Page 76 of Tamed By her Duke

She was more than gratified with the effect it had on her husband.

She bent to lick him again, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t,” he gritted out.

She frowned. “Did you not like it?” He’d certainly seemed like he’d liked it, his muscles clenching and his face going all intense.

“Aye, I liked it. I liked it too bloody much,” he complained, drawing her up his body and kicking off the remains of his trousers in an impressive show of coordination. “If I’m to spill, I want it to be inside ye.”

Right. The heir they were trying to make.

The reminder was a flicker through her haze of desire, but she ignored it. The consequences would be what they would be. She’d learned the merits of seizing upon good things when they came.

And this, she decided as he pulled her atop him—atop him! She’d not even realized it was possible!—was unquestionably a good thing. After all, from this angle she could see all of him: the pronounced muscles of his chest, shoulders, and arms; the ridges of his stomach; the fine dusting of hair on his thighs that grew thicker as it reached down toward his ankles.

Her husband might not be lithe and fashionable, but his body was like a classical statue—like Atlas, strong enough to hold the earth on his back.

Grace’s fingers were greedy as she ran her hands over the planes of him, were fierce when they gripped at his shoulders as he positioned himself at her entrance and then used her own weight to guide her down, until she was fully seated inside him.

He’d come to her bed regularly since that first time they were together, even if their couplings always were in the dark. Her body had learned the feel of him.

Even so, there was always a stretch at the start, and in this position it was more pronounced, or at least slightly different. Their bodies pressed together in slightly different ways. Her weight worked with her. His hands went to her hips to help her move.

Feeling entranced, she looked down at him as she slid up and down, the muscles in her thighs stretching and aching at this novel use. Caleb, for his part, was looking lower, down at where they were joined, and the knowledge made a shuddering surge of pleasure race through her—not her crisis, but something like it.

His gaze snapped up to hers. “Christ,” he murmured. “If ye only knew how beautiful ye were right now, Grace.”

She tried not to let his sweet words reach her heart. She focused on the needs of her body to keep those thoughts at bay.

“More,” she demanded, her voice hoarse. “Faster. Harder. Please.”

With another growled curse, Caleb rolled them, those powerful muscles bunching and flexing until she was beneath him, their bodies still connected. He could thrust more powerfully from this position, could control his movements more—and, beyond that, he knew how to play her body from this direction, knew italready like he was the master of it, knew that if he movedjust so, she would?—

With a cry, Grace fell, her eyes fluttering shut as her climax overtook her. Caleb was mere moments behind, his own pleasure pulling from him with a groan.

Grace’s body was satisfied, but her mind was not. She threw her arms around his neck before he could pull away. She knew he would draw back, sooner or later, but she needed just a bit more, needed him here with her just a bit longer.

Except he didn’t withdraw, did not pull away. Instead he let her embrace him until, in the hazy afternoon light, they both drifted off into a light doze, each held in the other’s arms.

CHAPTER 22

The sun was just starting to slump toward the horizon, casting a slanting orange glow across the room, when Caleb came awake the way one might emerge from deep water, gradually, then with the final break into fresh air.

He took a deep breath—and froze. Fingers were dancing along the curve of his hip, over toward his ribcage. And Grace—Grace, who could see everything in the light—was breathing lightly against his back.

“Are you awake?” she asked, voice quiet in case he wasn’t.

Caleb wished to be a coward, just for a split second, but it was no use. She knew. She’d seen.

“Aye,” he said, bracing himself for whatever came next.

But her tone wasn’t horrified, just curious, perhaps tinged with sadness.

“I hadn’t realized you’d been injured while fighting,” she said. Her fingers moved then, her touch light as a puff of air, as she touched the hideous mass of scars that he’d tried so hard to spare her from ever seeing.

“Aye,” he said again, hoping he sounded unaffected. “Ye needn’t look at them, if ye find them hideous.”

There. His voice had come out even. Controlled.

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