The Duke's Wife (The Three Mrs #3) - Jess Michaels Page 0,30

gone out of her cheeks. Her hands were gripped at her sides, but they shook regardless. They held gazes, both silent as time seemed to slow to nothing. Her breath hitched as she stepped into the room and slowly shut the door behind herself.

He moved toward her, but she met him halfway. She lifted into him, groaning as their mouths met and that sound of surrender and desire was too much. He cupped her head gently, angling to deepen the kiss. His tongue was flooded with her flavor: whisky that lingered on her tongue, desire that coursed between them.

“Please,” she panted against his mouth, her hands gripping harder against his jacket. “Please, please.”

He backed her toward the settee and they staggered onto it in a tangled heap of arms and legs. He half covered her, half knelt on the floor. Her hands came into his hair, nails raking his scalp, tongue desperately seeking his.

It was everything and it wasn’t enough. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to make her come right here in the parlor with a ball spinning just a few doors down, close enough that the faint echo of the music drifted into the room and provided a rhythm to their passion.

He drew back, watching her as he glided the flat of his hand down her side, her hip, her thigh. He fisted her skirt, tugging it up, waiting for her to push away again and continue that push and pull between them.

But she didn’t. She slowly nodded before she caught his shoulders and yanked him into her. He kissed her while he slipped his hand beneath her skirt and felt the warmth of her body without the barrier of her dress.

He touched her calf and she sucked in a breath without breaking the kiss, he cupped her knee and she drove her tongue harder. When he stroked her thigh, her head tilted back and she gave a full-body shudder. She met his eyes as he smoothed his fingers along the flesh, finding the top of her silky stockings, then the warmth between her legs. She wasn’t wearing drawers, and he lightly traced his fingers there until her thighs opened a fraction farther.

It was the invitation he’d been waiting for. She gasped as he stroked the length of her sex, massaging the outer lips, then gliding a thumb past them. She was wet and hot, and she lifted against him in silent, desperate invitation.

“Say it again,” he murmured, moving his mouth to her throat.

“Say what?” she gasped, arching in a clear effort to make him touch her harder, to breach her, to give her what she wanted.

He lifted his head. “Please.”

Her lips pursed, a flash of the same irritation that had always chased their relationship. Only now it was tangled with desire, and matching one fire with another felt heady and dangerous and glorious.

“Please,” she murmured.

He didn’t torture her anymore. He cupped her hip with the hand that wasn’t under her skirt and tugged her to slouch lower on the settee. She gasped and her legs parted wider, letting his hand flatten against the warmth of her sex.

He didn’t waste time, for they had very little of it. He pressed her open and stroked her sex a second time. She lifted into his palm with a tiny whimper, and he smiled. He watched her face as he did it again, again, felt her wetness increase, saw her face flush and her pupils dilate.

He began to circle her clitoris, at first slowly, then faster, harder. She gripped the side of the settee, her gasps growing faster and harder and harsher as he edged her ever closer to the point of no return. Her eyes went wide and then she fell, shattering with a heavy gasp. She writhed beneath him, tears filling her eyes. He felt her rippling against his fingers and wished he were inside of her to experience it.

He leaned in to kiss her again as he removed his hand from beneath her skirt, but before he could cover her completely, the door to the parlor opened.

He lifted his head, eyes going wide in horror as the Countess of Hartfortshire and the Duchess of Abernathe entered the chamber. They were talking, and then the duchess gasped, her cheeks going pink. The countess followed her stare and her mouth gaped.

Abigail shoved her skirts down, face flaming as she pushed Nathan off of her and flew to the other side of the room, staring at the two women. The