Page 60 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“Because you asked it of me,” Lysander said. He reached out, his large, rough hand lifting to rest gently against the side of her neck. His thumb brushed over the delicate skin of her jaw, his calloused touch sending a fierce, electric shiver straight down her spine.

Fanny’s lips parted in a soft, breathless gasp. “Lysander…”

“You have completely ruined my order, Fanny,” he growled softly, his dark gray eyes dropping to her mouth with a heavy, dangerous hunger that made her knees feel weak. “You have brought chaos, reptiles, and noise into my halls.”

Fanny didn’t step back. She didn’t lower her gaze. Instead, she lifted her hands, her small fingers curling tight into the dark, heavy wool of his coat lapels, pulling herself an inch higher on her toes.

A low, primal groan rumbled deep in Lysander’s chest. His iron restraint shattered completely. His arm swept around her waist, his large palm locking against the small of her back to pull her flush against his broad, solid frame.

Before Fanny could draw another breath, he kissed her.

The kiss was not hesitant; it was deep, possessive, and thick with the heavy, simmering desire that had been building between them for weeks. Lysander claimed her lips with a harsh, breathtaking demand that made Fanny moan softly against his mouth. His fingers tangled themselves in the soft hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back to deepen the contact, tasting her fully as if he were a starving man reaching a feast.

Fanny melted into him completely. Her hands slid up from his lapels, wrapping around his neck, her fingers burying themselves in the thick, dark strands of his hair. She pressed her soft body against his hard angles, meeting the wild, demanding heat of his kiss with an eager, breathless passion that sent a jolt of fire straight through Lysander’s veins.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she yielded, opening for him with a soft sigh. His hand on her waist tightened, lifting her slightly off her feet as he backed her two steps until her hips bumped against the edge of the heavy mahogany writing desk.

Lysander pulled back a fraction of an inch, his forehead resting against hers as they both breathed in ragged, frantic gasps.

“Fanny,” he rasped, his calloused thumb tracing the swollen, velvet curve of her bottom lip, his voice thick with raw emotion.

Fanny looked up into his face, her heart thumping frantically against her chest, her warm cheeks flushed a deep, delicious rose. She reached up, her thumb gently brushing across his tight, stubbled jawline, her lips curving into a soft, radiant, and thoroughly breathless smile.

“I am right here, Lysander,” she whispered.

His restraint snapped. With a low, possessive growl, Lysander leaned down and captured her mouth once more, his kiss far more demanding this time. His broad hands slid down to her waist, lifting her cleanly off the floor to seat her directly on the desk. Skirts gathered around her thighs in a rustle of heavy fabric, and Fanny gasped into his mouth, her hands tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Lysander pressed into the space between her knees, his broad chest rising and falling against hers. His mouth left her lips, trailing a line of hot, burning kisses along the angle of her jaw, down the sensitive curve of her throat, to the exposed dip of her collarbone.

Fanny arched into his touch, a soft, helpless moan slipping past her lips as his fingers pressed firmly into her waist, holding her anchored to him.

Every nerve in her body hummed with a fierce, liquid heat. She felt the heavy, thrumming pulse of his heart against her ribs, the scratch of his evening stubble against her chest, and the undeniable, hard ridge of his arousal pressed tight against her hip.

Lysander lifted his head, his dark gray eyes blown wide and wild with a hunger so intense it made her knees tremble. His fingers slid up her ribs, his thumbs brushing just beneath the swell of her breasts through the velvet of her dress.

“If you do not tell me to stop, Fanny,” Lysander rumbled, his voice scraped raw, his breath hot against her mouth, “I will take you right here on this desk.”

Fanny’s eyes locked onto his, her breath hitching as a shiver of pure thrill ran down her spine. The temptation to throw her arms around his shoulders and draw him down was overwhelming. But even through the haze of passion, she saw the dark, flickering shadow of doubt in his eyes—the fear that he was losing his grasp on control, that he was taking too much, too fast.

Slowly, deliberately, Fanny slid her palms up his chest, flattening her hands over the pounding heat of his heart.

“Not like this,” Fanny breathed softly, her voice steady despite the tremor in her body. “Not in the shadows of this room, Lysander. When you make me yours, I want it to be in the light, where you aren't fighting yourself.”

Lysander froze. A shudder passed through his massive frame as her words hit home. He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead heavily against her shoulder as he fought for breath, his broad hands tightening on her hips for one last, desperate second before he slowly let her go.

He stepped back, granting her space, though his dark gaze remained locked on her face.

Twenty-Three

The afternoon sun filtered through the high leaded windows of the room, casting long, honeyed stripes across the polished rosewood vanity.

Fanny sat quietly as Sarah worked a silver comb through the heavy, dark waves of her hair, the rhythmic snip-snap of the ivory-handled shears trimming a stray ribbon adding a soothing hum to the silent chamber. The house was peaceful; downstairs, the children were occupied with their afternoon lessons, and the quiet routines of Hilgrove Manor continued in their calm, orderly rhythm.

A soft knock sounded at the chamber door.

“Come in,” Fanny called out, shifting slightly in her velvet seat.

Mrs. Gable stepped across the threshold, carrying a heavy mahogany box wrapped in velvet in both hands. The housekeeper’s face, usually set in a strict, unreadable mask of household efficiency, held a rare, soft curve at the corners of her mouth. She crossed the rug with deliberate steps and set the box down on the vanity table beside Fanny’s silver-backed brushes.