Page 62 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
Her protest dissolved as his mouth crashed down on hers.
This was no genteel kiss, no delicate brush fit for Hyde Park promenades. It was raw, unrestrained hunger. His lips hard and consuming, his tongue thrusting past hers with ruthless command. Catherine whimpered against him, her body betraying her, her hands fisting in his coat as though she could anchor herself against the storm he unleashed.
He pressed her back against the tree, caging her there, his thigh wedged shamelessly between hers. The hard lines of his body left no room for doubt—every inch of him was taut with need, his arousal pressing bold and unyielding through the fine fabric of his trousers. She gasped at the unmistakable ridge against her hip, heat flooding through her at the memory of exactly how he had felt inside her that night.
“My goodness, I cannot do this anymore,” he growled against her mouth, his breath ragged. “The pretending. The distance. The cursed propriety while every part of me screams for you. I need you, Catherine. To taste you. To have you. To remind you you’re mine.”
Her head tipped back helplessly, his mouth searing down her throat, biting lightly at the hollow where her pulse leapt.She should have pushed him away, should have warned him that riders were only yards away, but instead her hands slid lower, desperate, reckless.
Her fingers brushed the hard length straining against his breeches.
James shuddered violently, his breath breaking into a hiss. His head dropped to her shoulder, his body jerking as though the touch had undone him utterly.
“My goodness, Catherine,” he rasped, his voice dangerous. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her hand daring to press more firmly, feeling the rigid proof of his desire beneath the taut fabric. “You ache for me. Just as I ache for you.”
A filthy groan escaped him, muffled against her neck. He seized her wrist, holding it tight, though not before her touch had wrung another shiver from him. “You wicked little temptress. Do you mean to ruin me here, against a tree like some common rake?” His eyes burned into hers, pupils blown wide, his control unraveling.
Her lips curved despite the heat suffusing her cheeks. “I only meant to remind you you’re not the only one suffering.”
He growled, low and feral, and pressed himself harder against her hand before shoving it back against the bark, pinning it above her head. “One more second of that,” he said roughly, “and I would have taken you here, in daylight, in full view of halfthe ton. Is that what you want? For them to see you undone, spread for me while they ride by?”
Her thighs trembled, her breath caught, shame and need twisting deliciously inside her. “No,” she whispered. “But I wantyou.”
His forehead pressed to hers, his jaw taut with restraint, his body vibrating with it. “You’ll have me,” he vowed darkly. “But not here. Not where others can steal the sight of what belongs only to me.”
He kissed her again, fierce and punishing, before dragging himself back a fraction, though his arousal still pressed hot and insistent against her. His hands gripped her waist like shackles. “Three weeks,” he said, the words half a curse. “Three cursed weeks until I can strip you bare and make you scream my name. Heaven help us both if you test me like this again before then. Like the first time I ruined you.”
“You did not ruin me the first time,” she whispered, her lips swollen from his kiss.
“Did I not?” His grey eyes burned into hers, sharp and unrelenting. “You were innocent. I should never have touched you.”
“You made me alive,” she said fiercely, voice trembling with passion. “You showed me what desire could be. Gave me something to cling to in these endless weeks of silence.”
His mask slipped then, the cold ducal hauteur collapsing into something raw, tortured, hungry. “Catherine…”
“Your Grace? Are you there?”
Lord Ashford’s voice, too close, shattered the moment.
James tore himself back at once, his hands unerringly efficient as he smoothed her gown, tugged her shawl into place, even brushed a stray curl from her flushed cheek before retreating. By the time Ashford appeared around the tree, they stood side by side, a perfectly proper distance between them—though Catherine’s racing pulse and heated cheeks betrayed how false the tableau was.
“Ah, there you are,” Ashford said, his eyes narrowing, gaze flicking between them with keen suspicion. “I was concerned. She thought Lady Catherine had stumbled.”
“How very kind of her,” Catherine replied dryly, gathering what composure she could. “As you see, I am perfectly well.”
“Indeed.” Ashford’s tone suggested doubt. He let his gaze linger a fraction too long before adding, “Though perhaps you should return home, Lady Catherine. The sun grows rather warm.”
The air was crisp and cool, not remotely warm, but Catherine seized the lifeline. “You are right. Your Grace,” she said, turning to James with as much dignity as she could muster, “would you be so kind as to escort me?”
“Of course.” His bow was impeccable, but his eyes when they met hers were anything but—dark, promising, possessive.
As they walked away, Catherine could feel Ashford’s scrutiny prickling between her shoulder blades, and she knew that whispers would follow before the hour was out.
They left Ashford standing there, suspicious but without proof. The ride back to her aunt's house was silent, both of them too aware of what had almost happened.
At her door, James helped her dismount, his hands lingering on her waist longer than necessary.
