Page 54 of The Duchess Trap
Then the sharp graze of his teeth against her bare skin jolted her to herself. Her eyes flew open, panic flooding her. “We shouldn’t—We are in public.”
His head lifted just enough for her to see the impish gleam in his eyes. “I do not care.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. “But someone might?—”
“See a man pleasuring his wife,” his voice dropped low. The huskiness sent a tremor of pleasure through her core. “I do not see any shame in that.”
Before she could find words to stop him, he shifted. Rising from the bench with a fluid grace, he dropped to his knees before her.
Her breath tangled. “What are you?—”
But she never finished. His hands slid along her skirts, before lifting them with deliberate slowness until cool air brushed against the fever of her skin.
Her body seized with shock. “Duncan,” she gasped.
“Shh, it’s all right, my dear. Let me devour you in peace,” he purred, and his broad shoulders forced space between her knees as he pressed himself forward, his head disappearing beneath the drape of her gown.
Catherine trembled. Her heart pounded so violently she feared it would give them away and others would come running to their aid. She glanced wildly at the garden’s shadows, at the lanterns casting their faint glow, at the dark hedge shielding them only partially from view.
If anyone came near, if anyone saw…
And yet?—
A gasp tore from her throat as she felt the first stroke of his mouth against the tender skin of her inner thigh. She wriggled against his touch. It tickled her slightly but before she could get used to the sensation his lips inched higher.
Her hands shot down, grasping at his shoulders. Her head tipped back and her thighs shook as he continued kissing her. She bit her lip, desperate to contain the sounds clawing at her throat.
“Duncan…” she whispered.
The syllables sounded shaky, even to her own ears. She was torn between wanting more, wanting to feel what pleasures her husband promised to show her, and a strange sense of giddiness. His every touch sent a ripple through her womanhood, and it was so difficult to hold her body still.
He did not relent. His hands pressed more firmly against her thighs, anchoring her, spreading her open. The fabric of her gown rustled as it shifted higher, the cool night air brushing where she was most aflame.
Then came the first touch of his tongue—hot and devastating—at the soft curve of her inner thigh.
Catherine jolted, her breath catching on a cry she dared not release. His lips lingered there, tasting, coaxing, each slow drag of his mouth sending sparks leaping up her nerves. The rasp of his beard against that delicate skin made her shiver violently, her knees trembling against his grip.
He moved higher, then lower, never in haste, never without purpose. His tongue traced along her skin with deliberate care, worshipping each inch as though she were something holy.
She could feel the wet heat of him painting fire across her thighs, the shocking intimacy of it making her head pound.
Shame coursed through her—what if someone came upon them, what if she were seen like this, her skirts parted, her body undone? The thought tangled cruelly with pleasure so fiercely that it stole the very air from her lungs.
She bit her lip until it hurt, fighting to hold in the sounds clawing at her throat.
Still, he did not stop. The grip of his hands was firm, holding her precisely where he wanted her, forcing her to endure every stroke, every kiss, every caress. The reverence and hunger in him were unbearable. He touched her not as though she were flesh and bone, but as though she were his altar, his obsession, his possession.
Dear God, she had never known pleasure like this even existed. She longed to cry out his name.
But nothing could’ve prepared her for when his mouth found the center of her thighs.
“God,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Duncan.”
Her cry was strangled, torn between joy and incomprehension. She knew not what he was doing to her or how this blissful moment would end, but she bucked her hips in response and prayed that was what she was meant to do. Her head fell back ashe continued to lick her. The garden spun and her eyes fluttered closed.
Pleasure struck like lightning. His tongue parted her, stroking her with a slow, deliberate sweep that made her back arch violently, a helpless moan escaping before she could contain it. He circled her with devastating patience, tasting, teasing, pressing deeper with each pass as though intent on unraveling her inch by inch.
The world narrowed to the relentless rhythm of him, the flick of his tongue against the most tender part of her, the steady pressure that built and built until she thought she might scream. Every stroke carried both mastery and hunger, a devotion that felt like worship, and it dragged her deeper into madness.
