Page 78 of A Duke to Steal Her
“Come for me again,” he said, his voice thick, urgent. “Let me feel you.”
And she did. With a strangled cry, she fell apart for him, her body clenching around him, her vision blurring as her orgasm tore through her like lightning. But he wasn’t finished.
He pulled out and flipped her again, dragging her onto his lap as he sat back, guiding her down onto his shaft.
“Ride me,” he said, voice like thunder. “Show me how much you want it, darling.”
Emily gasped as he filled her again, the new angle sending shocks of pleasure through her overstimulated body. She rode him slowly at first, her hands on his chest, her hair falling wild around her face. But as his hands gripped her hips, guiding her, urging her to move faster, harder—she obeyed.
Their mouths met again as she took him deep inside, again and again. She could feel another release building fast, her body already strung tight from the two before.
“I… I can feel it,” she gasped, nails raking down his chest. “Ambrose, please.”
“Let go, Emily,” he commanded, thrusting up into her from below. “Let me feel you fall.”
And with one final, brutal stroke, she did—her body locking around him, her cry piercing as her climax exploded inside her.
Ambrose came with her, a low, guttural growl torn from his throat as he spilled into her, holding her hips tight, driving into her one last time before collapsing back against the pillows.
They stayed that way for a long time—limbs tangled, chests heaving, her head resting against his damp shoulder.
He kissed her temple softly. “Mine,” he said.
Emily closed her eyes, still feeling him inside her, still pulsing from the aftershocks.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yours.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ambrose woke with Emily’s hair spread across his chest like spun gold, her breathing soft and even against his skin. Everything had changed between them in the space of a night—the walls had fallen, the games had ended, and what remained was something pure and precious.
As she stirred in his arms, he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “Good morning, wife.”
“Good morning,” she murmured, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. There was no shyness there now, no carefully constructed barriers. Just Emily, open and trusting and his.
“I have some business to attend to this morning,” he said, tracing patterns on her bare shoulder. “But first, we’re paying a visit to your mother.”
Emily’s expression grew wary. “Ambrose?—”
“She owes you an apology. And she’s going to give you one.”
At Lady Ridgewell’s townhouse, he didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“Lady Ridgewell,” he said coolly as they were shown into the drawing room. “I believe you have something to say to your daughter.”
Lady Ridgewell’s face flushed. “Your Grace, I hardly think?—”
“I think you do.” Ambrose’s voice carried the authority of generations of ducal power. “Your daughter has done nothing but bring honor to your family name. Last night, she was insulted by a blackguard who deserved everything he received and more. Yet somehow, you found fault with her rather than with the man who spoke of her like a common whore.”
“Your Grace!” Lady Ridgewell gasped.
“I must insist you apologize. Now.”
For a moment, mother and daughter stared at each other across the room. Then Lady Ridgewell’s shoulders sagged.
“Emily,” she said quietly. “I… I spoke hastily last night. You didn’t deserve my harsh words.”
It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. Emily’s eyes filled with tears, and Ambrose felt something settle in his chest that he hadn’t realized was tense.
