Page 23 of A Wicked Duke's Arranged Marriage
Was he really so depraved that he would have backed her right back into that loveseat if there hadn’t been an audience?
There was a part of him that was afraid he was.
He could see it. The way that she’d stumble and the way that he would catch her. The way that he would lower his mouth first to hers to see if she really tasted like vanilla and spice. The way he would pry her lips open with her tongue to taste her more fully.
He could hear her gasp, the way she would cling to him.
And he knew that would be his undoing. There would be no stopping him then.
His hand drifted down his abdomen, his fingers pressing into the fabric as he drew another agonized groan from himself.
Would she kiss him back? Would she know how?
He didn’t think it would matter. He knew he could teach her. He would taste her until she was out of breath, and then he would allow himself to deviate from her lips. He would kiss his way across her jawline and towards those delicate lines of her throat.
She’d make that small noise that only a woman seemed capable of making. Her back would arch, and he would step into her, pressing his arousal into her belly to show her just how much she affected him.
She’d gasp, and he’d push back until the backs of her knees buckled against the couch, and then he’d follow her.
A groan grew, trapped in the back of Henry’s throat as he tilted his head back and allowed himself to imagine his hand as hers. His large, blunted fingers as her small, thin set instead.
It had been so long since he had been touched or even since he’d been this tempted to touch himself.
Would she be as tan beneath the neckline of her dress?
He thought not. That would be fair, untouched by sun skin. It would pebble with desire as he pulled her dress down, baring first one shoulder then the other. He’d kiss his way across them, pulling the bodice of her dress down slowly until it caught on the swells of her breasts.
“Your Grace?”
Henry’s hand stopped just short of the waistband of his trousers, his fingers clenching further as he thanked all the stars for the fact that his back was to the open study door and that Harbuttle had announced himself before even turning the corner.
“Yes?” Henry asked, the word more clipped and strained than he would have liked.
“Did you require anything else before you retire for the night?”
Privacy.
It was an unfair thought, riddled with an impatience that the old butler didn’t deserve.
“No, thank you, Harbuttle. Actually …” Henry paused, clearing his throat and turning his head so that he didn’t scandalize his oldest servant by clearly displaying what he had been just about to do. “A bottle of whisky if you wouldn’t mind. One from my reserves.”
“A bottle, Your Grace?” Harbuttle checked, one eyebrow raising.
Henry didn’t have it in him to feel any more shame than he did already.
“Yes, a bottle.” He would drink the whole damn thing, too.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Harbuttle murmured, backing away and disappearing from sight once more.
Henry could feel himself twitch within his trousers, feel that instinct to resume what had been interrupted, but there had been enough time for that guilt to set in.
What in the hell was he doing?
How had Josephine affected him so fully so fast? What business did he have being so attracted to her? She was only supposed to be a means to an end. A mother to the children that he wanted and needed to produce.
He knew that would involve some degree of physical intimacy. He hadn’t been ignorant enough not to have considered that. He had just … thought it would require some degree of getting used to it.
He hadn’t expected to be so fully ready to begin such a venture.
