Page 65 of Gabriel: Duke of Bencalor

Then he took her hand and pulled it up to his mouth so he could lick her fin­ger, his tongue warm and slip­pery against her skin. In­ter­lac­ing his fin­gers with hers, he bent un­til her hand was pinned to the bed be­side her shoul­der. He low­ered his hips and fit­ted his cock against her, just the tip touch­ing where she opened.

“I’m go­ing to fuck you now,” he said, his eyes locked on hers.

And then he drove his cock into her, stretch­ing her, fill­ing her, mak­ing the ache worse and bet­ter all at once.

He moved slowly, thrust­ing in and pulling out al­most lan­guorously. She closed her eyes to revel in hav­ing the empti­ness oblit­er­ated, tight­en­ing her in­ner mus­cles around him. He moaned and stopped with his cock fully in­side her. She clenched the mus­cles again, the plea­sure as much hers as his.

“Yes, querida,” he said with a hiss, rock­ing his hips to go deeper.

She squeezed again. His body jerked, and she opened her eyes to find him braced above her on his fore­arms, eyes closed and jaw clenched, the cords of his neck taut. She tilted her pelvis and fisted her mus­cles around him as hard as she could.

“Joder!” he growled be­fore he pulled out and slammed back into her, grind­ing against her most sen­si­tive spot. His rhythm ac­cel­er­ated, and the fric­tion be­came con­tin­u­ous, wind­ing her tighter and tighter into a mind-blur­ring mass of sen­sa­tions.

His cock was in­side her, his chest gen­tly abraded her nip­ples, his hands pinned hers to the bed, his breath fanned her face.

She ex­ploded, her toes curl­ing into the mat­tress, her hips lift­ing de­spite his weight, her back arch­ing so her breasts were crushed against his chest. Her mus­cles spasmed around him and re­leased, then spasmed again, shoot­ing liq­uid sparks through her body.

“Gabrie-e-e-el!” she cried.

Gabriel went still, not mov­ing un­til she sagged back onto the bed, wrung out from two or­gasms. Then he with­drew and stroked into her, go­ing deep, be­fore he threw back his head and roared her name while he pulsed in­side her, send­ing a shadow or­gasm flut­ter­ing through her.

He dropped his head onto her shoul­der, al­though he still braced his weight on his arms. “Quinn,” he rasped this time, his breath un­even, his heart pound­ing against her breasts.

“Yes.” She un­der­stood the need to name the per­son who had made him feel the way he did.

He slid out of her and shifted side­ways to grab a tis­sue from the bed­side ta­ble to dis­pose of the con­dom. Then he wrapped his arms around her and rolled onto his back with her sprawled on top of him.

She shifted on the rise and fall of his chest, feel­ing his ribs against hers, the dust­ing of hair on his legs feath­er­ing against her calves, the warm damp­ness on the in­sides of her thighs slid­ing against his skin. Bone­less, she lay blan­ket­ing him, yet draw­ing heat from his body.

“I just had sex with a royal duke,” she blurted as the thought hit her.

Gabriel’s laugh vi­brated against her. “I just had sex with an Amer­i­can.”

“There are a lot more of us than dukes,” she pointed out, still stunned that what she’d fan­ta­sized about had hap­pened.

“So my value is only in my rar­ity?”

“Yeah, vis­counts are a dime a dozen, you know.”

“Do you al­ways make fun of your lovers when you’re fin­ished?”

“Not usu­ally.” She hadn’t had all that many lovers. “I’m just not sure how to treat a duke af­ter an or­gasm. Or two.”

He wrapped his hands around her hips to scoot her up­ward on his body, the fric­tion send­ing a shim­mer of de­light over her skin. “Dukes like to be kissed,” he said, find­ing her mouth with his.

He was a ro­man­tic. She should have known.

Their kiss was leisurely and un­de­mand­ing, al­though it fanned the flush still glow­ing on her skin. When the flush grew hot­ter, she pulled away and slid side­ways to dis­tract her­self with his tat­too. She traced the edges of the dragon’s frill with her fin­ger­tip.

“Of course you would get a Cal­e­van dragon,” she mur­mured. “Did it hurt?”

“I was drunk at the time, so no.” His voice had a wry edge.

“At least you had the sense to find a tal­ented tat­too artist.” She brushed over the grace­ful curve of the lizard’s spine.

“A friend rec­om­mended her. Also, we came pre­pared with our own draw­ing, done by one of my artis­tic class­mates. Oth­er­wise, I hate to think of what would be crawl­ing up my rib cage.”

She stopped her­self from mov­ing her hand over to the scar on the other side of his torso. She knew that had come from the surgery to re­move rib car­ti­lage to use for re­build­ing his ear.

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