
Eventually, he shifted and rolled onto his stomach.
And that’s when she saw it.
The Glutes.
Unbound. Uncloaked. Unclenched.
She sucked in a breath.
“Oh.”
He frowned. “What?”
She propped herself up on one elbow, sore but determined.
“Your backside,” she said reverently. “In its natural habitat.”
He blinked at her.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, voice hushed like she’d just seen a celestial event.
“Firm, yet thoughtful,” she went on. “Symmetrical, yet rebellious. I feel compelled to curtsy.”
“Wanton, do you need another correction?”
“I mean, I knew it was exceptional,” she said, eyes raking down. “But like this? Post-warcry? It’s not just a backside anymore. It’s a masterpiece.”
He groaned and pulled the towel up from the floor to cover himself.
She yanked it back down.
“No,” she said firmly. “I solved the case. I deserve this.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, but he was smiling.
“I've never seen anything like it,” she whispered, awestruck. “May I… touch? For scientific purposes,” she said solemnly.
He stared at her.
Then, he pressed his face to his forearms, broad back flexing—and muttered, “You have thirty seconds.”
Wanton grinned like a woman about to be knighted.
She cupped one cheek, fingers spreading over the perfect curve. The heat of him was delicious. Her palm sank slightly against taut muscle, and she let out a soft, reverent sigh. Her fingers flexed, testing the give. Then she squeezed.
Firm didn’t cover it. It was like sculpted granite under silk. A tension of power and discipline that somehow still felt… indecent. Lethally indecent.
“These should be handled with extreme care. Each cheek a separate act of Parliament.”
“Wanton,” he warned, voice muffled in towel and exhaustion.
“I must conduct a full assessment,” she replied, eyes gleaming. “This one’s rounder. But the other might be slightly more philosophical.”
He groaned into the marble.
She squeezed again, experimentally.
He twitched.
“Reflex,” he growled.
“Scientific confirmation,” she whispered.
Then she leaned in and kissed the left cheek.
He jolted. “What in God’s name—”
“I felt it was owed,” she murmured. “After everything they’ve put us through today.”
He rolled onto his back, catching her wrist, pulling her on top of him with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like surrender.
“You are,” he said, staring up at her, “a menace.”
She settled against his chest, smug and sleepy and utterly relaxed.
“I prefer the term ‘glute scholar.’”