Page 82 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

“And would you care to remind me how that fall happened?” Emma arched an eyebrow at him, and his mouth snapped shut at once. “You’ve been bedridden for days?—”

“But now the wound is healed completely!” Tristan argued. “His Grace said that I was very bold.”

Ah, yes, of course. These days, Tristan spared no moment to talk about the Duke.

AboutVictor.

Despite their many secret trysts since their first coupling all those days ago, Emma could not stop a dusting of red from blooming on her cheeks every time she remembered just how intimately she’d come to speak his first name, especially in such… close quarters.

“A ‘scratch’ that required fifteen stitches and left you feverish for days,” Emma countered, smoothing her skirts as she sat straighter in her chair.

These past weeks, as Victor had integrated himself into their lives, Tristan’s admiration for the Duke had grown into something akin to worship.

“You may ride Caesar, but only with Mr. Jenkins or His Grace accompanying you.”

“Mr. Jenkins!” Tristan’s expression crumpled at the mention of his former riding instructor. “He rides as though he fears the horse might suddenly transform into a dragon beneath him. And His Grace is attending to business in London today.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Emma’s mouth as she recalled Victor’s whispered promise to return by nightfall, his eyes dark with desire as he kissed her goodbye in the shadowed alcove of the east hallway.

“Nevertheless, those are my conditions.”

“If the Duke were here, he would let me ride alone,” Tristan murmured, his voice barely audible. “He understands that a man must learn independence.”

The words made Emma press her lips into a thin line. The boy’s attachment to Victor made her heart swell, that was true, but she definitely didn’t like it when he tried to use it as a bargaining chip.

“Ha,” she scoffed, and his eyes widened with childish affront. “No, he wouldnot, and you know that.”

“Mama—” he started to protest, his small face blooming red, but Emma had just about enough.

She lifted her hand, her expression stern. “That is enough, Tristan. My decision stands,” she said, her tone final.

Her son’s eyes—so like her own—narrowed dangerously. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room, his footfalls unnecessarily heavy on the parquet floor.

Emma sighed, her head falling back in the silence.

Indeed, if Victor were here, Tristan would be a great deal more agreeable than he was now. It was obvious that she was ill-equipped to handle an eight-year-old toeing the line of masculine rebellion, but she tried not to let herself be too hard on him. He was, after all, a young boy trying to find his own identity, and his rebellion was but the consequence of that.

* * *

That afternoon, when Emma was working in her art studio, Victor suddenly appeared, locking the door behind him.

“Vic—” she gasped, but her words vanished in the air as Victor lifted her onto the table amidst her scattered brushes.

“Shh, we don’t want to wake Tristan, do we?”he whispered against her throat, his throbbing member pressed against her molten center with a teasing possessiveness that had nearly sent her into an orgasm of grand proportions.

She was far too occupied with his fiery yet slow kisses to formulate an answer, her moans being constantly swallowed by his lips as she sought release.

She should worry that her son might happen upon them, but she had found that when she was in Victor’s embrace, all her feminine desires awakened—especially thevery inappropriateones.

When his hand found her throbbing center, she screamed into his mouth before throwing her head back as she savored the feel of his thick fingers slowly pushing into her aching flesh, one finger after the other, massaging her inner walls and stretching her all at once.

Her fingers, tinged with paint, tangled in his hair, streaking the thick, dark brown curls with blue and purple.

“Ah,” she moaned as Victor hummed against her throat, his tongue snaking out to lick the sweat at the base of her throat.

“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, his fingers thrusting with urgency as his hips undulated against hers. “I want to feel you around my cock again. I need to have you again.”

“Oh,” Emma exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening in his hair as she rose to kiss him. “Please,” she begged, no longer caring for anything but the conflagration that was to come. “I want you inside me, Victor.”

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