Page 82 of The Duchess Curse

“Bran,” she breathed.

“Yes, lass,” he mumbled against her skin.

“Bran…” She could not get past that one syllable, that small collection of sounds as he wound her body tighter.

“Yes, lass?” His voice raspy as he set his lips against the skin of her chest, the scruff of his cheeks roughing against the top of her breast. When she didn’t answer, he nipped at her skin, held her tight, and said, “Anything, Guin. I’ll give you any damn thing you desire.”

He couldn’t do that.

But oh, how perfect to let him try. “More.” The only word she could manage to say.

But he must have known exactly what she meant because he slipped another finger inside her as he pressed on her clit, and her body wound all the way up, every muscle tightening to its tautest point before she exploded into a thousand falling stars.

He spoke slowly as he dragged hands and lips and body up her body, stopping at her throat where strange sounds vibrated—purrs and moans that increased as he kissed her neck, her chin, her⁠—

She turned her head.

A thaw settled between them, and he backed away. She felt the lift of the mattress as he left the bed.

“No.” Her voice was weak, and the hand she lifted, reaching for him, was heavy and limp. “Don’t go. I want…”

“Anything, lass. Tell me.”

“More. And…” He set his knee on the bed again, reversed his retreat. “Take me however you want me.” Her arm dropped, her grin was barely there, but when his body covered hers once more, she exhaled. Nothing had ever felt so right.

18

NO NEED FOR CONTROL

She didn’t want his kiss, and it fucking hurt. But she was clinging to him, her mouth opening with long moans of ecstasy that sounded like invitations. If he set his mouth against hers, it would be just right. He licked her pulse instead, nipped her earlobe, and she urged him on with a roll of the hips, with nails down his back, wanting more.

He wanted more, too.

But she wasn’t ready for it.

He tore away from her. “Wait.”

“For what? Are you scared? Incapable… of more?” She ran her fingertips down his cock. “Or will you use the body that protects me to… pleasure me?”

He buried his face in her neck, inhaled deeply, wrapping the silken tangle of her hair around his fist. “I’m not scared, Guin. And you’ll find me… very capable. I… want you to be sure.”

“I am.”

“And I want you to know…” He lifted, planting his palms on each side of her head, gazing down at her. “There’s no potion between us. Nothing forced or fake. No lies, no glamours, no wrong names. This is Guin”—he cuffed her wrist with one large hand and placed her palm against his bare chest—“and Bran. Do you understand, lass?” His brogue was thick, and his shaft was thicker, and thicker than all that the need that drowned him.

She was wet and trembling between her legs, and she pressed her thighs together with a little shiver. “I understand.”

His tried to kiss her. He couldn’t stop himself from trying, but she turned her head as soon as he lowered, and he stopped before his lips touched her cheek.

A low growl. “Fine, have it your way. But every other way will be mine.”

“Yes.” Again she was moving beneath him, surrendering instead of commanding, releasing herself into his keeping.

He had laid still for her, letting her chain his hands to the bed when he could have broken her hold with a twitch of one muscle. He had let her do as she pleased while she roused his body past need and into something cataclysmic. The wanting he felt would rip him apart. The wanting she’d been stoking in him since he met her, which had multiplied higher than he could count since she’d returned to Mayfair, would redefine him, fill him so completely he became something—someone else.

But it was his turn, and if he applied himself correctly, he could, perhaps, stoke a similarly mad desire in her, have her helpless and wiggling and panting and desperate for him.

As he’d always been for her.