Page 67 of His Stolen Duchess
“Oh,” she whispered.
“It’s all right,” he said gently. “Here.”
He guided her hand, showing her the rhythm, the pressure.
She followed his movements with trembling curiosity, her brows drawn in concentration. Her touch was cautious at first, but soon grew more confident.
Lysander closed his eyes, letting the electric sensation roll through him. His body was taut with restraint.
Her other hand moved to his shoulder, steadying herself. “Does that feel good?” she asked, voice barely above a breath.
“Too good,” he murmured, opening his eyes to find her face inches from his. “You make me come undone, Georgina.”
Their mouths met in a slow, searing kiss.
His hand slid around her waist, drawing her closer. He kissed her again, deeper this time, savoring the softness of her lips, the tentative flicker of her tongue against his.
He wanted to touch her too—he needed to. His hand skimmed down over her breast, lingering there for a moment before slipping beneath the hem of her bathing dress.
She gasped into his mouth as his fingers found her slick and waiting.
“Let me,” he said brusquely, and she nodded, burying her face in his shoulder as he began to stroke her.
Her fingers faltered on him, then resumed with a fervent grip that made his hips twitch.
“Slowly,” he murmured, “we do not need to hurry.”
She made a helpless sound as he circled her most sensitive place. Georgina’s body moved against his hand instinctively, shifting her legs to allow him better access. Her free hand clutched at his arm, her nails digging into his skin.
“Lysander—” she gasped.
He kissed her again, trying to drown himself in her sounds, her scent, the slick heat of her wrapped around his fingers. He slid two fingers inside her, marveling at the way she clenched around him.
Her strokes on him became bolder, more erratic.
He drew his lips along her jaw. “You feel incredible.”
“I… think I’m?—”
“Yes,” he whispered, pressing his thumb to her throbbing nub as his fingers moved faster.
She cried out, her body tensing, thighs trembling. Her entire form seized in his arms as she reached her climax, soft cries spilling from her lips. He held her through it, murmuring her name, kissing her temple.
She didn’t stop moving her hand. Her grip on him tightened with renewed determination, and he groaned, his body bucking into her touch.
“Georgina—”
She glanced up, her cheeks still flushed, and something flickered in her eyes—boldness, perhaps, or possession.
He erupted with a shuddering breath, clutching her waist as his release overtook him. It felt like something had broken open inside of him—raw, consuming, wholly hers.
For a long time, neither of them moved.
They lay sprawled in the grass, flushed and trembling, side by side like two beings flung from the same wild force.
Above them, the sun had begun sinking below the surrounding townhouses, and the sky was painted in warm amber.
Lysander reached out and took her hand.
