“Ye’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “So brave. So perfect.”
She tried to speak but only moaned again. Her legs parted instinctively.
“Ye want more,” he said, voice rough.
“Y-yes,” she gasped. “Please.”
“I knew that word suited yer lips, darlin’,” he replied.
Then, he knelt before her, reverent, lifting her skirts slowly. He traced her thighs, then pressed a kiss to her damp core. She trembled.
“So wet,” he murmured. “So ready.”
He found her nub of pleasure, tasting it like he would a cherished confection.
One lick. Then another. Then a flurry until she was shaking against the wall.
When she was panting, almost undone, he slipped one long finger inside her. Then two. Slow, deep strokes, meant to tease and torment.
“That’s it, Elizabeth. Take it. Feel it.”
Her hips moved with him, her breath ragged. Then he rose and kissed her just as she shattered, her cry swallowed by his mouth. Her slick walls pulsed around his fingers, her thighs quivering.
He held her through it, then gently lowered her skirts and stroked her cheek.
Her eyes were wide, dazed. But then, they cleared, and the shy smile she gave him nearly brought him to his knees.
“This isn’t wise,” she whispered.
“Of course it isnae,” he said as his lips brushed her temple. “But it’s worth it.Ye’reworth it. And I’ll prove it to ye.”
Chapter Nineteen
Elizabeth was still catching her breath, her body trembling with aftershocks. The fabric of her gown clung damply to her overheated skin, sticking at her back and chest, her thighs slick with evidence of her ruin. Or near-ruin.
For a moment, she didn’t care.
The heavy silence of the library wrapped around her like a cocoon, and she let herself fall into it, eyes closed, lips still parted from the echo of his mouth.
She had just let the Duke of Redmoor kneel before her, worship her like a goddess, devour her like a delicacy.
She had moaned his name.
She had begged.
And now, her world was no longer the same.
But the sharp sound of footsteps beyond the door shattered her fragile peace.
Instinct took over. Her hands fumbled to fix her bodice, trembling fingers tucking one breast back into place. Her skirts had ridden up to her knees?—
Heavens, her thighs were still damp. She couldn’t breathe.
Alasdair moved beside her, surprisingly calm. With deft fingers, he helped her smooth her dress, gently tugged the wrinkled fabric at her shoulders, and even tucked back a stray curl behind her ear. His touch was reverent still, like he couldn’t believe she was real.
“Beautiful, my lass,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple.
It nearly undid her again. A whimper rose in her throat, but she bit it back. She couldn’t afford softness now.