Page 97 of The Duke's Daring Bride

With him sitting and her standing, her nipples were level with his mouth.

And her husband, being a student of physics, made use of this fact.

Even through her chemise, the feel of his rough tongue on her nipples made Olivia mewl with need, arching in his hold. In one fluid movement he pulled her chemise over her head—leaving her standing before him in her drawers. Then he clamped one arm around her lower back and pulled her flush against him.

And worshiped her.

There was no other word for it, and his reverence left her breathless.

Olivia lowered her hands to his head, then his shoulders, desperately attempting to hold herself upright, because surely her knees would buckle without such support. Her thumbs traced his scars as her body marveled at his touch.

Those feelings were building again, the achingly familiar ones. She pressed her thighs together, trying to capture them, even as his fingers delved toward the waistband of her bloomers.

Alistair took one of her nipples in his mouth again, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin, and she jerked toward him, feeling as if a white-hot brand had dropped straight down to her core.

Yes, in the past, she’d enjoyed tugging at her own nipples while she’d hidden under the blankets in bed, touching herself. But who would’ve guessed it would feel so much better when a man did it?

No, not any man. Alistair.

This time when he suckled an aching nipple, her legs gave out. Had he not been holding her upright, she likely would’ve collapsed into a pile of goo.

Her bloomers fell around her ankles, and Olivia was left standing between her husband’s legs, wearing nothing but her stockings.

She felt him grin, even as he leaned back and pulled her toward him.

It was easy enough to let him position her, let him show her what he wanted. Breathless with need, she found herself straddling his thighs, legs tucked up against his. His hands fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, and when his cock finally sprang free, he exhaled in relief.

Then his palms went to her thighs, sliding along her legs, and he met her eyes.

There was a question there, one of desperation.

“Alistair,” she whispered, leaning forward to kiss him.

As their lips met, he cupped her curls. When he hissed against her mouth, she knew he’d found her as wet—as eager—as he’d assumed.

One finger stroked her folds, bringing her ever closer to her release, while his other hand grasped his cock. As she held the sides of his neck—half afraid if she let go, she’d fall off the face of the Earth—he shifted backward, drawing her with him…

And when he sat upright, she followed her instincts and slid down atop him, sheathing his cock deep within her.

It was…

It was…

Remarkable.

Olivia had stilled, eyes wide. This position was different from the one he’d used on their wedding night, the night which seemed to have finished too soon.

In this position, she was still stretched, still full…but the pressure wasn’t as great.

And, she realized as he settled back against the chair, one hand on her hip and one hand cradling her core…she had all the power.

Her husband watched her, his expression carefully controlled, but his eyes flashing with hunger. She could feel him throbbing beneath her, feel his heartbeat beneath her fingertips.

And she smiled. “Alistair,” she repeated.

Not Your Grace.

Not Milord.

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