Page 126 of The Duke's Daring Bride

God damn he loved this woman.

“Alistair, please,” she whimpered.

Yes. Yes, he’d always give her pleasure. But not like this.

Gently, he disengaged her and took Olivia’s wrists in his hands. He led her to the corner of the four-poster bed, and wrapped her hands around one of the posts. The wood was dark and smooth and ancient.

He’d slept in this bed since his father’s death. This was where he’d been told he’d never walk again. He’d recovered in this chamber. It had been his prison for a while.

And now…

“Hold,” he croaked.

She looked confused, but her fingers tightened around the post even as he moved behind her.

Slowly, gently, with firm pressure between her shoulder blades, Alistair bent her forward.

Now she was held upright by her hold on the post, his hands on her hips.

He stared down at the glorious curves, presented to him as if he were a king, and felt a growl rise in his chest. His cock nestled in the cleft of her arse, and he flexed his hips, dragging his hardness nearer to where it wanted to be.

When he finally slid into her weeping core, she cried out and jerked against him.

He paused, fearing the pain he had caused but she lifted her head, panting. “No, no. I’m… Oh God, Alistair, you’re so good.”

A smile split his face and he was glad she was facing away from him.

Glad for quite a few reasons.

“Hold,” he repeated, and she eagerly nodded, shifting her grip on the bed post.

Christ, she was beautiful like this. All his…

And that was the last coherent thought he had for a while.

His thrusts were desperate, his anger disappearing under the overwhelming, all-consuming need building in his ballocks and the base of his spine.

And Olivia, for her part, met him thrust for thrust. She braced her elbows against the post and used them for leverage, riding his cock as much as he was pounding into her.

It was rough. It was wild. It was necessary, to cleanse the fear and remind him she was safe. She was here. She was his.

When her gasps turned to cries he bent forward, reaching around her to find the bud of her pleasure. He stroked, he rubbed…and when he sensed she was close, he pinched.

She screamed.

His name.

“Alistair!”

She screamed his name as she came, inner muscles tightening around him in sequential throbs so intense he had to freeze just to enjoy the sensation.

And then he gasped, his own pleasure bursting over him, spilling his seed against her womb as her core milked him almost obscenely.

It was…the most intense thing he’d ever experienced.

He wanted to curl around her, to hold on, to never let her go.

But unfortunately his knees turned to jelly, and he figured he ought not to collapse atop her. Crushing one’s wife was considered uncouth. Almost ungentlemanly.

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