Page 60 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
“We’re leaving,” he decided then, knowing full well that he was not going to last the hour with the way his member strainedwithin the confines of his breeches. “Now. Ralph can see Percy home.”
Samantha hesitated, then nodded slowly, her cheeks still flushed red from her release. “All right then.”
He helped her rise, gently adjusting the bodice of her gown, his fingers lingering. She trembled under his touch but didn’t pull away.
They left the library together, silent but close; his hand resting at her waist, her eyes flickering at him every few steps as if to confirm he was real, that this moment was real.
By the time they exited into the cool night, the carriage waiting, neither of them looked back.
CHAPTER 17
“Ewan,” Samantha murmured the moment the carriage door shut behind them, cutting off the last strains of music from the Ashworths’ ballroom. The air inside seemed thick, holding the warmth of the night and the charged hum of what had just passed between them. Her voice came soft, as though speaking too loudly might shatter it.
“Yes, my tigress?” The rolling lamplight through the window caught the hard lines of his cheekbones, the unwavering focus in his eyes. He didn’t look away.
“In the library …” She swallowed, her pulse tripping. “That wasn’t?—”
“I meant every moment of it,” he said, cutting in without hesitation. His voice carried that roughened edge that set her blood alight—low, deep, threaded with hunger. “And if this carriage ride takes much longer, I might disgrace us both and finish what I started right here.”
Her breath caught. “Is that a threat?”
He leaned forward, the scent of him—warm leather, salt, something darker—curling into her senses. “A promise.”
The word sank into her skin like heat. The silence after seemed alive, wound tight with the rhythm of the wheels on the cobblestones and her own quickening breaths.
“Come here.”
Her body obeyed before her mind could catch up. She slid across the seat, her skirts rustling in the hush, until her knees brushed his. His palm rose, cupping her cheek, his thumb grazing the seam of her lips.
“Is this truly happening?” Samantha whispered, her voice scarcely audible. The question hung between them, fragile as spun glass, embodying all the hesitancy and wonder she’d locked away deep in her heart. Now, it fought to spill free and sully this moment.
But her husband only smiled in response; the tiniest of smiles, really, but never had she witnessed such a devastating sight in all her life.
“If you wish it to stop, you need only say so,” he replied, his breath warm against her temple. There was a gentleness in his tone that belied his treacherous reputation—a considerationthat spoke of restraint rather than the reckless abandon for which rakes were notorious.
And Samantha found herself being the reckless one when she said, “I do not want it to stop.”
A deep groan filled the carriage, and Samantha could feel the sound against her palms. “Go on, my tigress, tempt me some more.” He said.
But he didn’t give her a chance to answer before his mouth was on hers. The kiss was fierce, taking, his lips molding to hers with a hunger that drew a soft sound from her throat. Her hands found his lapels, fisting there, pulling him closer.
By the time the carriage slowed to a stop, her lips were tingling, her heart pounding.
“We’re home,” he said against her mouth, but he didn’t stop kissing her until the footman opened the door.
They stepped down, his hand closing over hers, warm and steady, guiding her up the steps. The door had barely shut behind them before he had her pressed against it, his mouth devouring hers in another searing kiss. Her cloak fell to the floor, followed quickly by his coat.
“Upstairs,” he ordered, voice rough with need.
They moved as though they’d never reach the room fast enough, half-stumbling, half-laughing against each other’s mouths. He lifted her for the last few steps, her skirts swaying around his arms.
In the bedroom, he set her down and shut the door with a decisive click. Moonlight pooled through the tall windows, washing silver over the planes of his bare throat where his cravat hung loose.
His gaze swept over her slowly, like a caress, darkening with desire, the golden flecks within them catching the firelight like trapped stars. Samantha’s heart fluttered like a caged bird as Ewan set her upon her feet, his hands lingering at her waist, the heat of his palms perceptible even through the layers of her gown.
Yet he made no move to touch her further. Instead, he stepped back, creating a small space between them; a gesture that made her want to protest immediately. “Are you certain, Samantha? There will be no retreat after this.”
The formality of his inquiry touched something deep within her; a recognition of the significance of this moment. Here was a man who had claimed to want her body since their wedding night yet hesitated at the threshold of victory to ensure her willingness. It was not what she had expected from a rake whose reputation suggested conquest rather than consideration.
