She wanted, for once, to take the lead—to see him yield, to discover what lay beyond the careful control he so rarely relinquished.
The thought alone sent heat rushing to her face. Governess Lorraine Weston, daughter of a country man, disgraced woman of no fortune, did not think such thoughts.
Except that she did.
She thought them constantly—at breakfast, during geography lessons, while helping Thomas mix paint, while reading perfectly respectable novels in perfectly respectable chairs. She thought about the weight of him in her hand, the way his breath caught when she touched him, the way he said her name as though it were the only word he knew.
This is what he has done to me,she thought, without an ounce of regret.
He has made me greedy.
***
She came to his chambers at half past ten—late enough for Thomas to be deeply asleep, early enough that the house had not yet settled into the total silence that made every footstep sound like cannon fire.
Dominic was standing by the window, his coat and cravat already removed, his shirt loose at the throat. The firelight caught the planes of his face, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the pale eyes that tracked her from the door to the centre of the room with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
“You are early,” he said.
“I am impatient.” She closed the door behind her. “There is a distinction.”
Lorraine crossed the room without haste. She had learned the value of it—the slow approach, the way his breath altered, the subtle tightening of his hands at his sides. She stopped just short of touching him.
“I wish to try something,” she said. “And I require your cooperation.”
A flicker of wariness—and something darker—passed through his gaze. “Lorraine—”
“You are to remain precisely where you are.” She set her hand against his chest, over the rapid beat of his heart. “And you are not to take control.”
“That is a severe restriction.”
“It is a necessary one.”
A breath of laughter escaped him, strained at the edges. “What is it you intend?”
She met his eyes.
“I want to see what becomes of you,” she said quietly, “when you are not the one directing everything.”
The words settled between them.
He did not move.
“Yes,” he said at last, his voice low. “Very well.”
She kissed him first. Slowly, carefully, her hands framing his face—thumbs tracing his cheekbones, fingers threading into the dark hair at his temples. He trembled. The Duke of Ravenswood, the Glacier, the man who had faced cannon fire at Badajoz, trembled under her hands like a leaf in a gale, and the power of it flooded through her like warm wine.
She undid his shirt with steady fingers—steadier than she felt—and pressed her lips to his collarbone. His breath stuttered. She kissed lower, tasting salt and warmth, following the trail of dark hair down his chest, across the flat plane of his stomach. She felt the muscles contract beneath her mouth, heard his breathing turn shallow and ragged.
“Lorraine.” His voice was wrecked. “You’re—I can’t—”
“You can.” She sank to her knees before him. Looked up. “Watch me.”
He watched. His hands found her hair—not guiding, only holding, his fingers threading through the loose waves she had unbound before coming to him. And when she took him into her mouth—slowly, carefully, learning him—the sound he made broke the silence of the room like something fragile giving way.
She was clumsy. She knew it—knew she lacked experience, technique, anything beyond instinct. But his response—the broken gasps, the tremor in his thighs, the repeated fall of her name from his lips—told her that perfection was beside the point.
Surrender was the point.
