“You did not bring me to this chamber to betray me?” she asked when she found her tongue at last.
He kissed her head again, his large hands never pausing in their calm, fluid motion over her back. Soothing. Loving. “No, banshee. I did not. I meant what I said when I told you that your truth is our truth. I may not be able to aid your brother, but I can and will help you. But I cannot help you if you are keeping secrets from me. I need you to tell me everything. Can you do that? Will you do that?”
No.
How she wished she could. But he was still the enemy, and Cullen remained in Kilmainham, and the only hope she had of rescuing him lay with John.
Her face was still tucked against his chest. He could not see her expression, and nor did he force her to face him. Her tells were a secret between herself and the supple fabric of his coat, the hard heat of his chest radiating beneath.
“Yes,” she whispered, hating herself for lying to him yet again.
Knowing she had no choice.
Chapter Seventeen
Leo held Bridget’s hand in his as they returned to his chamber and the secret panel snapped back into place. He sensed her desire to flee him, the need for escape evident in the way she caught her lower lip between her teeth and the tenseness she exuded.
But he was not ready to allow her to flee him.
No, instead he wanted something else entirely.
He wanted to tie Bridget to his bed.
Not as punishment. But for pleasure. Tonight, in his secret chamber, she had told him the truth. Or her version of it. Leo was no fool. He sensed the holes, the snags in her story, bold as imperfections on fine silk. She was withholding information from him. He could not be certain why just yet. Or what it meant for him. For her.
For them.
All he did know was, by the time he had finished questioning her, he had been all too aware part one of his plan would prove an utter, abject failure. He would need to proceed with the second, much riskier part.
But tonight was not about plans.
It was not about the differences and secrets keeping him from his wife. It was about making her his so thoroughly and deeply neither one of them would ever be the same. So she would never forget where she belonged. They were bound inextricably now, regardless of what happened between them. Regardless of what decisions she ultimately made.
That was the thing about the woman he loved: he likened her to a butterfly. She was too quick, too beautiful, too fragile, getting close enough, then inevitably flitting away before he could catch her. And he did not doubt she was poised for flight yet again. Her posture was stiff and awkward, her gaze shuttered.
“I ought to return to my chamber,” she announced into the thick silence. “My lady’s maid will be awaiting me, and I am already tardy.”
“You do not need a lady’s maid.” Slowly, careful to allow her to deny him at any moment, he tugged her nearer with their entwined hands and caressed the delicate protrusion of her collarbone with the other. Her skin was warm, smooth, luxurious as velvet. He stayed his touch above the hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse fluttered. She wore no necklace, and he realized he needed to rectify the omission. Her elegant throat deserved sapphires and diamonds. He would buy them for her. Drape her in them.
“I do need my lady’s maid to prepare for the evening,” she protested, but this time, her voice was breathless. She made no effort to shy away from him.
“Sleep in my bed again tonight.” He did not want there to be distance between them. “I shall assist you, should you require any aid.”
She inhaled swiftly as his touch glided up the column of her throat, stopping to curl around her in a gentle hold. His fingers threaded through the silken cloud of hair at the nape of her neck. His thumb traced the lobe of her ear, one more part of her body he would have to worship.
“Leo.” His name seemed torn from her. Those brilliant blue orbs glittered into his. “What do you want from me?”
The answer was simple.
And also complicated as fuck.
He wanted her body, her heart, her love, her trust. He wanted her to surrender the final piece of herself she continued to withhold from him. Yes, surrender. That was what he wanted: her complete and utter surrender, full stop. He wanted her to be his without shame or hindrance, without guilt, without barriers, without the differences she clung to as if they were a shield.
But he would begin with the physical, for it was where they always meshed best. He would begin with simple, basic touch. With human need. With the desire that always burned into a raging maelstrom whenever they were alone. Together, they were molten.
“Just you, darling.” He lifted their linked hands to his lips, kissing the top of hers. He would pleasure her so thoroughly she would never be the same. “Just you.”
A husky sound emerged from her, half want, half aching need. “You already have me. Here I am. Yours.”
But there remained part of her she kept for herself alone. He had pushed her far enough for one evening, however. Though he had once vowed he would break her, it was the last thing he wished to do now.
He kissed a path to her wrist, wanting to devour her whole. “Are you mine, banshee?”
“You know I am.”
Higher still he went, all the way to the lush skin of her inner elbow, so incredibly supple, so delicious. Her skin smelled faintly of lemon there, fresh and bright. He licked her, his tongue finding a new place to gauge her heart’s frantic beats. She gasped. He smiled into the flesh he teased.
And then he raised his head, meeting her sultry stare. “Show me.”
Her lips parted, the pupils of her eyes going round. “What do you want me to do, Leo?”
Her bold question made his cock—already straining against the placket of his trousers—go completely erect. He released her hand at last, dragging her mouth to his for a long, thorough kiss rather than answering her with words. She made another soft whimper, and the raw need in her voice nearly brought him to his knees. Already she was desperate for him in the same way he was for her, and he knew if he lifted her skirts, parted the slit in her drawers, he would find her folds wet, the plump bud hidden within eager to be stroked.
She was a welcome conflagration.
But he wanted to prolong this. To take her so thoroughly, by morning light, there would be no question in her mind she was his in every way. So he broke the kiss and forced himself to maintain a solid grip on his control. “I want you to give me carte blanche to do whatever I wish to you.”
Her eyes went wide, her tongue flicking over her kiss-swollen lips. “Whatever you wish?”
He did not miss the note of trepidation in her tone, and though the unknown often heightened the pleasure for him, it was not his intent for her to fear him. “Whatever I wish as long as it gives you pleasure,” he elaborated.
Her gaze plumbed his, searching for something. Reassurance? An inkling as to his depravity? He could not be certain. This too was an exercise in trust, so he held his tongue, allowing her to mull it over in her mind.
Just when he was convinced she would deny him, she gave a swift, jerky nod. “Very well.”
Lust, pure and raw, surged through him. But along with it came the swift current of something else, something even more potent and primitive and powerful: love. He loved this woman so damn much it was a physical ache.
“You are certain?” he forced himself to ask.
“Yes.” Nothing more than a sibilant sigh, her acquiescence.
But it sent him over the edge. “Good. I want you naked.”
Her eyes never leaving his, she reached for the top button on the long line marching down her bodice, the line that had been driving him bloody mad ever since she had first descended for dinner earlier. It slipped from its mooring with ease. Her small, nimble fingers moved to the next. Then the next. All the way down she went, until she reached the last and her bodice gaped open, revealing the lush mounds of her breasts pushed high beneath her corset.
So much beautiful skin on display. Such temptation. All his, all for him.
His mouth went dry.
“Do you like it, Leo?” Her query was a seductive murmur, and it sent heat down his spine.
“Do I like what?” he rasped.
He watched, riveted, as she opened another hidden fastening and shrugged free of first the sleeves of her gown, then the full tiered skirts, until they fell in a single rush of silk to the carpet. She stood before him in a corset cover embroidered with roses, a fine chemise, creamy silk stockings, and lacy white drawers. With her black hair, vivid eyes, and lush pink lips, she was a siren, just as he had once said.
She took off the corset cover next. “When I obey you. Do you like it when I obey you?”
He gritted his jaw to keep from touching her. “Yes.”
Though they had only spent a handful of nights learning each other’s bodies, it did not surprise him she had already discovered what pleased him most, which actions garnered the greatest reactions from him. It was a matter of course she would know how to undo him. How to make him even weaker for her than he already was.
“What shall I remove next, Duke?” She lowered her lashes, watching him with a sultry stare.
Damn it to hell, but he even loved the way she called him by his title in that sinful brogue of hers. “Your chemise.”
She gripped two handfuls and with one elegant motion, had it over her head and tossed to the floor. From the waist up, she was bared to his hungry gaze. He drank in the sight of her full breasts, the rosy tips already hardened into stiff peaks.
“What now? Do you want me to touch myself again?”
Ah, hell.
She was outmaneuvering him, flanking him like an invading cavalry storming around a defenseless phalanx of infantrymen. “Yes. Cup your breasts.”
Once more, she did as he requested, her small hands holding each breast from beneath so her nipples jutted forward like offerings. He could not wait to suck them. But first, he wanted her desperate. He wanted them both desperate.
“Have I done well?” she asked, and he could discern from the smoky undertone of her voice that her desire had been heightened every bit as much as his.
“Pinch your nipples,” he ordered her instead of answering her question. The saucy minx would not get his praise just yet. She needed to wait. To learn the art of patience.
She took each nipple between her thumbs and forefingers and pinched, rolling and tugging until they were even harder, ruddy color rushing into the peaks. The sight of her standing before him, submitting to his every whim, clad in nothing more than stockings and drawers, skin flushed with the pleasure of touching herself, was enough to send another stab of need to his already engorged prick.
Their wicked games were having an effect upon her as well, for her mouth was slack, her breathing growing choppier. She did not instantly parry his demand with a question of her own.
“How does it feel?” he asked her, watching her fingers pluck and pull.
“Not as good as your mouth,” she dared to say.
His cock twitched against his trousers once more. If he did not speed up this process, he would spend before he even touched her.
“Your drawers,” he said darkly, bemused by his own lack of control where she was concerned. “Remove them.”
Gaze burning into his, she released her breasts and reached for the waistband of her drawers. One by one, she slid more buttons from their temporary homes. With a hand on either side of her full hips, she pushed at the fabric until it too vanished. Wearing only her stockings and garters, she faced him, and no woman had ever been as glorious as she was in that moment.
“Am I naked enough for you?” She was part defiant, part seductress. Like some wicked goddess come to earth to make him hers.
Leo slid a finger beneath his necktie, loosening it, before he tugged on the ends and whipped it away from his throat. Next came his jacket and waistcoat. But he ignored her question all the same, because there did not exist a world or a life within which Bridget would ever be naked enough for him. He wanted her stripped bare, physically and metaphorically, on display for him alone. Weak for him the same way he was for her.
In love. He wanted her so in love she would confess the last vestiges of her truth to him. So in love with him she would entrust him with anything: her crimes, her heart, her life. God knew he trusted her with his, even when he had no good reason to do so. Even now, when she loved him with her body, yet kept him at bay.
“On the bed,” he told her. “Now.”
She turned her back to him, and he watched her backside sway as she walked to his massive bed, using the small stool he had procured specifically for her to climb atop it. He was instantly reminded of the first night they had met, when she had led him to the library and he had trailed behind, admiring the flutter of her dove gray skirts.
Everything inside him screamed with the urge to strip the remainder of his clothes and simply join her there. To spread her pale thighs and settle himself between them, fucking them both into a sated delirium.
Control, he reminded himself. Maintain your control.
He took a deep breath and one step toward the bed. She lay reclined upon it, watching him, all those lush curves on display. He unbuttoned his shirt and tore it over his head. His breeches were next, and he did not stop until he too was divested of every stitch.
He joined her on the bed, and she reached for him.
“No.” They were playing this game by his rules. “You do not touch me unless I give you permission.”
The brilliant hue of her eyes deepened. Her tongue flitted over her full lower lip. “I want to touch you, Leo.”
“Do you trust me?” It was the second time that evening he had posed the question. But this time, it held a world of other meaning.
She hesitated, her pupils dilating. “Should I?”
“Yes. Always.” He skimmed a hand down her thigh, trailing over her calf, finding her elegant ankle bone and rubbing gentle circles over it with his thumb. “I would never hurt you, Bridget.”
“I know.”
He wasn’t certain if he believed her, but for now it was enough. It had to be enough, for it was the only admission she would give him.
Slowly, he removed each silk stocking from her legs. He kissed his way up her gorgeous body, intent upon his goal. She sighed and shifted restlessly against him, seeking, he knew, to assuage the ache blossoming between her thighs. He was rigid too, both from the dominance she had allowed him to exert over her, and the lush press of her body against his, the sweet scent of her—lemon, bergamot, his—the knowledge of what he was about to do…
Control, he cautioned himself again.
“Give me your wrists,” he told her then.
Leo’s demand took Bridget by surprise. She had expected something else. More kisses on her mouth and throat. More wicked teasing. But she sensed something else in him tonight, a wildness, the veneer of his civility worn thin. A savagery that somehow had its root in the emotions and desires burning between them. It was something she didn’t entirely understand, but she was not afraid of it, nor of him.
Wordlessly, she did as he bid, offering them to him, palms upturned, arms outstretched. He looped first one stocking around her right wrist, tightening the knot, and then the other around her left. Wordlessly, he guided her wrists over her head, fastening each stocking to the carved spindles in the headboard.
She made no effort to stop him or object. The position she was now in was reminiscent of waking up after the catastrophe at Harlton Hall, when she had been wounded and at his mercy. Her wound had healed, and how odd to realize she was more at his mercy now than she had been on that day.
This time, he held her heart in his hands.
He caressed her arms, lingering at the puckered flesh where the bullet had marred her forever. Lowering his head, he pressed a reverent kiss over the evidence of their tumultuous beginnings. “I am sorry for shooting you that day.”
His apology startled her. “I would have done the same, had I been in your position. But I would have aimed differently.”
He kissed his way to her shoulder. “Ah, but then I would not have my beautiful wife tied up beneath me now, would I?”
No, he would not. He had spared her, and when he should have seen her clapped into prison, he had saved her by marrying her. Then he had gone and made her fall in love with him. He had made her want things she did not deserve and could never have. An ache burned through her, underscoring the heavy desire pulsing in waves from her core, a reminder this too was fleeting. That her time with him was limited.
“Are your bindings too tight?” he asked, tracing her lips with his fingers, just a ghost of a touch, but one that nevertheless made a spark simmer to life within her.
“No.” She caught him in her teeth, delivered a playful nip to the fleshy pad of his forefinger. “Am I your prisoner again, Leo?”
He flashed her a wicked smile, melting something inside her. “I’m tempted to keep you tied to my bed all night, but you are no prisoner, darling. This is purely for pleasure. I want you at my mercy.”
“I already am.”
His head dipped, his lips claiming hers in a kiss that was fierce and hungry. “Desperate for me.”
“That too,” she admitted without shame, breathless.
Their gazes met and held. “Good.”
His lips moved over hers. They kissed and kissed. Somehow, being unable to touch him heightened her pleasure. His tongue was in her mouth, his hands coasting over her body until a great, swelling pang of need radiated from her cunny to her breasts. She writhed against him, making her nipples graze the muscled wall of his chest, grinding her wet sex against his hardness. The head of him glanced over her pearl, making sparks of fire lick up her spine.
“More,” she begged.
He bit her lower lip. “Ask nicely, Duchess.”
She undulated her hips again, seeking more of him, more connection, more friction, more anything. More everything. Her body had taken control of her mind, and it existed only to be pleasured by this man. To be beneath him. To be touched by him. Loved by him. “Please.”
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