Page 60 of Married to a Wicked Duke
He continued down towards her stomach, then glided his fingers lightly over the apex between her legs. Veronica gasped and took an instinctive step toward him. Frederick pulled her close, sliding his palm over her bare backside. Veronica felt his hardness pressing against her stomach. She dug her fingers into his upper thighs, desperate for more of him.
“My wife,” he murmured against her lips. “I want to take you to bed.”
He reached for her hand, then led her over to the canopied bed in the center of the room. That enormous, palatial bed Veronica had slept in alone every night since becoming the Duchess of Brownwood. She had resigned herself to sleeping alone in it every night for the rest of her life.
Perhaps I was wrong.
Before they reached the bed, Frederick scooped her up into her arms, her legs wrapping instinctively around his hips. She felt his manhood pressing against her center, and she felt herself gripping hard to his shoulders, trying to draw herself even nearer to him. Heat pulsed desperately between her legs.
Frederick walked her toward the bed and laid her down on the mattress. He leaned over her and kissed her so deeply that her thighs parted without the thought even entering her head. Frederick ran a broad palm up from her ankle, over her knee, moving up the inside of her thigh. Veronica felt her back arch. Felt herself writhe beneath him, desperate for more of him.
“Please,” she heard herself whisper.
Her nerves had dissipated, she realized. There was no longer a single part of her that felt too exposed beneath her gaze. Instead, there was something thrilling about feeling a man’s eyes on her like this. Something thrilling about the look in Frederick’s eyes that left her in no doubt as to how much he wanted her.
“Please, what?” Frederick whispered back at her. “I want to hear you tell me what you want. I want to hear you say it.”
Almost without thought, Veronica pushed against his shoulder to shove him onto his back. And she found herself straddling him, the needs of her body washing away any rational thought. She lowered herself slowly onto his hardness. The deep penetration was far more intense than last time, and she heard herself moaning loudly.
Frederick grinned. “You are growing in confidence, aren’t you, my Duchess.”
He reached for her breasts and squeezed them firmly, Veronica’s reply swallowed by her moan. She began to move her hips, faster and faster, her pleasure building to an intensity she could barely fathom. Frederick gripped her hips and matched her rhythm, his lips parting with desire as he watched her moving above him.
There was something thrilling about sitting astride such a strong and powerful man; feeling him inside her, impossibly deep. And there was something equally thrilling about the knowledge that, any time he chose, he could throw her onto her back and reassert control in an instant.
Veronica could hear herself gasping, moaning. They were not alone in the house as they had been at the gallery, and she was distantly aware that people could hear her. She tried to swallow down her cries.
Frederick sat up suddenly, and the change in angle caused a moan she could not stifle. He kissed her hard, pulling her chest hard against his own. “I want to hear you,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”
In response, Veronica moaned out loudly and as her climax crashed over her, she heard herself cry out his name. Frederick pulled her into a deep kiss, his lips against her own as he reached his own peak. His body shuddered against hers and they held each other tightly for long, wordless moments.
Veronica felt his chest rising and falling against her own, their bodies slick and warm, arms and legs intertwined. Frederick ran gentle fingers through her hair, which had spilled out of its plait and now hung tangled over her shoulders. Veronica closed her eyes, losing herself in the comfort of her husband’s embrace. Gradually, their breathing began to slow.
Frederick shuffled back on the mattress, easing himself out of her. He stood up from the bed and fumbled in the half-light for the shirt he had cast onto the floor.
Veronica tugged the blankets around her shoulders. “You are leaving?” she asked, feeling a tug of disappointment.
Frederick nodded. “Yes. I will give you back your own space.” He did not look at her as he stepped into this breeches.
Veronica gritted her teeth, biting back an irritated response. She could expect no more than this, she reminded herself. After their dalliance in the gallery, Frederick had been painfully honest about what he was willing to give her—no love; he had made that abundantly clear. She had no right to be angry.
“Very well,” she said, as evenly as she could manage. “I hope I will see you at breakfast. I have a painting from a new artist I would like to show you.”
“Oh?” Frederick’s eyes glimmered with interest. He stepped into his boots. “I look forward to seeing it.” He gathered the rest of his clothes from the floor and bundled them into his arms. He stepped up to the bed and leaned toward Veronica as if to kiss her, before changing his mind and pulling away. He straightened and cleared his throat. “Sleep well, Veronica. And yes, to answer your question, we shall see each other at breakfast.” He gave her that stilted, brusque nod she had come to know so well. And before she could make sense of it, he was gone.
Veronica lay back on the pillow, listening to his footsteps disappear down the passage. His bedchamber door clicked closed, and then there was silence on the top floor of the house. No doubt when the maid had arrived at the door with the tea, she had heard what was going on inside and had headed straight back to the kitchen. Now her pleasure had dissipated, the thought made Veronica’s cheeks hot with shame.
She closed her eyes, trying to calm her whirring thoughts. Her body was still buzzing with the remnants of her climax, and she could feel a dull but pleasurable ache between her legs. She found her fingers tracing across the warmth Frederick had left on the sheets.
“I can never give you love. I am just not that kind of man. Truly, I do not think I am capable of such things anymore.”
The feel of it left her with a sense of unfathomable emptiness.
Perhaps she had been right when she had imagined she would spend every night alone in this cursed bed.
ChapterTwenty-Five
Frederick had finished the portrait of his mother that would hang at the front of the gallery. He stood with his back to the door of his studio, taking in the finished piece, which sat on his easel. He felt a small smile on his lips.
