The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,42

her body. Something magical was happening to her, a feeling she’d had only twice before. When she touched herself, exploratory caresses in the dark.

But this wasn’t the same, not at all the same. Sebastian’s touch was more intense, more powerful, more…everything.

Groaning, she sought to remove her hands from his hold, desperate to reach him.

“Why, Delaney?” he asked between kisses, between groans, between sighs. Sounds merging, until she didn’t know who made them. “Why would you give us up?”

She blinked when he shifted enough to allow a firelight glimmer to dance between them. Highlighting the hard planes of his face, eyes the deep ocher of a searing ember. They were gasping, fingers linked and curled against the door, bodies straining toward uncertain surrender. For a lazy moment, they did nothing but stare, lust forcing the world into the background.

Sebastian wanted the truth. While she wanted peace, she wanted him. But she didn’t think she was going to get him.

He leaned in, expecting an answer, further torment because it looked like he was going to kiss her again.

Please let him kiss me again.

He shook his head. Not going to happen.

“Because someone knows what I did,” she whispered, shoulders slumping, weary to the depths of her soul. Her heartbeat the flutter of a bird’s wings in her chest. “And they’re going to make me pay for it.”

The sound of a door slamming down the hall, doubtless Simon stumbling to his bedroom, had them tensing. The sensual haze surrounding them faded in time with the excruciating tick of the mantel clock. Sebastian glanced at his hands, still imprisoning hers, his expression stunned for a rare, unprotected instant. One bright spot in this mess. The Duke of Ashcroft had lost his purposeful, pedigreed dominion over himself, an occurrence she guessed few ever witnessed.

When he’d never had dominion over her.

And he never would.

Her gaze traveled down the snug press of their bodies, all six foot plus of him fastening her to the door like he’d stuck a dart in cork. His penis a rigid, entirely perceptible shape beneath his buckskin trousers. Longer than she would’ve imagined and as hard as the walnut he’d jammed her against before proceeding to kiss the very life from her.

What a situation she’d sunk herself in this time.

Finally, curious about a man. The wrong man. The wrong duke.

But she had, as the duke in question had so tastelessly declared, asked for this.

“Unhand me, Tremont.” She yanked her arms, his grip loosening as he grudgingly complied. It was only when she looked to the ceiling to avoid his censure that she noticed the painting. Angels frolicking amongst gods and goddesses entwined on a bed of clouds. Not a stitch of clothing to be had, not so much as a misplaced cravat. “My,” she whispered and squinted to get a better look.

He turned from her, yanking his hand through his hair with a growl of pure, male frustration. She couldn’t help but recall having her fingers tangled in those strands minutes ago herself. Regrettably, the overlong curls were as soft as they looked. “Lurid, isn’t it? I should have Julian repurpose it, at least put garments on the creatures. With your rebellious spirit, I’m sure you think it’s art.”

“Be glad for my rebellious spirit. A lesser girl, a delicate society miss, would be prostrate on the carpet beneath our feet after that kiss. Have any smelling salts handy, Your Grace? If you toss those declarations of affection out often, you’d better.” Delaney sighed and shoved off the door, the wood still warm from her body. She wasn’t going to faint, but her world had taken a definite tilt on its axis. “Of course, you’re not trying to secure information from society misses, are you? You know all you need to about the opera singers and the actresses, the rapacious countesses, the willing widows. And Kitty Hazelton, you know all you need to know about her. The kisses you give them are wistful and dreamy, the real deal, while mine are a lethal form of interrogation. Conscription into your club of supernatural misfits.”

Stalking to the hearth, he grabbed the fire iron and dispersed the embers, sending sparks flying. At least, his feverish attempt to start a blaze had landed in the right spot. “Real deal? Another charming bit of Yankee jargon.” He cracked metal against stone. “If you think that kiss wasn’t the genuine article, Temple, you’re in need of a physician. For your brain. I hope to God”—he laughed and jabbed the iron