Her Duke at Daybreak Mythic Dukes Trilogy

by Wendy Lacapra

  “Breathe,” the duke said.

  Air entered her chest in a rush. Her inexperience became painfully clear. She was rabbit to his hawk, no matter how gentle his touch.

  “With you,” she felt her cheeks heat, “I am not myself. I detest the power you have over me.”

  He did not seem perturbed. “Power is the most ancient of aphrodisiacs.”

  She had not been drawn to the duke because of his title.

  She hadn’t even known he possessed a title at first. She’d been drawn to him because of the way he’d looked at her—as if she mattered, as if he understood.

  He traced a lazy line up her arm before resting his hand on her shoulder. Her heart beat in a jagged rhythm, half terror and half anticipation—Persephone waking to discover she had been taken, against her will, to the underworld. Although, unlike Persephone, she had willingly entered the duke’s lair.

  Ashbey represented darkness and heat and all things forbidden, and she wanted him with a power strong enough to stamp out both reason and virtue. Once before, she had done everything as she should. Misery had been the result. This time, she would do everything she ought not, and perhaps—

  Perhaps what? What was the unspoken wish inside her heart?

  “You’ve disappeared again.” His voice soothed.

  “You frighten me,” she said.

  “Describe fear.”

  “Is it not obvious?”

  “No.” He leaned back. “Where does your fear reside?”

  She kept her eyes from rolling. “You know how fear feels, Duke.”

  “Do I?” He tilted his head. “Perhaps I did, once. Humor me.”

  She frowned. “My chest is constricted.”

  “How?”

  Her frown deepened. “As if I were wearing stays.”

  “Breathe,” he reminded again. “And go on.”

  Why did she feel like a bug, pinned for examination? “I fear what you will do next and yet”—breathe—“my heartbeat pounds when I feel your touch.”

  He placed her closed palm against his cheek. Reflexively, she opened her hand. The flesh beneath her fingers was rough.

  “If yours is an apt description,” he said, “then I am not afraid.”

  “You are not afraid because I pose no threat to you,” she said accusingly.

  “Don’t you?” he asked, more curious than assured, as if internally testing the question.

  A mad little laugh broke free. “Hardly, Your Grace.”

  “Ash.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your Grace will become tedious. Ashbey if you must, but,” he hesitated, “I’d prefer Ash.”

  “Do your other friends call you Ash?”

  “Yes,” he tilted his head. “Though I think of them as allies more than friends.”

  She tugged on her hand. He held fast.

  “Ah, I see your meaning,” he said slowly. “You should know that no other woman has occupied in this room. Not in my lifetime, at least.”

  “You were married.”

  “Yes.” His gaze shuttered. “She did not...join me here.” His tone flattened. “Been reading the peerage, have you?”

  Yes. And curious as to why his wife and father had died on the same day. But she had no right to pry.

  Her throat, suddenly dry, proved remarkably resistant to the apology she wished to offer.

  “Ashbey,” she managed. “Why am I the first?”

  “I haven’t any idea.” His gaze remained glacial, but its clarity could not be mistaken. He ran a finger along her face. “I respond to a pretty woman, as most men do, but I have felt nothing. Not for a very long time.” His eyes warmed. “Until you.”

  Despite the fire and the silken robe, she shivered. “Until me?”

  He nodded. “When I saw you looking at the woman who’d insulted you, I hurt with you. I felt pain.”

  How could one respond? “And?”

  “And I gambled you could make me feel more.”

  She blushed, hot and full-bodied. And then she stood, even though he still held her hand. A fury that she’d never felt before coursed through her veins.

  “My grief is not for sale, Your Grace. Even for an audience of one.”

  Especially for an audience of one.

  Pain sailed through him. Again. This time, followed by an inner demand.

  Do something or she will leave.

  In her presence, he became human. Flawed, yes, but real.

  “I cannot buy your grief—” he rose to his feet, placing himself between Lady Stone and the door “—any more than I can buy you.”

  “You can. You have. And you did.” She pointed at him in accusation. “And don’t you go throwing that free will rubbish in my direction.”

  He lifted his brows. “You said your chest was tight?”

  She frowned but nodded.

  “Now mine is, as well.” Sensation was glorious. She was glorious. He smiled. “I believe, Lady Stone, I am frightened you will leave.”

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  “Because feeling is sublime.” He rose to his feet and gathered her into his arms. Feeling may be sublime, but Lady Stone was stiff with righteous fury. “Is your chest still tight?”

  She blinked, startled. “No.”

  Bless her, she could not lie.

  “Does your heart still pound?”

  Her expression shot daggers. “I will not say.”

  Without taking his eyes from hers, he unlaced his robe and let it fall. She gasped. Ignoring the parts of him in full arousal, he placed her hand against his chest.

  “Fear,” he said, “...and desire.”

  She wet her lips. Progress. He drew her hand to his shoulder and threaded his arm around her waist, a cautious cradle. She remained stiff as a frightened fawn.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “Shh.”

  She took a deep breath and then her muscles lost their fight. She collapsed against his chest with a heartfelt sigh.

  He, whom even his allies referred to as Hades, finally held his angel in his arms.

  He and Bianci had come together—fucked, in common parlance. But this feeling? He would have pledged eternal devotion if she would have asked. He had pledged eternal devotion. And she hadn’t even had to ask. Whatever existed between them, he’d never known its like.

  The longing welled deep. His pain—and hers—spun in the ether like woolen thread, thinning and twisting, binding them in knots even he could not untie.

  Chapter Seven

  Either they were swaying, or the room had started to rock. Her weight rested on her right foot, now, her left...but neither foot kept her aloft. Alicia wasn’t sure which sensation she should heed. She remained upright only because Ashbey held her against his chest as if she were his cherished bride.

  She was not his cherished bride.

  Nor would this be a marital coupling done with hasty discretion beneath the proper shielding of sheets—thank heavens.

  The duke restrained his masculine force, but it hung in the air like a scent, taunting. Tempting. She’d glimpsed his manhood—he was already cocked and fully primed.

  He’d said something before taking her into his arms. Something that had roused her anger. Only she couldn’t remember his words. She could not remember any words, for that matter. Words were stupid and useless, a mere nothing next to the wanton anticipation thrilling her blood.

  Tonight, she’d finally understand the sounds that had filled those long-ago Caribbean evenings. She’d make sense of the shadows she’d seen dancing on the walls. She’d learn passion, unrestrained.

  She wanted it all—all the sighs and the groans of pleasure—and she wanted it now.

  Her hands crept up his hard forearms and into the unbelievable softness of his hair. Tentatively, she stroked his neck.

  He ceased swaying, and a rumbling noise tore from his core. The desperate sound unleashed a sense of power, as if he had been formed for her and her alone.

  “Kiss me.” She lifted her
face.

  He guided her mouth to his. The slide of his lips and the exploration of his tongue combined. This was more than a kiss. The heat of his mouth promised all she needed. Greedily, she demanded more.

  “Slow,” he said through a ragged breath.

  She shook her head no. Desire’s waves were rollicking and fast. Why wade tentatively into the ocean when she longed to dive and submerge?

  She hadn’t felt him loosen the laces of her dressing gown, but the silk slipped from her shoulders down into the crooks of her arms.

  “I want to see you.” His voice was low and raw. “I want to see all of you. I want you completely bare.”

  She let the dressing gown fall. Her fine linen shift may have been near-transparent, but a barrier was a barrier nonetheless. She pulled the garment over her head and dropped both her shift and her gaze.

  Nothing remained between them. Nothing at all.

  She might have balked if wetness had not rushed between her legs. Instead, she relished his appreciative hum.

  He lifted her chin. “Lovely.”

  The feminine word from his utterly masculine mouth made her smile.

  “You’re lovely too,” she whispered.

  With a chuckle, he hooked an arm beneath her knees and lifted her onto the bed as if she were feather light. The mattress’s softness gave way to their bodies and a downy pillow cushioned her head.

  “Ah, Lady Stone...”

  His voice held the tone of a suspended query, but he did not complete the question he wished to ask. Instead, he occupied his lips with a kiss that began at her ear and then trailed from her neck to her breast.

  He was gentle, so gentle. She truly hadn’t had cause to fear.

  His lips covered her nipple, sending waves of pleasure down her back. He sucked and kneaded and caressed until she broke free of shyness and burned all at once.

  “Impossible,” she said with a laugh.

  “Impossible, yes,” he murmured. “Impossibly soft—”

  His rough fingers traced her abdomen, providing friction to rest her mind.

  “Impossibly inviting—”

  The friction dipped into the cleft between her legs.

  “Impossibly,” he slipped two fingers inside her body, “tight...and wet.”

  She held mortification at bay. Mortification belonged to the harsh light of day. She would welcome, instead, the darkness and the rhythm that turned her skin to heat.

  Now she understood the pleas that had fallen from the brothel windows.

  Yes. Please. More.

  She may have even spoken them aloud.

  No matter how wide she flowered, his touch asked for something beyond. Asked? No. Demanded. Indirect, her duke was not.

  Her duke?

  Yes, hers—hers for three nights. She claimed him with a needy groan. Placing her palms against his stubbled cheeks, she grasped his beautiful face and forced his mouth back to her nipple, exactly where he belonged.

  “Yes.” She twisted. “Please.” She sighed. “More.” This time, she had begged aloud.

  She did not care. Her consciousness coalesced to a single point. Ashbey.

  His rhythm grew insistent; her body stretched toward his command. She could not parse the sensations that simmered. Craving spooled in her legs, her belly, and her breasts, winding and then tightening until she vibrated with lust from the inside out.

  Too much. She flailed and whimpered. She might have even cried.

  He didn’t listen. He refused her space to breathe. So, she broke into pieces in his arms. Cinders sparked and spun as they rushed through her veins as pure pleasure. Then, slowly, her blood thickened with exhausted satisfaction.

  Everything became still, and she was at once both shattered and whole.

  Now, Ash knew.

  His lady’s passions were intemperate; her desire raw. She’d been uninhibited perfection as her pleasure peaked, awkward and real and trembling to her core. He’d shuddered with her—his retrained desire to her complete release.

  Numb? Not at all.

  Pain sung in his cock—taut, restless pain, demanding release. He did not even try to master his torment. To feel was to be alive. For once, he intended to live.

  Sweetness and agony. Satisfaction and surrender.

  Beauty personified.

  He tuned to her, aware of every movement, no matter how small. His gaze searched her face for some clue as to why this woman possessed the key to unlock his life force. She remained a consummate mystery.

  She inhaled and lifted her lids, her wild eyes coming to rest on his.

  “Ashbey,” she whispered.

  He tried not to peacock at the wonder in her voice. He tried, and he failed.

  “I’d say the lady is thoroughly pleasured.”

  Her lids drooped. She touched a finger to his chest, trailing it softly up his neck to his lips. He tasted his sweat on its tip, and then took her finger fully into his mouth.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Providing you with ideas,” he smiled a suggestive smile, “for later.”

  Her eyes clouded with confusion, then widened as her confusion cleared. She returned his smile with a glint of wicked promise. Giddy gratitude filled his mind.

  She stretched, arching her back and spreading her arms. Settling back into the pillows, she subjected him to a thorough visual exam.

  He rolled to his side, adjusting his still-stiff member with his hand.

  “Do you approve?” he asked.

  “Shush,” she teased. “I am deciding how I wish to proceed.”

  “By all means,” he stroked his length, “do what you will.”

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to unleash with those words, but he did not expect to be hit in the chest with voluptuous force. In one swift movement, she forced him onto his back, rendering him physically vulnerable in ways that might have roused fury if shock had not left him tingling.

  Willfully, he stilled his body’s power—the same power he wielded against other lovers to restrain, and to ultimately pleasure. He had never—ever—allowed anyone the upper hand. Yet years of consummate control had earned him no reward.

  She threw her legs astride his hips. Her weight, a mere nothing, was not what held him in place. What kept him pinned was his vision. She was radiant—her skin, lightly coated with a fine sheen of sweat; her nipples, dark pink and pointed. Her lids dipped over sultry eyes, drunk on pleasure and desire. She was intoxicated...with him. She’d come to him trembling in cold and fear, but now she was in command.

  Rising onto her knees like an Amazon claiming her prize, she arched over him, took his face into her hands, and teased his lips with a tantalizing kiss.

  Again, his muscles demanded control. Again, he denied their demand. Not tonight. Tonight, he would allow his lady to set the pace.

  He concentrated on the pressure of her lips. Hers was a perfect mouth. Soft. Inviting. Tasting of sweetness, and promise, and light. Her lips traced a path to his chest. There she paused, pressing her ear against his heart.

  A small gesture. Artless and honest and painfully poignant. It was all he could do not to clasp her there.

  “What do you hear?” he asked.

  “Strength.”

  He did not deserve this angel. If he’d been a better man, he never would have coaxed her to come. If he were a good man now, he would set her free.

  “I’m not good,” he said aloud.

  “I know.” She rose onto her knees with a sinful smile. “That is precisely why I came.”

  He drew her long blonde hair over her shoulder and then traced the undercurve of her still-swinging breasts. He relished that smile. That knowing, indulgent smile.

  How much could a man resist? How much could he possibly take? Evil he may be, but he’d been taken captive by a Dionysian priestess who was ready to perform cultic rites.

  “Take me inside you.”

  Her brow furrowed. “On top? Like this?”

  “Definitel
y like this.”

  He would die if she did not. Expire. Right there.

  His hands climbed up her thighs, guiding her into position. Then, he held his cock at the base, readying himself with an agonizing squeeze.

  She lowered herself over his tip, and gasped. Uncertain, with a mild tremor, she looked to him to approve.

  He grabbed her delicious ass, and drove up, achingly slow. Inch by inch her body sheathed his member. Wet heat seeped pleasure into his skin. Flashes shot through his sack straight to his toes.

  In that moment, he would have sworn he’d never been with another woman. And he would swear to be loyal to her alone. He wanted only this woman.

  His fingers branded her soft flesh. If he held tightly enough, perhaps he could defy time. But no, the ancient drive won out.

  Take. Her. Now.

  He could not deny another demand, though he took nothing. She was the one who thieved. He kneaded her breasts, clutched her ass, met every drive with an upward thrust, but she remained in control. She rode him fast—conquering and triumphant; soft, yet hot; powerful yet pliant. She found her rhythm, using it to push him through a messy froth of pleasure, pain, and lust.

  Then, she threw back her head and sighed.

  Swept up in an irresistible tide, he surrendered. One squeeze of her thighs and he was cast into primordial darkness. The covetous serpent slithered up his legs, wrapping tight around his core. Then, he erupted into her body. In the sudden, blinding explosion, he was fully consumed by heat.

  Silence. Darkness. Peace.

  Only the feel of her heartbeat guided him back from the deep.

  It took far more effort than he expected to lift his head from the bed. But the kiss seemed terribly important, and her sigh was every answer he’d sought.

  Nothing this night had gone as planned, yet he fell into a grateful slumber knowing he’d received infinitely more than he had asked. Forgetting he deserved none of it at all.

  Chapter Eight

  Morning light filtered through the omnipresent gloom clinging to the castle, coming to rest on the mattress depression that had, last night, cradled the Duke of Ashbey. Alicia stared at the indentation, thinking of the duke’s low, rumbling voice, gritty as an ancient fortress—if a fortress could be audible, and could embody the promise of sin. She held at bay anticipatory chills in favor of a healthier scold.