The sound alone would have been enough to alert anyone just beyond the orangery to the fact that it was not unoccupied. The traces of dirt on her gold gown, she very much feared, would be impossible to remove. And still, she could not bring herself to put an end to this. If anything, she was more frantic.
His kiss turned desperate. Both hands were on her waist, and he lifted her with effortless ease, settling her rump upon the table. She pushed at his greatcoat, and he shrugged it to the floor. He caught her skirts, raising them and her petticoats and chemise beneath.
The cool air of the orangery was seduction in itself as he lifted her gown to her waist. But then, his hands were upon her, drifting over her knees. Desire spilled over her as he caressed her through her stockings and drawers. Her legs parted naturally for him, and she knew the shock of crisp air against her heated core for a moment, until he stepped between her thighs and she knew something else entirely. The length of him, hard and long and thick, nestled against her, separated from her only by fabric and honor, nothing more.
Both could so easily be peeled away, she knew.
She should be shocked. Horrified. But perhaps she was past the point of maidenly horror. Virtue was a cold and lonely bedfellow, after all. He paused to shuck his other glove, and then he kissed back down her throat, finding a particularly sensitive place and biting lightly. His whiskers rasped over her sensitive flesh in an abrasion that made her throb where his manhood pressed against her center.
She cried out softly, fingers digging into his shoulders. Even as she knew she was allowing herself to go too far, that she was nearing the point from which she could not return, she squirmed closer to him, shimmying along the table until he pressed into her. Knowing what she needed, he thrust his hips.
His trousers brushed against a wonderfully sensitive place. Heat sparked to life, along with intense, otherworldly bliss. It felt good. Wanting more, she moved as he had, a matching thrust that once she had begun, she could not stop. Mindlessly, she rocked against him, the back-and-forth motion sending a new shock of bliss through her each time.
He kissed the top of her breast, and she rubbed her cheek over the sleek smoothness of his hair. In the gleam of the windows and the moon and the firelight, his golden hair took on a godlike glow. He might have been sent there from another realm, a god descended to tempt mortals to wickedness.
He was succeeding. Oh, how he was succeeding.
One of his hands glided up her inner thigh, urging her legs wider. She was completely exposed to him, and thank heavens for the darkness, or she would have been awash in embarrassment. With the darkness of the night blanketing them, allowing the Duke of Westmorland to have his way with her body seemed somehow less a sin. She relished the male strength of him, the thickness of him pulsing against her most intimate flesh. She felt at once a helpless slave to the pleasure he bestowed, and yet incredibly powerful.
Because when he straightened and gazed down at her, his face starkly beautiful, she saw the lines of strain in his countenance. She saw the dark glimmer of intent in his eyes. And she knew he was every bit as much in her thrall as she was in his.
But then she forgot anything and everything, because his fingers slipped between the split in her drawers and skimmed over her seam. One glancing touch at first. He hesitated, then caressed her again, parting her, unerringly finding that most responsive place. When he swirled his fingers over her there, she jerked forward and cried out.
“Hush,” he murmured, and then he kissed her again.
And rubbed harder over that insistent bud. A moan escaped her, stifled by his lips. His tongue was in her mouth now. She sucked it, turning into a wild woman, a version of herself she did not recognize. One who was desperate for pleasure and would have it by any means.
He pressed his forehead to hers, breaking the kiss but not straying far. His breath was a hot veil falling over her lips, the promise of more. His gaze seared hers through the silver light.
“I have dreamed of touching you like this,” he murmured. “My God, Isabella. I have lain awake at night, burning for you.”
His confession had an instant effect upon her. The knowledge that she could drive the powerful Duke of Westmorland to distraction, that she could make him vulnerable, make him want her, thrummed in her veins. He had been alone in his bed, thinking of her just as she had been thinking of him.
He increased the pressure and the speed, seeming to know what she needed better than she did. The pleasure was almost unbearable, building inside her to a crashing crescendo. When the frenzy finally burst, she felt as if she had lost a part of herself. As if she had ruptured into a thousand glittering shards, like a star shooting through the night into blank nothingness.
She gasped, her body stiffening as she lost control. Delicious pleasure lapped through her, until at last she was sated and limp and breathless. She was a new creature, redefined in his arms, transformed by his touch.
He kissed her, hard and swift, and this kiss was somehow different than the rest. This kiss was more possessive. This kiss said she was his. She clung to him and kissed him back as the last ripples of delirious pleasure ebbed. With her lips and tongue, she strove to prove to him that just as he staked his claim upon her, she declared hers upon him.
He withdrew his hand,
