Page 65 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke
The very idea that she must be watchful of what she spoke of incensed her further. It was a restriction that she had never labored under before. Speech was always free in her father’s house. Emma’s mother had been a particularly free spirit, encouraging her children to speak their minds.
“Is something the matter?” Damien asked.
Emma thought she heard tension creeping into Damien’s voice. He did not like to be challenged or questioned. A symptom of living alone, answerable only to himself perhaps. He did not live alone now and should not expect to continue with that.
She tilted her chin and faced him squarely. “Yes, now that you have asked. You cannot be cross with me for breaking a taboo I knew nothing of.”
Damien arched a brow. “Ican. It is my house, and you are my wife…”
“And you,myhusband. And this is also nowmyhouse. I am Duchess here, am I not?” Emma said, irate with his curt answer.
“In nameonly,” he immediately amended. “I told you there would be restrictions and conditions to our marriage. I feel I have been open with you.”
Emma threw up her hands, scoffing. “How, precisely, do you imagine that? I know nothing of your history and only learn what subjects to avoid when they are broached and you make a fuss!”
Damien growled in his throat and made as though to walk away. After a single pace, he stopped. He sighed loudly.
“You are right, of course. I cannot expect obedience to rules you were not aware of. I… I apologize.”
It sounded as though the words were being dragged from him. He was unused to saying he was sorry for anything. This man was rough around the edges when it came to other people.
But I must do my part no matter how infuriating or frustrating he is,she reasoned inwardly.An overture should be accepted.
She sighed audibly. “It is quite alright—”
But she never finished the sentence.
Damien turned, crossed the space between them in a breath, and kissed her.
Not a hesitant brush of lips. Not the cool, distant formality he so often wrapped around himself like armor.
No, this was hunger. Controlled onlyjust.
His hands were already in her hair. Her back met the wall in a rustle of silk and a gasp, his body pressing against hers, his mouth hot and demanding. Emma’s fingers clutched instinctively at his coat, the kiss stealing her breath, her thoughts, and whatever dignified parting words she had meant to offer.
“You have no idea,” he murmured against her lips, “how beautiful you looked tonight. Every blasted moment. How difficult you make it for me just by being in my presence. I couldn’t take my eyes off you—not even when I should have.”
She blinked up at him, breathless. His confession was dark velvet against her skin.
“Damien…”
He kissed her again, silencing her with his mouth, with the sudden, overwhelming press of his thigh between hers. She whimpered against him, startled by how easily her body betrayed her. Heat pooled low in her belly, a need coiling tight as his hands swept down her back to cup her buttocks.
“This gown,” he rasped, his fingers finding the fastenings, “has tortured me all night.”
In one motion, he worked the bodice down over her shoulders, exposing her shift beneath. She gasped, clutching at him, but he caught her hands in his and pinned them softly to the wall, his mouth descending to her throat, then lower.
His palm slid up over her shift, found her breast through linen, and molded to it possessively. She arched into him, a cry slipping free as he teased her nipple through the thin fabric.
“Damien,” she moaned, unsure whether it was a plea for more or for mercy, “someone might… see us…”
He took it as the former.
His free hand drifted lower, gathering her skirts and pressing between her thighs—firm, insistent. Even through the barrier of her underthings, she felt the shock of it, his touch precise and devastating.
Her hips jerked. “Oh God—”
“It is not touching,” he rasped, his voice low and wicked, “if it is above clothes, is it? I want to hear you. Let me hear what I can do to you.”
