Page 67 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

His boots thundered against the marble of the grand staircase, each stride a predator’s pace, eating the distance to the upper floor. The world was a blur of dark wood and shadowy portraits, the storm outside a distant echo to the one raging between them. He shouldered through the heavy oak door of his bedchamber without breaking stride, kicking it shut behind them.

The room was bathed in the low, amber glow of a single candle beside his vast four-poster bed. Rain lashed against the tall windows, the sound a percussive, intimate rhythm. He set her down beside the bed, his hands immediately finding the row of tiny, pearl-like buttons running down the back of her gown. His fingers were rough, impatient, fumbling with the delicate fastenings as if they were an offense to his urgency.

“Let me,” Fanny whispered, turning to face him.

Her own fingers, though trembling, were more deft. She reached up and began undoing the buttons herself, her eyes never leaving his. His gaze was dark, hungry, fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch and her blood heat. The emerald silk slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a whisper of fabric. She stood before him in her thin chemise, the fine linen doing little to hide the soft curves and shadowed hollows beneath.

Lysander’s breath audibly hitched. His eyes traveled over her—slowly, deliberately—from the swell of her breasts to the curve of her hips and the long line of her thighs. He reached out, his calloused fingers tracing the neckline of her chemise, following the path of the fabric across her collarbone. The touch was feather-light, yet it seared her skin.

“You are exquisite,” he rasped, his voice rough as gravel.

A flush crept up Fanny’s neck and into her cheeks. She reached for the buttons of his waistcoat, her fingers fumbling now as his head. The garment joined her gown on the floor, followed by his cravat and the stark white linen of his shirt. When she finally pushed the shirt aside, she gasped softly.

His chest was a landscape of hard, sculpted muscle. He pulled her against him, his mouth claiming hers once more. This kiss was slower, deeper, a thorough exploration that left her dizzy and weak. His hands roamed her back, tracing the curve of her spine, before gripping the hem of her chemise and drawing it upward.

Fanny raised her arms, allowing him to lift the garment over her head. The cool air of the room kissed her bare skin, but Lysander’s gaze was far hotter. He looked at her as though she were something sacred, something precious and terrifyingly fragile.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with a reverence that made her throat ache.

His hands came up to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples in slow, deliberate circles. Fanny gasped, her head falling back as sharp, exquisite pleasure sparked through her, pooling low in her belly. He lowered his mouth to her neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat to the hollow between her collarbones, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin.

“Lysander,” she breathed.

He answered by taking one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before drawing it gently between his teeth. Fanny cried out softly, her fingers burying themselves in the dark thickness of his hair, holding him to her.

He lavished equal attention on her other breast, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her flush against him. She could feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against her thigh, straining against the fabric of his breeches. The evidence of his desire, so potent and undeniable, sent a violent thrill through her.

“Please,” she whispered, not entirely certain what she was begging for, only that she needed more.

Lysander lifted her easily, carrying her to the bed and laying her down upon the cool, crisp sheets. He stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes raking over her naked form with a hunger that made her skin prickle with anticipation. He made quick work of his breeches, shoving them down his hips, and Fanny’s breath caught at the sight of him—proud, thick, and fully aroused, rising from a thicket of dark hair.

He crawled over her, his body covering hers, the heat of him searing her skin. His mouth found hers again, hungry and demanding, while his hand slid down her body, over her stomach, lower still. When his fingers found the slick, wet heat between her thighs, Fanny gasped against his lips. He stroked her slowly, teasingly, learning the rhythm she craved. His thumb circled her clit while one finger slipped inside her, curling in a way that made her see stars.

“You are so wet for me,” he growled against her ear, his voice dark with satisfaction. “So ready.”

“Lysander, please,” she begged, her hips arching against his hand, a desperate, needy motion.

He withdrew his fingers, positioning himself between her thighs. The head of his manhood pressed against her entrance, not entering, just resting there. He looked down at her, his dark eyes searching hers, a question in their depths. Fanny answered by wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him toward her.

With a low groan, he pushed forward, sinking into her inch by slow, deliberate inch. The stretch was exquisite, a delicious, burning pressure that filled her. He stilled once he was fully sheathed, his forehead resting against hers as their breath mingled in the charged air.

“Move,” she whispered, her voice ragged. “Please, Lysander, move.”

He began to thrust, a slow, deep rhythm that built a fire within her. Each stroke was a claim, a possession, marking her as his own. The room filled with the sounds of their coupling—the slap of skin against skin, her soft cries, his guttural groans. He shifted his angle, hitting a spot inside her that made her cry out, her nails digging into his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice strained. “Come for me, Fanny. Let me feel you.”

His words were her undoing. The tension that had been coiling in her belly snapped, and she shattered, a wave of pleasure so intense it stole her sight and her breath. She cried out his name as she clenched around him, milking his manhood. He followed her over the edge with a hoarse shout, burying himself deep inside her as he came, his hot release flooding her.

They collapsed into each other, their bodies slick with sweat, their hearts beating a frantic, tandem rhythm. Lysander rolled to the side, pulling her with him and tucking her head under his chin. For a long time, the only sounds were the rain against the windows and their slowing breaths. In the quiet darkness, Fanny felt the last of the stone walls around her heart crumble into dust. He was not broken. Neither was she. They were just beginning.

Twenty-Six

The heavy velvet curtains did not let in the morning light so much as a gray, watery gloom.

Fanny woke to the sharp, frantic rap of knuckles against the heavy oak door. Before she could even draw the blanket higher over her shoulder, Lysander’s arm—which had been wrapped around her waist all night—snapped taut. He was awake instantly, sitting up in the dark with the crisp, immediate tension of a man conditioned for disaster.

“Enter,” he growled, his voice thick with sleep and raw from the night before.