Page 93 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

She felt down herself with her other hand, dragging it slowly down her stomach until finally she reached her damp curls. “Here? Like this?”

He made a sound that might have been agreement, or might have been torment. “Like that. Find your bud. There will be a place that is especially sensitive. You will want to touch that. Rub it gently. Find what feels best. Listen to your body.”

Her body was clamoring for his input, but she tried to pay attention to the sensation of her fingers, the sparks of pleasure that came from the contact. She was so very wet, almost slippery, but that merely aided her movements.

There, that must be her bud. A place where sensation seemed to stem. When she ran her fingers over it, her body jerked entirely out of her control.

In the end, as Andrew watched, she almost stilled the hand inside herself—it was so much less than she felt she wanted—and concentrated on the fingers sliding through her folds. As the pleasure grew even greater, drawing her toward her peak, she felt her own coordination lessen even as the sensation grew almost too overwhelming. She pressed her knees together, trapping her hand.

“Andrew,” she moaned.

The leather creaked as he sat on the very edge of the chair. “Open your legs, my love,” he said, or rather, begged.

Her Andrew, begging her.

She would never have enough of that.

“You’re close,” he told her. “Open your legs and keep going. That will get you there. Please.”

She did as he commanded, opening her legs and pressing right against her bud, right where she needed it the most.

And after an excruciating few seconds as she felt her climax building, she finally exploded.

It did not quite feel like the same climaxes she’d had with Andrew before. Then, he’d been holding the reins, and he’d been able to continue touching her the way she needed the most. This time, her own fingers held her in place, and she was unable to maintain the pressure she needed.

When she opened her eyes again, once the final flutterings had passed, she opened her eyes to find Andrew on the very edge of his chair, his fingers white-knuckled on the arms.

“Jessamine,” he said.

She could wait no longer; she wanted to wait no longer. She opened her arms to him. “Come.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. In a heartbeat, he was across the room and crawling over her, pressing her back into the bed.

“You do not know what waiting did to me,” he said against her neck. His length twitched against her, hot and demanding.

Jessamine smiled at the ceiling. “I can guess.”

“Will you do that to me often?”

“As often as I please. Will you do as I request often?”

“As often as you request it,” he said, and he kissed her, pressing her back against the pillows. “Though it may kill me.”

“I hope it doesn’t.” She tilted his face to hers. “I hope it is the sweetest torment.”

“It is that.” He kissed her back, deeply, claiming her mouth with more desperation than usual.

As though he felt the need to prove to the world—to himself, to her—that she belonged to him.

And Jessamine, no longer wishing to be held apart, yielded to him entirely.

“I love you,” she said, pressing a hand against his heart. His entire body stiffened, and she smiled up at him. There was a first for him, too.

“How long?” he asked hoarsely.

“Mm, a little while. Perhaps since the first ball we attended together, although I didn’t know until later. It’s been some weeks.”

“Weeks,” he repeated, kissing the sensitive spot below her ear. “You have loved me for weeks? Even as I have been?”