Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart

by Sarah MacLean

  She would give him up for one night.

  Tomorrow she would think about what came next—London, Italy, a life without Simon.

  But tonight, she would allow herself this. One night, with him.

  She pulled on a silk dressing gown, tying the sash around her waist and heading for the door to her chamber before she could rethink her actions.

  Slipping out of the room, she crept down the edge of the dark hallway, one hand trailing along the wall, counting doors as she went. Two. Three. At the fourth, she paused, hand splayed flat on the mahogany, heart beating heavily in her chest.

  If she proceeded, at long last, her actions would be as scandalous as society had always expected them to be. And she would likely pay.

  But she would not regret.

  Indeed, if she did not take her one night . . . she would regret it forever.

  She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  The only light in the room was from the fireplace, and it took Juliana a moment to see Simon, standing by the fire, tumbler of scotch in hand, dressed only in his boots and breeches and pristine white shirtsleeves.

  He spun toward the door as she closed it firmly behind her, the shock on his face quickly replaced with something more dangerous. “What are you doing here?” he asked, stepping toward her before stopping midstride, as though he had hit an invisible wall.

  She took a deep breath. “The night is not over, Simon. You owe me the rest.”

  He closed his eyes, and she thought he might be asking for patience. “Tell me you are not in this room with me. Tell me you are not here wearing nothing but your nightclothes.”

  He opened his eyes, and his gaze found her, warm and liquid, like honey. It seared through her, reminding her of how much she loved his heat, his touch, his kiss . . . him.

  She could not live the rest of her life without this moment . . . this night . . . without knowing what it was like to be his.

  It was now or never. And there was no time for hesitation.

  She put her hands to the sash of her silk robe and undid it in quick, economical movements, before he could stop her. Before she could stop herself.

  One night.

  Calling the siren in her, she said, “I am not wearing nightclothes, Simon.”

  She let the silk drop to her feet in a lush sapphire pool.

  As Simon took in her stunning, bare body, all long and lush and perfectly beautiful, he was not thinking that she was a staggering beauty, although she absolutely was.

  He was also not thinking that he should resist her—that he should pack her back into the silk bit of nothing that she had discarded and return her to her bedchamber—although he absolutely should have done so.

  Nor was he thinking that he should forget this had ever happened, because in all honesty, he knew an exercise in futility when faced with one. And he would never, ever forget this moment.

  The moment when he realized that she was going to be his.

  The truth of the words was almost unbearable as he watched her facing him—bold and brave and perfect, and willing him to take what she offered.

  She was here. And she was naked.

  And she loved him.

  He had neither the will nor the strength to turn her away—not when he wanted her so much.

  There wasn’t a man on earth who could resist her.

  And he was through trying.

  Everything would change.

  The words whispered through his mind, and he was not sure if they were a warning or a promise. But he no longer cared.

  She stood proud and still, facing him, her beautiful skin gleaming in the flickering golden light, casting wicked, enticing shadows across her. She had taken down her hair, and it cocooned her, all ebony curls wrapping about her shoulders and high, firm breasts as though she were a classical painting and not real at all.

  Her hands were by her side, fingers clenched as if she were consciously trying not to cover the perfect, dark triangle that hid her most tempting secrets. He nearly groaned at the perfection of her.

  She was a sacrificial offering at the temple of his sanity.

  She took a deep breath, letting it out on a long, shaky sigh, and he noticed her trembling—the soft skin of her lush, curving belly, the hesitant rise and fall of her breasts, the tremor in her throat.

  She was nervous.

  He dropped the glass in his hand to the floor, not caring where it landed or what it ruined—caring only about reaching her.

  And then he was holding her, lifting her against him, and she had wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and plunged her fingers into his hair, and his mouth was on hers.

  The kiss was rough and searing, and she matched his need; where he went, she followed, opening for him, giving him everything for which he asked with a series of little, wanton sighs that set him aflame.

  She was his.

  He tore his lips from her, giving her scant space to breathe. “If you stay . . . you give yourself to me.”

  She had to understand that. Had to make her own decision.

  She nodded, eyes heavy with desire. “Yes. I am yours.”

  He shook his head, knowing he had seconds before his passion took over, and they were both lost. “Leave now if you have any doubts.”

  There was a pause, and the need to possess her coursed through him, thick and unforgiving and earth-shattering. Her gaze cleared, blue and beautiful. “I have no doubts, Simon.” She leaned close, her lips barely touching his, threatening to drive him mad. “Show me everything.”

  His control snapped, and he no longer cared. He was overwhelmed with a primitive desire as he kissed her again and again, his hands running over her warm, endlessly smooth skin, pressing her to him, clasping her full, round bottom in his hands.

  He pulled away enough to speak. “You are mine,” he said, and he heard the lack of control in the words. Didn’t care. What he felt for her in that moment was utterly unrefined. “Mine,” he repeated, refusing to let her have the kiss she was reaching for until she looked into his eyes. “Mine.”

  “Yes,” she said, rocking into him, her heat against the length of him making him wild. “I am yours.”

  He rewarded her with another kiss.

  God, he loved kissing her. Loved her taste, her enthusiasm, the way she set him on fire with the stroke of her tongue. When he pulled back just briefly to meet her eyes again—stunningly blue with her desire—she shook her head almost instantly. “I am yours,” she repeated, taking his bottom lip between her teeth and pulling him back into the kiss. He groaned at the roughness, punctuated by the soft, unbearably wanton stroke of her tongue over the spot where her teeth had been.

  She was his siren. Had been from the beginning.

  Gone was the refined duke who had turned her away in the town square—who had sent her back to her family with all the gentlemanly restraint befitting his position. In his place was a mere man—flesh and blood and starving.

  And she was his banquet.

  He carried her to the bed, knowing that everything was about to change and failing to care. He followed her down to the crisp linen sheets, pressing between her long, warm thighs and taking her mouth again and again, whispering to her between kisses in both English and Italian.

  “My siren . . . carina . . . so soft . . . so beautiful . . . che bella . . . che bellissima.”

  She writhed beneath him, pressing and rocking against him as her hands yanked on the linen of his shirt, pulling the garment up until she had access to bare skin. And then her fingers were on him, leaving trails of fire along his back, and he thought he might die if he could not get closer to her. He lifted off her, hissing his pleasure as the movement pressed him—hard and thick—against the softest, warmest part of her.

  Looking down at her, he took in her wide, kiss-stung lips, her flushed cheeks, and her enormous blue eyes, filled with desire. Her hands traced around to his stomach and pushed up under the shirt, running over his chest until
one wayward thumb found a nipple and he gasped.

  Wicked knowledge flashed in her gaze, and she did it again once, twice, before he whispered, “You are killing me,” and leaned down to take her mouth once more.

  When he lifted his head again, she said, “Take it off. I want to be closer. As close as possible.” And he thought he would drown in the heat of the words.

  The shirt was gone instantly, and he took her mouth again, stroking deep before he rolled off her to give himself access to her lush body. She cried out at the loss of him, reaching for him before he captured her hands and pulled them over her head, holding them easily in one of his. “No. You are mine,” he said, his free hand trailing down to stroke the tip of one beautiful breast, teasing until it was hard and begging for his mouth. “You came to me,” he whispered at her ear, tonguing the soft lobe there. “Why, Siren?”

  “I—” she began, stopping when he rolled the tip of one breast between his fingers.

  “Why?” he repeated, desperate to hear her answer.

  “I wanted the night . . .” she gasped.

  “Why?” He trailed his lips down her throat, dipped his tongue into the hollow at its base.

  “I—” She stopped as he pressed soft kisses to the skin of her breast, leaving a trail as he headed toward the aching tip. “Simon . . .” the whisper was a plea. God, he loved the sound of his name on her lips. He blew one long stream of air over the nipple, reveling in the tightening of the skin and her gasp. “Please . . .”

  “Why did you come to me?”

  Say it, he willed, knowing it was not his place. Knowing he did not deserve it.

  “I love you.”

  A thrill coursed through him at the words, so simple. So honest. He took the straining tip between his lips, rewarding her with long pulls at the sweet flesh there. Loving the way she writhed against him, the way she cried out when he ran his tongue and teeth over her sensitive flesh, the way her hands twisted so that her fingers could thread through his.

  When he lifted his head, they were both breathing heavily, and he was desperate to touch her everywhere.

  To taste her everywhere.

  “Again.”

  “I love you.”

  He released her hands, sliding down her body, placing warm kisses along her breasts and stomach and the soft crease where her thigh and hip met and the scent of her was unbearably perfect.

  He was addicted to her softness, to the feel of her, to the way she pressed against the sheets and rocked her hips against him. He had never wanted anything in his life the way he wanted her. Now.

  And she was here.

  And she was his.

  Simon slid off the bed, kneeling beside it. She sat up, instantly. “Where are you—?” The question gave way to a little squeak when he pulled her closer to the edge of the bed, letting her legs hang over the side, and stroked up her smooth soft skin from ankle to knee. He watched his hands, large and brown, follow the curve of her legs, and could not resist palming her strong, lean calves and easing her legs apart.

  “What are you—? Simon!” she gasped, and he leaned forward, insinuating his body between her thighs. Her hands flew to cover the place he was desperate to touch, and he nipped the edge of her jaw lightly with his teeth.

  “Lie back, Siren.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. You can’t.”

  “You can. And I shall.” He heard the gravel in his tone. Felt the desperate desire coursing through him. If she did not let him touch her soon . . . “You asked for everything,” he said, the words thick at her ear. “This is part of it.”

  She pulled back, and if he had not been as hard and aching as he was, he would have laughed at the skepticism in his gaze. “I’ve never heard of this.”

  “You gave yourself to me,” he said, pressing her thighs wider, sliding his hands higher, touching his tongue to the perfect arch of one of her cheeks. “This is what I want.” She caught her breath as his fingers reached her hands, shielding her from view. He stroked his fingertips down the skin of her hands, a light, barely there touch that they both felt acutely. He stroked again, up to one delicate wrist, then back down. “I think you want it, too.”

  He moved back to her ear, loving her shyness, her uncertainty. Wanting to teach her to share her secrets. “You ache here, don’t you?” She nodded, barely, and a surge of masculine pleasure coursed through him. “I can take it away.”

  She exhaled on a long, shaky breath, and the sound went straight to the hard, straining length of him. He gritted his teeth. No. This was for her. She would find her pleasure. He would give it to her, and take his from that.

  “Simon,” she said, her accent thick, wrapping around the syllables of his name like a fist. “Please.”

  “Lie back,” he whispered, pressing her to the bed with his kiss before trailing down to where he desperately wanted to be. He pressed a soft kiss on one of her knuckles. “Let me in.” When she did, revealing the folds of her sex, he groaned his pleasure. He spread her soft lips gently, and she lifted her hips toward him. She was so tender, so ready for him. Slick and wet and perfect.

  He ran one finger down the center of her, listening to her breathing, to the little cries she made as he explored. He discovered her, pressing and stroking to the sound of her pleasure, then sliding one finger into the hot, wet core of her. She was so tight, she came off the edge of the bed at the sensation.

  He looked up her body as she lifted herself off the bed and drank in the vision of her, her gorgeous black hair, eyes like sapphires gleaming with pleasure, full, pink lips barely open as she gasped for breath.

  He had never wanted anything like he wanted her.

  He moved his hand, loving the way her eyes closed, then opened in time to the movement. He leaned forward, blew a long stream of air directly on the center of her pleasure, and gloried in the little cry of passion that she could not keep from escaping.

  He was going to die if he didn’t have his mouth on her soon.

  He rubbed his thumb across the swollen, pulsing heart of her, and she gasped her answer, her shyness gone. “Kiss me.”

  “As you wish,” he said, and settled his lips to her, holding her wide as he pressed his tongue to the place where his thumb had been, making love to her with slow, savoring strokes. She arched off the bed, plunging her fingers into his hair and holding him to her as she moved against his mouth. She was wine, and he was instantly obsessed with her taste, with learning the things that she loved, wanting only to give her pleasure. To drive her wild.

  He did. Slow circles became gradually faster, tongue working in time to the flexing of her fingers in his hair, and then she lifted herself from the bed offering herself to him. He took her, holding her to him while she found her pleasure, masculine satisfaction rippling through him.

  And when she shattered in his arms, he was there, holding her, stroking her, bringing her back to earth.

  He lifted his head after the last ripple of pleasure coursed through her, and he moved to lie beside her, wanting to hold her, to keep her safe.

  He kissed her neck, sucking gently at the delicate skin there until she sighed. He could pleasure her forever. He could lie abed and worship her for an eternity. He took a nipple into his mouth, worrying it until she whispered his name, then kissed her, sliding his hand between her thighs in an undeniable urge to brand her as his.

  Her legs parted against the weight of his hand, and her fingers slid down his torso to the waistband of his breeches. “Simon,” she said, and the low, sated pleasure in her voice made him agonizingly hard. “Remove your pants.”

  God, yes.

  He closed his eyes against the thought. “Are you certain?” If he was naked with her, there would be no going back.

  She nodded, her sapphire eyes dark with passion. “Very.”

  She would have him. Again and again, for the rest of their days.

  He kissed her again, slow and deep. “I could not deny you anything.”

  And as the words
echoed between them, he knew they were true. She was everything he had ever wanted. And he would do everything in his power to keep her in his world. Nothing else mattered.

  Her hands worked inexpertly at the buttons of his breeches until he could not bear the fumbling pressure anymore, and he lifted himself off the bed to divest himself of pants and boots as quickly as possible. Returning to her, he groaned his pleasure as he settled between her silken thighs, desperate to be inside her.

  “Wait,” she whispered, scooting backward, away from him. “I want to see.”

  He narrowed his gaze on her and followed her across the bed. “Not now. Next time.”

  He took hold of her legs and pulled her to him, rubbing himself against her until she sighed at the friction. “But . . . we only have one night. This is my only opportunity to see you.”

  He froze at the words, his hands coming to her face, holding her firmly so he could look into her eyes. He saw the sadness there, the desperation, overwhelmed by passion.

  This would not be one night. She had to know that.

  He would never let her go.

  Everything had changed.

  “Juliana,” he whispered, low and dark, thrusting through her wetness so that the tip of him rubbed her most sensitive spot. He watched her eyes widen, then cloud with pleasure. “Don’t make me stop.”

  He repeated the motion, and her lids lowered. “No. Don’t stop.”

  He pressed himself to the entrance of her, easing just inside her tight, blazing sheath before he paused—the hardest thing he had ever done—and looked down at her. “Is this all right?”

  She nodded once, taking her bottom lip between her teeth, and the movement sent a shiver of desire straight to the core of him. But he would not ruin her first taste of passion. He held himself there, still, reveling in her heat, wanting nothing more than to thrust to the hilt and bury himself within her.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She shook her head. “You won’t.”

  He reached between them, stroking the tender, sensitive core of her until she gasped her pleasure. “I will. But then I will do my best never to hurt you again.” He met her gaze before running his tongue across her bottom lip, and saying, “Look at me. I want to watch you.”