Page 68 of A Duke to Steal Her
“I want… I want more.”
His eyebrow arched knowingly. “More…now?”
She nodded.
A look of amusement crossed his face. “Very well.” His hand stilled on the page. When he finally looked at her, his expression was carefully controlled. “You know what you need to do.”
Emily’s hands clenched in the silk of her wrapper. “You insufferable cad. You won’t even perform your husbandly duties without making me grovel.”
Quick as lightning, his hand shot out to capture her wrist, pulling her closer until she stood between his knees. His green eyes blazed with heat.
“Grovel?” His voice was dangerously soft. “No, my sweet wife. I want you to beg. There’s a difference.”
Emily jerked her wrist free, and he let her go, turning back to his correspondence as though the moment had never happened. But she wasn’t finished.
“This is deliberate, isn’t it?” The accusation burst from her lips. “You’re doing this on purpose. At the opera, at the musicales, those… touches. You’re trying to drive me mad with wanting.”
Ambrose set down his quill with deliberate precision. “And is it working?”
“You know it is,” she whispered, hating the vulnerability in her voice.
He turned in his chair to face her fully, his gaze traveling slowly over her disheveled form. “Do you know what I see when I look at you, Emily?”
She shook her head, not trusting her voice.
“I see a woman who’s spent her entire life being told what she should want, what she should feel, how she should behave. A woman who’s never been allowed to simply… take what she desires.” He stood, moving closer until she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “I’m not trying to torture you, love. I’m trying to free you.”
“By making me beg?”
“By making you ask for what you want. Without shame. Without apology.” His hand came up to cup her cheek. “Do you have any idea how magnificent you are when you let go of that ironclad control?”
Emily stilled; she hated how easily he could see through her. “I don’t know how to do that.”
He stood and crossed the divide between them, then gestured toward the bed. “Lie down.”
“Ambrose—”
“Trust me,” he whispered gently.
Somehow, she found herself back on the bed, her wrapper falling away as she settled against the pillows. Ambrose remained standing, his gaze dark and intense.
“If you wish for more pleasure, just now, then the best course of action is to touch yourself,” he said quietly.
Emily’s cheeks flamed. “I couldn’t possibly?—”
“You can. You will.” His voice carried quiet authority. “Touch yourself the way I do it. Just imagine your fingers as mine.”
This entire exchange made her want to hide under the covers. But something in his expression—hunger mixed with tenderness—gave her courage.
With trembling hands, she began to explore her own body, following the path his touch had taken earlier. She heard his sharp intake of breath when her fingers found the sensitive peak of her breast.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Don’t stop.”
He remained at the foot of the bed, still fully clothed, watching her as though memorizing every flicker of uncertainty across her face. She felt exposed in every possible way, heart hammering, breath shallow, nerves thrumming beneath her skin.
Ambrose’s voice came low, smooth, unbearably intimate. “Yes, that’s right. Start with your breasts,” he coaxed. “You know how I touch you there. Do it just like that. Slowly. Gently.”
Her hand rose with hesitation, fingers brushing the swell of her breast, then circling the peak with aching delicacy.
