Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
He drew back only far enough to speak, his breath warm against her lips.
“Diana,” he said, “is this a thank you?”
She looked up at him through the firelight.
His fingers stroked her cheek, then the soft curve of her mouth, lingering there with a tenderness that made her eyes sting. “You are tired. I have so little self-command.”
“I have none either.”
The words left her before she could call them back.
Something flared in his gaze. He caught the nape of her neck, gentle, yet firm.
He kissed her, deeply, with a hunger that stole the breath from her lungs.
His tongue swept into her mouth and she met it with a hesitance that quickly became a need. Her knees weakened.
It was only when his tongue was stroking against hers that she forced herself to pull away, the words rising unbidden.
“Your Grace—the woman of whom you spoke in your study. Who is she?”
He looked bewildered. “What woman?”
“The woman you said you fancied.”
Before he could answer she swallowed the last of her pride, the pride that had kept her silent through years of being overlooked, unwanted, inconvenient, and forced the question out. “Can you forget her?”
He lifted her face with both hands until their eyes met. The firelight caught the dark intensity of his gaze. “There is no other woman.”
He lifted her then, still kissing her. He carried her the few steps to the bed. He braced himself above her, the weight of him a reassuring presence. He looked into her eyes with a gravity that made her breath hitch.
“You are the only woman, duchess. Do you believe me?”
She looked into his eyes and she nodded. She believed him.
“It will be painful the first time,” he whispered.
“I trust you.” She was frightened; her pulse raced, her hands trembled where they rested against his shoulders; the trust was absolute.
“I shall be gentle.”
“Do not be. I want all of you.”
He rose from the bed, found a soft length of cloth upon the dressing table, and returned. He bound it carefully about her eyes, plunging her into darkness. The loss of sight made every other sense sharper, the crackle of the fire, the faint scent of his skin, the sound of his breathing.
“Trust me.”
“I do, Your Grace.”
“Valentine.” He said it against the shell of her ear. “Tonight, you will call me by my name.”
“Valentine.” It felt strange in her mouth, and thrilling, like something stolen.
Her hands found him in the dark, hard against her palm through the fine lawn of his shirt, and she felt him go still at her touch before he bent to kiss the column of her throat.
His mouth moved lower, tracing the slope of her shoulder, and she tipped her head back to give him more of her, shivering at the drag of his lips against her skin.
“Turn,” he murmured.
She obeyed, presenting her back to him, and his mouth traced the length of her spine while his hands worked the last of the silk away.
He was unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world and meant to spend every minute of it on her.
She heard the soft rustle of his own clothing coming away behind her, and her heart began to hammer so hard she felt light-headed with it.
He gathered her back against his chest, bare skin to bare skin, and the heat of him nearly undid her before he had done anything at all.
His mouth found her ear again, not gentle this time. He caught the lobe between his teeth and bit down, just enough to sting. Diana gasped and felt the sound travel straight down through her, pooling low and hot between her thighs.
“Valentine—”
“Mm.” His hands slid up over her ribs, over the swell of her breasts. He pinched one aching peak between finger and thumb until she arched back against him with a broken sound. “Say it again. I want to hear you say my name.”
“Valentine.” It came out ragged.
He turned her in his arms and kissed her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as though he meant to memorize every inch of it. It then broke away to trail his lips down her throat, her collarbone, the curve of one breast, taking his time over every place that made her breath catch.
He drew one nipple into his mouth and she felt it like a live wire strung straight to the ache building between her legs.
His hand slid lower. Fingers traced along the inside of her thigh, teasing, retreating just before they reached where she wanted them most.
Diana’s hips rocked forward helplessly, chasing him.
“Please,” she gasped.
“Please what, Duchess?”
“You know what.”
“Tell me.” His breath was hot against her ear, his fingers still tracing maddening circles that came nowhere near where she needed him. “I want to hear you ask for it.”
He touched her then, just once, just enough to make her cry out, and withdrew again, and she thought she might come apart from the want of it alone.
He kissed her throat, bit gently at the curve of her shoulder.
Every place his mouth touched sent fresh heat pouring through her until she was trembling, until she could not have stood on her own, until every coherent thought had burned away and there was nothing left but the want.
“I cannot wait any longer.” Her voice broke on it. “Valentine. I want you. I want you now.”
He went still against her.
Then he smiled, she felt it more than saw it, against her throat, dark and satisfied and utterly certain of what he had just won.
“There,” he said softly. “That is all I ever wanted to hear.”
She felt the heavy length of his manhood settle against the small of her back.
“Part your thighs, Duchess.”
She did. His hands pinned her gently to the mattress, holding her steady.
She felt the blunt, searing heat of him between her thighs, then the sharp, shocking pain as he pressed into her.
She gasped, the sound torn from her throat.
He was large, larger than she had imagined, and the stretch burned.
He kissed the shell of her ear, murmuring soft, soothing words against it, as he pressed deeper, then withdrew almost completely.
“You must not cry, Duchess.”
The pain was intense. She bit down hard upon her lower lip until she tasted blood.
He entered her again; the pain remained, but lessened.
He withdrew, kissed her neck and the sensitive place behind her ear with aching tenderness, then thrust once more.
This time a low groan of reluctant pleasure escaped her.
He began to move in earnest with strokes that filled her completely.
He was thick and warm, stretching her in places she had never imagined could be touched.
Each long withdrawal and return sent strange, building sparks through her body, a heat that grew with every careful thrust.
He drew her up onto her knees, one strong arm about her waist, and entered her from behind.
The new angle made her cry out softly; he reached deeper, pressing against something within her that made stars burst behind her closed eyes.
He gripped her hip with one hand and the nape of her neck with the other, pulling her back against him as he thrust. They were both damp with exertion now, the air between them thick with the scent of need.
He kissed the side of her mouth, his breath ragged against her cheek.
“Do you like this?”
“Yes—yes, Your Grace.”
He went harder, deeper. She cried out; he muffled the sound with his hand across her lips, and she bit into the fleshy base of his thumb without meaning to.
The slight pain only seemed to drive him on.
He thrust harder still, the rhythm relentless, and something began to gather in her belly.
His thrusts had a tight, unfamiliar pressure that tightened with every stroke until she thought she might break apart.
Then she felt him tense behind her, a groan vibrating against her back, and the hot pulse of his seed flooding deep inside her.
The sensation tipped her over the edge. Pleasure crashed through her in waves she had never known existed until she was shaking in his arms, gasping against his palm, utterly spent.
He held her through it, murmuring her name against her hair, until the last tremor left her body.