Page 70 of A Duke to Steal Her
A gasp tore from her lips as his tongue traced slow, deliberate circles over her most sensitive flesh. It was nothing like the furtive touches she’d given herself a moment before.
His mouth was warm, unrelenting, and devastating.
“God,” she whispered, hips lifting off the bed before his hands came to hold her down, one firm on her stomach, the other stroking her hip soothingly.
He devoured her with aching patience, every flick of his tongue measured, every kiss tender. When she trembled, he hummed against her, the sound vibrating through her, sending sparks skittering up her spine. He parted her with two fingers, tongue teasing that aching bundle of nerves until she whimpered.
“You taste like heaven, Emily,” he murmured between strokes, his voice thick with hunger. “I could feast on you till dawn.”
Her fingers tangled in the sheets, her thighs trembling uncontrollably.
“Ambrose,” she gasped, her voice unraveling. “I—I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can, my lioness. Come apart for me,” he whispered, licking up her slick heat before gently closing his lips around her.
She shattered.
The release ripped through her with a force she hadn’t known was possible. Her back arched, a cry tore from her throat, and stars exploded behind her eyes. She was floating, flying, and unraveling.
When it passed, she lay boneless and dazed, her skin glowing with sweat, her breath ragged.
Ambrose eased up beside her, his eyes dark with satisfaction and something deeper and dangerous.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “So bloody beautiful it takes my breath away. And when you’re ready, Emily… I’ll show you what it means to be truly mine. Every. Single. Night.”
Emily closed her eyes and turned into his embrace, her cheek pressed to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath her ear.
It wasn’t just desire she felt. It was trust. And something warmer. Wilder.
And that, more than anything he’d done to her body, terrified her most of all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Breathe,” Ambrose murmured to Emily, his hand settling protectively at her waist. “He’s nothing more than a gnat seeking attention.”
The Earl of Hartwell’s soirée was in full swing when Ambrose spottedhimacross the crowded drawing room.
Peirce stood near the refreshment table with a blonde woman on his arm—his wealthy widow, no doubt—playing the devoted fiancé with theatrical precision. Every gesture was calculated to draw attention, every smile designed to invite whispered speculation about his previous engagement.
Emily’s chin lifted with that stubborn pride he’d come to know. “I’m perfectly fine.”
But Ambrose could feel the tension radiating from her as Peirce began making his way across the room, his fiancée trailing behind like a well-trained pet.
“Your Grace, Your Grace,” Peirce said with a slight tip of his head when he reached them. “What a delightful surprise to see you both in such… robust health.”
“Peirce.” Ambrose’s acknowledgment was curt, his fingers tightening imperceptibly on Emily’s waist.
The woman curtseyed with practiced grace, though her eyes held the calculating gleam of someone assessing potential threats. “Your Grace, Your Grace. Such an honor.”
Ambrose wanted to snarl at her. She was there the night Peirce assaulted his wife. And she’d defended the bastard.
“Indeed,” Peirce continued, his smile never wavering. “I was just telling Margaret how well-suited you both appear. Almost as though it were… meant to be.”
Ambrose felt his jaw clench. The bastard was practically goading him into a scene. “How fortunate that we’re all finding our proper places in life.”
“Quite. My darling Margaret suggested that some things are best left in the past, wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?” This last was directed at Emily with pointed emphasis.
“Absolutely,” Emily replied with perfect composure, though Ambrose could feel her trembling slightly. “The past is precisely where it belongs.”
