Page 76 of A Duke to Steal Her
The rain came harder, soaking through her evening gown and plastering her hair to her face. She didn’t move. She deserved this discomfort, this punishment for bringing shame to everyone she touched.
“Emily, for God’s sake, you’ll catch your death.”
She looked up to find Ambrose standing before her, his own clothes already dampening in the downpour.
“Leave me alone,” she whispered.
“Not a chance.” He reached for her wrist as she tried to walk past him. “You’ll get sick out here.”
“Good,” she said, the word barely audible above the rain. “I deserve it.”
His grip tightened. “Don’t you ever say that.”
Before she could protest, he was pulling her toward the glasshouse, pushing open the door, and drawing her into the warm, humid space filled with exotic plants and the scent of earth.
“Sit down,” he ordered, guiding her to a wooden bench.
“I said I wanted to be alone.”
“And I said not a chance.” He knelt before her, his hands framing her face. “Look at me, Emily.”
“Why?” The word came out broken. “So you can see what a failure I am? How I’ve ruined everything again?”
“You haven’t ruined anything.”
“Haven’t I?” She laughed bitterly. “My entire life, I’ve tried to be perfect. The perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect lady. I sacrificed everything—my own wants, my own dreams—to be what everyone expected. And for what? I’m still the family disgrace.”
“Emily.”
“No,” she continued, tears streaming down her face. “You don’t understand. I’ve spent years being exactly what I was supposed to be, and it’s never enough. I’ll never be enough.”
Ambrose caught her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. Not with me.”
“I don’t know how to be anything else.”
“Then learn.” His thumb traced her cheekbone with infinite tenderness. “Be whoever you want to be. Stop trying to fit intotheir perfect little box and just… let go. You are mine, and I will not let you falter.”
His words broke the last of her defenses. Emily turned to him and kissed him, not with passion or seduction, but like a drowning woman reaching for salvation.
He kissed her back like it was the last thing he’d ever do. His hands tangled in her wet hair as he poured everything he couldn’t say into the contact.
Without breaking the kiss, Ambrose lifted her in his arms, carrying her through the rain-soaked garden and into the house. She clung to him as he navigated the darkened hallways, her heart racing with anticipation and something deeper—trust, complete and absolute.
He set her down gently on his bed, his hands framing her face as he searched her eyes one final time.
“Say you’re mine, my lioness. Say it and I’ll give you everything you want,” he growled.
“I’m yours.” She placed her hand over his heart, feeling its rapid rhythm beneath her palm. “Yours to command. Every. Single. Night.”
Her fingers, trembling yet determined, threaded into the dark waves of Ambrose’s hair as he hovered above her, their breath mingling in the hush of the room. The soft candlelight castshadows across the planes of his face, highlighting the hunger in his eyes—dark, molten, and utterly fixed on her.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
He didn’t hesitate.
The first press of his mouth against hers was slow, purposeful. But it didn’t stay that way. Her lips parted with a needy sigh, and that was all the invitation he needed to deepen it. His tongue claimed her with long, unhurried strokes, coaxing the breath from her lungs until she melted beneath him, utterly lost.
His hands moved over her body with reverence—until reverence gave way to possession.
