Page 67 of In Need of a Duke
But that was then, and now he was back, and he wouldn’t stop until his wife loved him as much as he was in love with her.
CHAPTER 18
Charlotte had riddenthrough Hyde Park that afternoon, then read some, and had a quiet dinner by herself.
And as furious as she was with Ian for behaving as he had at the modiste, she couldn’t shake the feeling that had washed over her as he cupped her face and asked who had hurt her. There had been those in the shop today, and countless others over the years. It wasn’t a new experience, but to see him realize her hurt, she thought maybe the ice in her husband’s heart was finally cracking.
And that was the part she couldn’t reconcile.
But it didn’t explain the way her body had been set on fire for the rest of the day. Or why, in her bath, she had closed her eyes and dreamed how he had climbed in there beside her not long ago.
Could she desire her husband without loving him?
Clearly, her body did, and her poor mind was helpless to wage such a battle.
She was desperate for his touch, need pooling between her legs as her pulse thrummed, and she tossed and turned in her bed later that evening. He hadn’t returned, hadn’t sent a note.
Just. left.
Her breasts were tender as her chemise brushed across hernipples. She sighed, pressing her hips into the mattress, thinking of him moving above her, driving into her. Bringing about her pleasure.
In all their years apart, she had never allowed another man to touch her. She was his, faithfully.
Charlotte pulled her chemise higher, her fingers brushing against her upper thigh as her hand settled to that spot between her legs. She parted herself with a slip of her finger, stroking the small pearl.
It was as if she set fire to herself.
She moaned softly, her left hand clutching the bedsheets as she gently explored herself with her right hand. Her fingers were slick from her need, and she bucked her hips, thinking only of Ian and that low growl he made whenever they kissed.
His lips against hers, traveling slowly down the length of her neck, sucking at the hollow of her throat before his hand cupped her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples until they both were taut.
She whimpered.
Ian would bend down, and with a wicked, sinful slip of his tongue, he would lick her nipple, drawing it into his mouth and biting until the pleasure bordered on the sweetest pain.
“Ian,” she sighed again, the tension climbing in her body.
What did it mean that she wanted her husband but couldn’t allow herself to love him? Could she share pleasure with him without needing to do so?
She thought of him in the sun, how the light reflected off his dark hair and how, when showed kindness, his eyes held only warmth and longing for her. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t noticed during the past several weeks.
Then his lips, warm and tasting sweet, perhaps from eating strawberry, would press against hers and kiss her slowly, ever so slowly as if he meant to memorize every small detail of her.
“Hmm,” she moaned. “Ian.”
His mouth, chasing his hungry hands until it placed a kiss on her quim.
Warmth flooded her body, her pleasure close.
“Are you thinking of me, Honeybee?”
She stilled, her hand between her legs as Ian stood in the doorway. In the dark room, only the moonlight shone around his silhouette, hiding his face. Maybe she would have cared about being caught one or two glasses of brandy ago, but even after the bath, nothing had taken the edge off.
And now she was too close to care.
“What a good girl, touching yourself. I bet it feels so good.”
She swallowed back her whimper, her want bordering on frustration now.
