You May Kiss the Duke

by Charis Michaels

  “They would not,” said Stoker, pushing off the wall.

  “I believe they would,” said Sabine. “But let us—”

  He started toward the stairs. “This is Bryson and Elisabeth’s home,” he said. “They have children here—”

  “I thought their boys were in school.”

  “This is not a winter-solstice bacchanal in bloody Portsmouth,” Stoker ground out, ignoring her, walking on. “This is a family home, one of the finest in London.”

  Sabine darted after him. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, Legg and his friend had disappeared into the shadows of the landing.

  “Stoker,” she warned. “This is not wise.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s not wise.” He began stomping up the stairs.

  “It’s not prudent for the two of us to roust them. You are meant to be my bodyguard, remember?”

  “Crass, ungrateful, salacious . . .” He was halfway up.

  “Let us summon a footman,” she said, two steps behind. “Or alert Bryson if you are so bothered. I don’t think—”

  “Which way?” He reached the top step and looked right and left. Dim, doorway-lined corridors stretched on either side. The couple seemed to have vanished into the shadows. Stoker chose left and stalked down the landing. “They are trespassing,” he said. “What if every guest stole away to bedrooms when the bloody orchestra takes a break?”

  Sabine called to him again, whispering now, but he didn’t hear. His tirade continued, all hope of coherency lost. He was angry and hurt and likely in pain, and he’d not liked Phineas Legg on sight.

  Sabine hurried after him, still hoping to drag him away before Phineas saw, but he came to a door standing halfway ajar and shoved it open.

  Sabine closed her eyes.

  “Empty,” she heard him scoff from inside. She said a silent prayer and hurried after him.

  “Stoker,” she said, imbuing her voice with authority. “You must stop. You’re behaving like a man possessed. We’ve had quite a shock, you especially, and there is much to consider. You are tired, I am tired, but listen to me. We cannot challenge Legg in a bedroom of Denby House like a . . . like a rogue chaperone. He mustn’t see me again—this was your own proclamation. I must turn in my uncle and his lot anonymously in case something goes wrong. None of them must ever know I was behind the investigation. For my own safety. I cannot have Phineas Legg learn another thing about me or who I really am. Be reasonable, please.”

  Stoker had come to stop by a giant bed. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out.

  She went to him. “Remember how you chased me away from Mr. Legg after we’d learned of the gunpowder? We are finished with him.”

  He made a growling noise and walked in a circle.

  “We’re going home,” she said.

  “Yes. You’re right. I’ve lost my mind.” He looked at her guiltily. “Forgive me. I’m—This house is—My friends.”

  “Legg is ridiculous and I owe Bryson and Elisabeth a very great apology, especially now that he is roaming freely with his . . . er, new friend. But we cannot risk—”

  She was cut off by a familiar gurgle of laughter.

  Legg. Footsteps. Rustling outside the door. Sabine froze.

  Stoker swore and stepped in front of her, tucking her behind him. They were blocked from retreat by the large bed in the center of the room.

  “No, not that way,” she whispered, “they cannot see your face!”

  She spun him in the same moment the amorous couple crashed against the door, laughing and grappling for handfuls of fabric.

  Sabine squeezed her eyes shut. Stoker widened his stance and broadened his shoulders, expanding to shield her. She tried to more thoroughly disappear behind him. She gathered up her distinctive red skirts, but the silk would not cooperate; every handful seemed to produce another flouncy swath. And the effort made too much noise. She began to silently panic.

  In the doorway the laughter continued; they heard the rattle of an entwined couple rolling this way and that against the open door; fabric ripped, and there were smacking kisses and low moans.

  Stoker swore softly, and Sabine glared at him. Quiet, she warned with one firm shake of her head.

  “Oh, Phineas,” cooed the woman in the doorway, and Sabine squeezed her eyes shut again.

  Sabine was just about to bury her face against Stoker’s chest when she felt him fasten his hand around her waist, lift her, and drop her on the big bed behind her. She hit the satin of the coverlet with a soft puff, her head bobbed on the pillow, and her skirts sprawled out like a fan. Her eyes flew open in time to see Stoker’s giant body, following her down.

  Sabine made a small sound of surprise, and Stoker cleared his throat, covering the sound. They’d landed in a stack in the center on the bed, Stoker’s considerable weight pressing her into the mattress, his cheek against her cheek, his face against her neck.

  “What’s that?” demanded Legg’s voice from the doorway. “Who’s there?”

  They heard giggling, and the woman said, “There’s already someone in this room, Phin!”

  Phineas Legg could be heard swearing; the woman laughed again. There was a small grunt, footsteps, and the loud slam of the door.

  Silence prevailed. Stillness. A low fire jumped in the grate.

  Stoker lay prone atop her; she felt his weight and heat everywhere. Their combined shallow breaths sawed in and out. Neither of them moved as they clung together in the dark.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sabine waited two beats, every function of her body held motionless by shock.

  She did not blink, she did not swallow, she did not feel a single thud of her heart. She knew she breathed because she could hear the sound, but she’d forgotten how or why.

  Above her Stoker felt as taut and tense as the string of a bow. She did a quick mental check of her own well-being. Was she hurt? No. Could she breathe? Apparently. Was he hurting her or frightening her or trapping her? No, no, no.

  It occurred to her that she had been in this position before. They had collapsed on the bed when she’d moved him from her study, the first week of his convalescence. But that had been an exhausted, sprawling, stranger-in-my-bed sort of fall. Now Stoker’s body felt healthy and tight and not the least bit tired. Or sick. Or unknown to her.

  He smelled like shaving soap and potted palm and himself. His cheek was rough with whiskers; his nose bussed her neck. His shallow breathing had given way to deeper, faster breaths.

  She had been waiting weeks for this.

  Almost, she called his name. Almost. She was this close. Instead, she sucked in a slow, even breath, turning her head so that the sound was so very close to his ear. If possible, Stoker’s taut body went even tauter.

  Next, she pulled her right hand from between them and sank her fingers slowly, lightly, into his hair. When her fingertips touched his scalp, she slid her nails along the crown of his head, one long, satisfying scratch.

  She waited, her heart beating in her ears.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His breathing grew harsher against her neck. Every exhale sent goose bumps along her arms.

  Sabine had the sense that her next move would decide their future. He was waiting for some trigger, some invitation he could not resist. Mentally, she cataloged her body. One hand cradled his head and the other was pinned between them. Her head was turned and she breathed into his ear. Her left leg was tangled in her skirts, but her right leg was free. She made a command decision. Slowly, idly, she raised her right knee, canting her body ever so slightly and hemming him in.

  His response was immediate. He let out a harsh breath, pressing his face firmly against her neck. “Sabine,” he growled.

  “I want this,” she said, trying to be very specific.

  He repeated her name, moving his lips against the skin of her neck. She squeezed a handful of his hair, pressing his head to her. “I want it,” she said.

  “I . . . I—” He lifted his head and lo
oked down into her eyes, his face a beautiful twist of desire and emotion.

  “Do it,” she whispered. “Enough. Do it.”

  He made a feral noise . . . the sound of letting go . . . and pounced on her mouth.

  What came next was a frenzy of lips and tongue and teeth and his lips pressed roughly against every part of her face. He kissed her eyes and hairline and nose and cheeks and her mouth again and again, a torrent of kisses. He kissed her like a feasting animal after a long, cold winter.

  Sabine closed her eyes, thrilling to the ferocity and the sensation, breathing when she could, kissing his mouth when it was there, arching her neck and offering herself when he kissed some other spot.

  He lurched up to his knees and elbows, yanking her squarely beneath him, his strength and demonstrative command of her body taking her breath away. He gathered her up, scooping his hand beneath her shoulders and balancing her head between his thumbs so he could guide her face to exactly where he wanted her to be. He tipped her back to scrape his beard across her neck and eased it forward when he was ready for her mouth.

  Sabine allowed it all. She was a rag doll, relinquishing herself to everything he would do to her.

  Yes, she thought, wrapping her arms around his neck. Take me. Use me up. Love me. She wanted what he wanted.

  “Sabine,” he rasped, again and again, saying her name like there was no other word in all of language. She answered with sighs and moans and rolling sounds of pleasure that she’d never before heard but that sounded exactly, precisely, the way she felt.

  “This dress,” he said, moving lower, kissing her chest above the bodice of her gown. “No man in the ballroom could look away from this dress but you are mine. Mine. I wanted to scream it. I wanted to throw you over my shoulder and haul you back to the carriage.”

  This image made her laugh. It thrilled her and she wanted to ask him why he didn’t avail himself of her when they were alone in the carriage but words failed her, and she could only giggle and cradle his head against her. She pressed his head lower, lower, lower, to the lace edge of her neckline, tight against her corset, and to her breasts, heavy and straining upward beneath.

  He growled when she laughed, which only made her laugh harder, and he pounced on her mouth again, swallowing her giggles, kissing her until the laughter died away.

  When she was panting for breath, he rose up on his knees and stared down at the straining bodice. His green eyes were hot, molten emerald and his beautiful mouth was turned up in half a smile, half a smirk. Not taking his eyes from her, he ripped off his coat and hurled it to the floor.

  “Do it,” she said, panting.

  He shook his head but did not meet her eyes. He stared at the tops of her breasts, rising and falling beneath the tight neckline of her gown. On some instinct Sabine arched her back and bowed up from the shoulders, offering herself to him.

  “Please,” she breathed, arching higher, and something like a growl tore from deep in his chest. He took up the front of her gown and ripped. The straining fabric resisted but was no match for his strength. The silk rent with a clean tearing sound, and Sabine laughed again. The moment was too exciting, too theatrical, too final.

  Stoker ignored her, his eyes feasting on the sight of her full breasts bulging at the top of her corset. She arched again, and she felt her breasts rise, her nipples barely contained. Stoker reached out with both hands and claimed each breast, sliding a finger beneath the stiff satin to scoop. Sensation coursed through Sabine; she cried out, and arched again.

  Stoker slid his fingers beneath a second time, and then he cried out and grabbed the top of the corset, pulling it down. Her breasts bounced free and he gazed down at her body like a man who had just been privy to the most spectacular view the world had ever known.

  The cool air of the room hit Sabine’s nakedness, a contrast to the heat of his gaze. She drew a breath and arched again, offering her body to him. He descended, his mouth everywhere at once—breast, nipple, neck, clavicle, and breasts again. Where his lips were not, his hands roamed, pressing firmly, exploring, teasing—claiming.

  Inside her, Sabine felt a low pressure flicker, pulse, and then begin to burn, rising like the simmer of water in a pot. She arched her body again, lifting from her hips this time. Her body surged up of its own accord, seeking the hardness she’d felt when they lay still.

  He called her name again and she ignored him. A second call, and she whimpered, irritated that he would try to engage her in conversation now. She hated the gap between their bodies. He was on his knees, leaning over her, and she wanted all of him, now, answering her rising need.

  “Down,” she cried breathlessly. Her hands left his shoulders and fell to his hips, fumbling ineffectually at the waistband of his trousers. “Come down.”

  “It’s enough,” he panted.

  “It’s not enough,” she replied.

  She peeled his waistcoat upward, away from the waist of his trousers, and dug her fingers between the dark wool and the cotton of his shirt, seeking some leverage. When she found her grip, she pulled with all of her might, forcing his knees down the bed and the hard weight of his body to settle on top of her.

  He came down with an oof, holding perfectly still for a charged moment and then grinding into her, setting off a cascade of sensation that shimmered from her belly to the tips of her fingers and toes. She answered back by surging up again, seeking the sensation through layers of silk skirts, seeking to satisfy the burn. He pressed down, and she was rewarded with another cascade. She gasped and tried it again. They found a rhythm that felt familiar but also wondrously new.

  Meanwhile, the pressure continued to build, threatening to boil over, but there was more; her body told her there was more, and she wanted it all.

  It occurred to her that they were fully clothed. She was wearing her shoes, for God’s sake. Her skirts were a constricting tangle around her legs.

  “More,” she mumbled against his mouth, the only word she could manage.

  He growled and scooped her up, gathering her beneath him. He rocked once to the left and rolled, transferring himself beneath with her on top, balancing astride him.

  Sabine blinked and raised up on her hands, shaking the tangle of her falling coiffeur away from her face. She stared down at him and frowned.

  No, she thought.

  She used the position to yank her skirts free from her legs, hiking them up around her hips.

  She shook her head, No, and slid back to the mattress, landing beside him on her back.

  He snapped his head to the side, frowning into her face, and she frowned back. She reached over and grabbed a handful of his shirt. Heaving, she hauled him back on top of her. Stoker resisted for half a second and then rolled with a groan, mounting her in one swift movement. Sabine sighed in relief.

  “Please,” she breathed, pressing her hips up. She raised a leg against his hip, and his hand locked down on her stockinged knee, pressing it up. That felt exactly right. It canted her center more firmly against his hardness. She raised the other knee.

  “Sabine, have some mercy,” he ground out. “I’m warning you.”

  “I’m warning you,” she said between kisses.

  He kissed her hard, like he was trying to put the words back in her mouth. When she turned her head to breathe, he followed her, dropping his head on the pillow beside her face. She kissed the whirl of his ear, his earlobe, the place where his neck met his hair. Meanwhile, their lower bodies rocked together, building toward something, something. Sabine marveled that it was not impeded when she hitched up her skirts. How much better, she wondered, with their clothing removed? He’d ripped her dress to expose her breasts, but would he dare push her skirts entirely up? And what of his trousers? She moaned in frustration, wanting to feel him and love him and receive him and not work out the logistics of how to undress.

  She opened her eyes, blinking in the dimness. His face was inches from hers, his eyes squeezed shut, his expression one of restraint and also p
leasure. She loved the sight of his face in every mood. She’d watched him sleep, she’d watched him speak, she’d watched him glower. Tonight she’d watched him lose his mind, just a little. There was no expression that she didn’t adore—even this one, even holding back what they both wanted, what frightened him as much as it thrilled him. But Sabine was not frightened. Sabine was impatient.

  She tipped her face down, hovering her lips directly over his ear. “Stoker,” she whispered softly. “Stoker, I love you. Stoker, I—”

  In a flash Stoker’s body went tense and still, the words sinking in. With stiff, jerky movements, he shifted up from the pillow, hovering over her.

  “Oh,” she said, thrilled by how forcefully he squared himself over her. She smiled up at him, squeezing his hips with her knees, pulling her legs closer to her chest. Every wiggle brought his body more intimately pressed against hers. She felt heat and sweetness and solidness all at once.

  Stoker let out a moan, kissed her hard once more, and then reared back, pulling the buttons free on his trousers. The fabric fell away and he dropped forward, catching himself with one arm, and using his other hand to sweep up her skirts.

  “Oh,” she said again, realizing that now it would happen. Finally. Now. Her accelerated heart sped even faster, threatening to pound into one long, unbroken constriction.

  She breathed in and out deeply, trying to remain calm. He plunged his hands beneath her skirts and deftly slid her drawers to the side. The strum of his fingers across her body introduced a brighter, more lovely burn, and she cried out again.

  She wanted another strum, she wanted so much more of everything, but he was fumbling with his trousers again, taking himself in hand, and then he dropped down, burying his face in her neck, and pressing inside her with one deep thrust.

  Sabine cried out, shocked by the jab of pain amid something that otherwise shimmered with pleasure. Stoker froze. His sawing breath stopped.