Page 62 of The Duke's Daring Bride

When her thumbs and forefingers closed around her nipples, she gasped. His gaze shot back up to hers, just in time to see her eyes roll back in apparent pleasure.

She tugged at her nipples, stretching them, and her lips parted on a moan.

He ached to echo her.

Instead, his fingers spasmed against the leather, and he imagined he could hear the creak of the chair groaning at his abuse.

Not the sort of abuse he wanted. Self-abuse, mayhaps.

He wanted to be the one tugging at those nipples, pulling them into his mouth, scraping his teeth against them. Causing her to moan.

Ye like that, lass? Ye like it rough?

“Yes,” she gasped, and he wondered if she could understand him. “Yes,” this time quieter, as she pressed those magnificent tits together once more.

But then one hand pulled away, dropping…dropping…

Had any fingers, in the history of fingers, been studied as closely as hers were as they traveled across her skin? Alistair thought not.

And when she found her curls and those fingertips dipped inside?

Alistair jerked against the chair.

She was watching him.

“This, Alistair,” she whispered. “I wanted to show you this.”

Jesus fook was he watching!

Unable to help himself, he loosed his hold on the chair’s arm, hand creeping toward his erection. As she slid her fingers across her glistening cleft, he pressed his palm to the thick bulge in his trousers, trying—and failing—to assuage the ache.

“Yes,” Olivia moaned again, her head dropping back as she watched him. “Like this.”

Her fingers spread her cunny to Alistair’s gaze, even as her other hand tugged at her nipple. He rubbed his palm against his cockstand as she dipped her middle finger into the dew of her desire, whimpering softly under her breath.

He wanted to stand, to go to her. He wanted to fall on his knees and worship her.

But that’s not why she was here.

“Like this,” she gasped, as the heel of her hand ground against the top of her cleft. Her clitoris—she wasn’t gently stroking it; she was pressing against it in a circular way which made her gasp again.

Her hips suddenly strained upward, as if she couldn’t get enough of her own touch, and she sank another finger into her core.

Unable to stand it any longer, Alistair ripped at the buttons of his trousers, scrambling to release himself without looking away from the goddess before him. He pulled free his cock, which strained upward as if understanding what was expected of it, its length thick and full.

As her fingers dipped in and out, their pace increasing, Olivia’s gaze dropped to his cock. Her lips parted on a silent gasp, and her eyes grew hazy with lust.

His pride damned near matched his cockstand.

Aye, lass. Ye did that to me. Ye like looking at that? Show me more.

“Alistair,” Olivia murmured, the base of her palm pressing against the bud of her pleasure. “Oh, God, Alistair.”

She was past coherent sentences? Then fair was fair, because so was he.

His strokes were long, measured. Something he’d long ago mastered. Just as he was above average height, he suspected his cock was larger than most. But she’d been a virgin—hell, so had he!—and didn’t seem to know the difference.

She hadn’t known the difference about the art of making love, either.

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