Page 62 of Stolen and Seduced By the Duke

This is Margaret, not some mistress to toy with. She is my wife, and the trust between us matters more than my hunger. Does it not?

He allowed his hand to fall away, though the absence of her warmth felt almost unbearable. "You see?" he murmured. "Not an illness."

Margaret gave him a breathless look. "Then what is it?"

Pierce's gaze held hers. "Something neither of us has been particularly good at ignoring."

She looked down at her hands, then back at him. "And can it be cured?"

He leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping. "Indeed it can."

Her heart seemed to beat visibly beneath her throat. "How?"

Pierce studied her face, searching for uncertainty. What he found instead was desire mingled with nerves, and that combination nearly destroyed the last of his restraint.

His heart pumped. The heat on his skin overpowered every thought.

Pierce drew a slow breath. He had never wanted anything quite so fiercely, and that frightened him more than he cared to admit. He reached for her hand instead, threading his fingers carefully through hers.

"I'll show you, but once I do so," he murmured, holding her gaze, "there is no turning back."

* * *

Margaret stared at him, her pulse fluttering beneath her skin as the firelight cast a warm glow across the handsome severity of his face.

"What exactly are you going to do to me?" she asked, though the question emerged far more breathlessly than she intended, and she immediately wished she had managed to sound less nervous.

Pierce’s mouth curved with quiet amusement as he regarded her from beneath dark lashes.

"I am going to give you… a massage of sorts to relieve you," he replied, lifting one brow as though the answer ought to have been obvious.

Margaret narrowed her eyes at him, though the faint smile threatening her lips betrayed her amusement. "And you are an expert in this?" she asked, folding her hands primly in her lap.

"I am a duke," Pierce answered smoothly, moving closer with that maddening confidence she was beginning to recognize. "I am expected to be competent at everything."

She gave a disbelieving little laugh and shook her head. "That is an astonishingly arrogant thing to say."

His expression remained perfectly composed, though amusement flickered in his mismatched eyes. "It is also true."

Despite herself, Margaret laughed, and some of the nervousness inside her eased at the sound.

"Very well, Your Grace," she said, settling herself more comfortably. "But you must be gentle. I have never done anything like this before."

Something softened in Pierce’s expression, and his teasing manner gave way to quiet attentiveness. "Then I shall be gentle," he promised, his voice lower as he moved behind her.

Margaret became acutely aware of him as he turned his back to him and sat behind her. She could feel the warmth of his body through the small space separating them, and the awareness sent an inexplicable shiver along her spine.

With careful fingers, he removed the shawl from her shoulders and dropped it on the floor. Next, he loosened the small ties at the neckline of her nightdress so that the fabric rested more comfortably around her shoulders, and Margaret drew in a startled breath as she turned her head slightly.

Pierce immediately paused, his hands still. "Is that all right?" he asked, watching her reflection in the polished mirror across the room.

"Yes," she whispered, reassured by the fact that he had asked. She faced forward again and drew a slow breath. "It is simply... all very new."

His hands settled upon her shoulders, warm and firm, and he began to work the tension from the muscles there.

Margaret closed her eyes almost immediately. His touch was deliberate rather than hurried, his thumbs tracing slow circles along the tightness gathered at the base of her neck, and she felt herself gradually sinking into the cushions.

"Oh," she murmured before she could stop herself.