Page 63 of His Stolen Duchess
Georgina reached down, threading her fingers through his hair as though she needed something to anchor her to the earth.
She pushed him closer, and he did not resist.
“Mmm…” she exhaled, trembling. “Please… don’t stop.”
The growl that answered her was wolflike, possessive, primal. It vibrated through her and into her core, making her cry out again, her voice smothered by the palm she brought to her lips. London might as well have vanished beyond the carriage walls for all that it now mattered.
He devoured her with reverence and hunger, his tongue circling, teasing, pressing. Her hips rolled with his rhythm, helpless to stop the movement, so utterly absorbed by it. One of his hands gripped her thigh to keep her steady, the other slid around to cradle her bottom, drawing her closer to his mouth.
She could not have stopped him if she wanted to. And she did not want to.
The moment stretched—liquid, golden, unbearable.
A tiny jolt of the wheels knocked them both gently upward. She gasped again, the unexpected friction of movement tipping her closer to the edge. Her hand clawed for the cushions, desperate to hold herself together, but she was already unraveling.
His lips closed around her swollen bud, sucking softly before lashing it with his tongue.
Her back arched. She couldn’t stop herself. Her legs trembled, her stomach tightened.
“Lysander,” she whispered. “Oh—please?—”
It was a prayer, demand, and surrender, all at once.
Then came the crescendo.
He held her down as she shattered, her thighs trembling beneath his palms, her moans caught somewhere between pleasure and disbelief. She convulsed in slow waves, the sensation cresting and breaking repeatedly until her voice gave out and her limbs went slack.
She slumped against the velvet cushions, boneless, her chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. Her pulse drummed in her ears.
Still, he lingered. He pressed one final kiss to her inner thigh, and only then did he lift his head.
The coach came to a smooth stop.
“Impeccable timing,” he muttered with a crooked smile, his voice rough with restraint.
Georgina couldn’t meet his eyes.
She couldn’t even look at him—this man who had just kneeled before her and coaxed such sounds from her, who had touched her with worshipful patience and brought her body to its first bloom of pleasure.
He smoothed down her skirts with meticulous care, then offered her his hand. She took it, dazed, her fingers trembling in his.
The cool air outside hit her flushed skin as the door opened.
Mr. Squawksby shrieked somewhere in the shadows of the townhouse as they stepped into the lamplight.
She couldn’t feel the ground beneath her feet. She was floating—light, warm, remade.
The Duke said nothing as he guided her up the stairs, pausing only at the door to her chamber.
He did not enter.
“That will do for tonight,” he said, almost gently. He kissed her brow. “Rest.”
She wanted to say something—ask him to stay, ask him to hold her, ask what this meant—but her lips would not form the words. She only watched as he disappeared down the corridor.
She lay back on her bed, still wearing the evidence of his attention, the scent of him absorbed in her skin.
The room was dark, the world quiet. And still, her body hummed like a plucked string.
