Page 27 of The Duke Who Dared Me
He knew this would be bad.Sharing a room.Breathing the same air.Hell, the closet nearly finished him.But he hadn’t expected this.
Not want.Not desire.
Need.
“Are you asleep?”he asked at last.
“I was.”
Her voice, low and dry, tugged a smile from him.“Sorry.”
He heard her shift slightly, making room.Without a word, he rose from his makeshift bed on the floor and settled carefully on the far edge of the mattress, leaving space between them.
“Why did you say that?”she asked after a minute, so quiet he almost missed it.
“Say what?”
“That I’m not a mistake.”
He stared at the soft curve of her shoulder, the fall of tangled dark curls spilling down her back and over her shift.
“Because it’s true,” he said.“And I think...you believe that’s what I think of kissing you.That I regret it.”
She rolled onto her back, turning her face toward him at last.“You’re not usually this sentimental.”
“Lack of sleep is a wicked beast.”
She didn't smile.
“Or maybe I’m just tired of pretending you don’t get under my skin.”
Her brow lifted.“That’s what this is?Irritation?”
“No.”His voice didn’t sound familiar to him just then, the soft crack, the way he wavered.“That’s the problem.It never really was.”
She watched him carefully, like she was waiting for him to pull back again.“If it wasn’t irritation,” she said softly, “what was it all these years?The fighting, the distance, the tears…”
“I can’t bear to think I caused you to cry.”
“For a while, it seemed you enjoyed it.”She shrugged, like it didn’t matter.“I’m only Verity.”
He moved before he could stop himself, closing the careful distance he’d maintained, and brushed his knuckles over her chin.Her skin was impossibly soft.“Bug,” he whispered.“You matter.You’ve always mattered.It’s easier to argue than admit?—”
“Kiss me.”
His arm wrapped around her, pulling her flush against him.She leaned in, and her mouth met his with a kiss that shattered the last fragile thread of his restraint.
It was breathless.Desperate.Real.
“You can tell me to stop.”
Their hands fumbled with fastenings, with fabric, with the desperate need to be closer.Her shift tangled around her legs.The blankets slid forgotten to the floor.
But then, she caught his wrist.
“I don’t want you to,” she whispered, and though her voice was steady, her fingers trembled against his wrist.
When he kissed her again, it wasn’t just hunger.It was everything he’d buried for years under duty, under silence, under fear.It wasn’t surrender.It was relief.It felt like finally arriving home.
