His hand swept around her ribcage, sliding up, bold and sure. Through the silk of her bodice, his fingers found her breast, cupping it, testing the weight, thumb brushing across the already-tightened peak until she gasped into his mouth again.
“Elias—” Her voice broke on his name.
He rested his forehead against hers, breath ragged, as though fighting himself even now. “I know,” he whispered. “I know I shouldn’t…”
But he didn’t pull away.
And neither did she.
He pressed his palm firmer, rougher, fingers pinching just enough to make her whimper. The sound undid him. His mouth found the delicate curve of her throat, kissing, biting, then soothing the same place with his tongue.
Her knees buckled. He caught her, strong arms holding her upright as he manoeuvred her back against the edge of his desk. The wood bit into her spine through her dress, but she barely noticed. He was everywhere—hands, mouth, breath, voice—and she was burning.
One of his legs pressed between hers, parting them, anchoring her. Her skirts tangled as he wedged his thigh upward, not crudely, but deliberately, slowly, until the pressure settled exactly where she was aching.
She shuddered.
The friction—oh, the exquisite friction—was maddening. Her hips bucked of their own accord, seeking it, and he cursed softly, a low sound that vibrated against her collarbone.
“Celine,” he ground out, voice hoarse with restraint. “If you keep moving like that—”
“Then stop me,” she whispered, dazed and drunk on him.
His forehead dropped to hers. Their breaths mingled, short and ragged. Sweat beaded at his temple despite the chill in the air. He looked at her then—really looked—and the sight undid them both.
Her hair was half-down, her bodice askew, eyes wide and wet and burning.
His cravat hung loose. His coat had slipped off one shoulder. His pupils were blown wide, mouth reddened and trembling with restraint.
And yet he held himself back—just barely.
“I want—” he began, but the words failed him, too raw, too dangerous.
Celine lifted her hand, threading her fingers through his hair, urging him toward her again. “Then take.”
The sound he made was almost a groan—not frustration, but surrender. He kissed her again, slower yet deeper, a kiss that trembled with longing and reverence. A kiss that felt like a promise on the edge of breaking. His hands slid down her sides, over her hips, gripping them as if anchoring himself to the last thread of sanity.
When he tore himself away at last, his breath broke against her cheek—pained, wanting, tormented.
They stood like that for several heartbeats, foreheads touching, both shaking under the weight of what they’d unleashed. It wasn’t rejection. It was unbearable desire fighting equally unbearable fear. A silent battle, drawn taut between them.
At length, he whispered, voice cracked and unguarded, “That is why we need distance. Why the country. The locked doors. The cold rules. Because if I stay here—if I staylike this—I will not stop.”
“Maybe the rules shouldn’t matter,” she murmured. “Not with us.”
His laugh was soft, broken, disbelieving. “They matter most with us.” He brushed his thumb along her lower lip, a touch so tender it nearly unmade her—and him. “You undo me. Entirely.”
He stepped back—not abruptly, but slowly, as if it cost him something to release her. He moved behind the desk again, needing the barrier not to push her away, but to protect them both from what he knew he would do otherwise.
“We leave at dawn,” he said, voice still ragged. “Be ready.”
Celine left his study on unsteady legs, the echo of his touch humming through her.
Chapter Ten
The next morning arrived grey and misty—an apt backdrop for a journey that felt like both escape and pursuit. Celine dressed carefully in a travelling gown of deep blue wool and pinned her hair in a style meant to withstand hours in a jolting carriage. When she descended to the entrance hall, she found the Duke already waiting, dressed in travelling clothes that managed to be both practical and impossibly elegant.
“Good morning,” she said, the words formal on her tongue as servants bustled about with last-minute preparations.
