Page 97 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
It was his turn to bite his lip and cling to sanity. Then he hauled in a breath, expanding his lungs, and gripping her hips, said, “Like this.”
He showed her how to ride him, initially helping her set the pace, but she soon caught the rhythm, and he could lean back, let his eyes feast, and try to hold his own demons at bay enough to wallow in the view.
Her curly golden tresses had slid free of the French knot and bounced about her alabaster shoulders. Her breasts were full and swollen and, here and there, flaunted the marks of his earlier attentions.
The sight tightened something in his gut, something primal and powerful.
As, now confident and sure, she rode him, her lips curved with pure delight, and her features all but glowed with an open sensuality that literally stole his breath.
He’d never—ever—been with such a captivating lover. Somehow or other, she—his wife, his duchess—drew on some hitherto unsuspected part of him and held that entity in her hands, a willing prisoner.
Meg had to keep her eyes closed in order to catalog everything her overloaded senses were relaying to her brain. The feel of him inside her was simply indescribable. So large, hard, and rigidly ungiving, yet as she rode him and he filled her slick channel, the friction was exquisite, the sensations sublime.
She finally understood why her sister and all her married cousins and cousins-in-law smiled so fondly upon their husbands. She hadn’t realized that passion and desire could move one to such sensual heights. To the point where the physical act became merely a way of connecting with emotions that ran much deeper.
She’d felt that tumbled jumble of raw and powerful emotions in his kiss, could feel it even now in his touch as his hands sculpted her body with a reverence that was impossible to miss.
She focused on that, on the feelings and emotions, and followed where they led. Rising and falling upon him, helped by the strength in his hands and arms, in increasing desperation, she forged on, knowing there had to be a destination to this journey, although she wasn’t entirely sure what it was.
The molten heat within her constricted, tightened, a heated spring winding tauter with every solid impaling thrust of his body into hers.
With every thudding beat of her heart.
Involuntarily, her body tightened about his, and still she pressed on.
Then suddenly, between one gasping breath and the next, she was flying.
Flying apart.
She screamed as her senses shattered, and she saw stars. Bright, brilliant explosions, a kaleidoscope of sensations fired and fled down every nerve.
Heat followed, a wash of glorious sensual warmth unlike any sensation she’d felt before.
The joy of it flooded her, washed through her, then slowly, very slowly, receded, and she slumped forward, catching herself on hands splayed across Drago’s damp chest.
Slumping fully down on his back, he drew her close, into his arms, then he rolled, taking her with him, placing her beneath him. Then he rose above her and moved inside her, and to her considerable surprise, her body, already humming with delight, responded anew.
Drago felt her rise to his next thrust and swallowed a groan. This engagement had—entirely unexpectedly—taken him into an arena unknown.
The unforgiving desperation to claim her, to make her his, was an order of magnitude greater than any compulsion he’d felt before. The experience of being wholly at the mercy of such ungovernable urges was both novel and beyond unsettling. Almost scarifying.
But Meg was his—his in a way no other lady had ever been.
His to hold, to protect. To cleave to in life’s storms.
Where did that thought come from?
Yet he knew it was true. She was destined to be his everything. She was slated to be the kernel of his life henceforth.
Even as he acknowledged that, he let the reins slide from his grasp and let his body take over. Knowing that the exigencies of the age-old dance could and would subsume all thought, he bowed his head, let go, and let Fate and whatever this was that had risen so powerfully between them have him.
Losing himself in her did, indeed, consume him.
She shattered anew, a sensation, a sight, he would never tire of, then as all tension drained from her, in a series of powerful thrusts that left him utterly undone, his body claimed its own release.
All strength drained from him, and on a muted groan, he slumped on his forearms, careful not to squash her into the mattress, soft though it was.
In the darkness that had fallen, in the country silence that now cocooned them, their breaths were labored, hers a warm puff against his cheek, their hearts still thudding as one in his ears.
