Bad Duke

by Emily Bishop

I love the way he watches me when we fuck. He cares so deeply about my pleasure.

  He maneuvers so I’m splayed out on my back. He’s turned on his side, under my left thigh. He pushes his cock in deep, and I moan. But it’s not just his big hard dick that turns me on. It’s how he’s looking at me, searching for my pleasure, reveling in it. I thrust myself down onto his cock and smile and laugh and moan all at once. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” in rhythm as he thrusts. His smile is everything I’ve ever wanted to see. Proud and glad and manly and powerful. His eyes don’t want to own me, to dominate me, like they did when we first fucked. That was hot, but this is so much hotter. His eyes tell a different story. A story that he accepts me in all my glory and in all my imperfections. A story that he cares about my happiness more than anything in the world.

  His big cock fills my cunt so perfectly. Being in the arms of this big strong man brings a pleasure I never knew even existed.

  “Do you like it?” he says with a grin, mid-thrust, knowing perfectly well that I do.

  But we play our little game. I stop the movement on his cock. It still feels huge inside me, and when I tighten my cunt, I shiver with the pleasure. But I love this game. “Oh, it’s OK,” I say breezily.

  Then he pulls his cock out slowly. “Oh, all right. Let’s stop then.” He pulls it out until just the tip is rubbing against my pussy lips.

  I moan. I want it back inside me so badly.

  “Let’s do something else,” he teases. “Watch TV. Make scrambled eggs. I’m not really in the mood for sex anymore.” His eyes dance.

  “Go back in.”

  “Back in where?” He pretends to look confused.

  “Inside me.”

  “Oh, OK.” He pauses for one delicious, tantalizing moment. I know what’s coming. He grins at me, then looks down at my pussy. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” I moan.

  “Right.” He grabs my shoulder, then in one swift movement, he plunges his huge hard cock deep inside my cunt.

  “Yes!” Wave after wave of pleasure mounts and mounts, until I can do nothing but explode into ecstasy and scream.

  “Yes…” He matches me. I feel his cock harden even more inside me. He grips me and pushes and shudders and grunts like a beast as he comes inside me. I come and come and come all the while, moaning and screaming and whimpering with the pleasure.

  Then we clutch each other. The pleasure fades beautifully, like the most gorgeous symphony in the world coming to its natural end.

  “I love you,” he whispers into my ear, full of desperate passion.

  “Me more,” I reply.

  We lie there, enraptured by the memory of our ecstasy for a moment. After a few minutes, I turn to him. “Gray, I hope you don’t feel nostalgic for your boyhood summers in the mansion, now that we’ve given it to the National Trust.”

  He turns to me with a bemused smile. “That was so random.”

  I grin as I get up. I put my silky robe around me. “Not so random.”

  He sits up in bed. “Huh?”

  “Well, I was wondering how you would feel about bringing up a child in a luxury Seattle apartment, instead of a rambling English country estate.”

  “I think they’d have a wonderful life, because they would have parents who adore them.”

  I stare at him, waiting for him to understand what I’m trying to tell him.

  “But why do you ask now?” he says. “We’ve talked about this loads.”

  I go to the bathroom and return with a huge smile. I go over to where he is on the bed. He swings his legs around to sitting and cups my ass in his hands. I’ve always been self-conscious about my ass—I think it’s too big—but he says that’s nonsense and he adores it. It’s one of my sexiest features, he says.

  “Put your hand in my pocket,” I say.

  He looks confused but does so. He fishes the stick out of the pocket and frowns at it for a moment. Then realization floods his face, and his eyes light up with joy. “This is what I think it is?”

  I grin. “Depends what you think it is, babe.”

  “A positive pregnancy test!”

  I laugh. “Yes!”

  He jumps off the bed and whisks me off my feet and into his arms. He twirls me around until I’m dizzy. “We’re having a baby! We’re having a baby!”

  I can’t stop laughing. “Yes, we are!”

  He pauses his spinning and looks at me like I’m the most precious person who ever walked the earth. “Thank you,” he says, with a huge, passionate breath. “Thank you for changing my life.”

  I squeeze tightly around his neck as tears of joy spill down my cheeks. “Thank you for changing mine.”

  Yay!

  Thank you for so much for reading! I always like to give a something extra. Get the story before Chapter 1 to find out more about Grayson and Isabella.

  Specail offer! I’ve included three best-selling novels for you to read, starting after this page.

  Click here to get the Prequel!

  No one can find out I’m pregnant.

  Landing a job on the set of Billionaire Bachelor was amazing.

  But being up close to this year’s bachelor, Blake Berringer, is enough to make me wet on the spot.

  He’s an unhinged aristocrat with the face of an angel and the reputation of the devil.

  A little part of me wants to get him alone and see if he remembers me.

  We met once a long time ago.

  But there’s 3 ironclad rules on set:

  1) No wandering the bachelor’s property after dark.

  Broke this one once.

  2) Don’t accept any gifts.

  Broke this one twice.

  3) Don’t kiss the bachelor.

  I can’t even count how many times we broke this one.

  I’m such a bad girl.

  But some rules are meant to be broken.

  The producer is really going to flip her shit when she sees my baby bump.

  Will I be fired, or will I be famous?

  Prologue

  Roxanne

  “Are you an angel?”

  “Not hardly. Come here…”

  “You don’t even know how to drive?” an old lady in a long red gown asks me, her eyes child-like with shock. She isn’t the only one, either. There are four other ancient millionaires crowded around me, looming in anticipation.

  “I—I know how to drive,” I answer her, cradling my own arms uncomfortably. “I just…have panic attacks when I try. For right now.”

  Damn it, Pepper was right. It’s too soon for me to be doing stuff like this. I’m not ready. I thought it would be okay. It’s a boat, a fundraiser, free shrimp. The thing is, I hate shrimp. I shouldn’t have come.

  The old lady gasps. “You must feel so helpless, Roxanne,” she coos. “Like you don’t even exist anymore. Oh, you poor thing. Look, Charles, her bruises aren’t even fully healed yet. Oh, heavens.” She reaches a shriveled hand to touch me, like I’m some broken doll on display.

  “Refreshments?” a waiter interrupts, and I dodge the probing fingers to snatch a flute of champagne from his platter.

  “Thank you,” I breathe. “And excuse me.” I weave and break through the crowd of murmuring patrons. The old woman yells something after me—something about my bravery and an inspiration, blah, blah—but I’m already breaking through the next cluster of curious, old-money patrons. Their faces are too big, looming at me, watching me with such studious interest, like I’m a wounded bug, and they hope that I can make it, but I’m still so very small compared to them. Compared to everything. I’m small. And empty.

  I might be wearing a gown crusted in pearls, but I’m not one of them. They can all see it. They see it in the clouds that never clear from my gray eyes. They see it in the yellowed bruises on my upper-arms, still not completely healed.

  I drag four fingers through my freshly dyed curls—black cherry—and inhale deeply, letting the intense ocean air purify my mind.

  My body relaxes with ea
ch progressive click of my heels. I put more space between myself and these insanely polite zombies.

  I can’t believe she asked me such personal questions in front of everyone. I felt like I had to tell her because this is a fundraiser for battered women, and I’m one of them. I’m a poster child now. I’m a walking commercial for Second Chances.

  They tell me how sorry they are for what happened to me, and how lucky I am that Ms. Madden found me, that Ms. Madden took me in. This environment is supposed to be encouraging and supportive.

  They smile and nod at me like I’m some four-year-old wandering the dance floor at a wedding reception.

  I want to scream, I don’t belong on this stupid yacht! I don’t belong in this dress! Jared would love to see me now, see how I can’t do this. I don’t even remember how to talk to people anymore. I don’t remember how to be outside. He ruined me. He won. I ran two hundred miles too late.

  I clutch the stern of this decadent yacht, staring out over the tumble and spray of dark ocean waves. Finally alone. My heart brims until I think it’s going to burst as another panic attack grips me. Shit. Shit. Just breathe.

  I’m free. Everyone says I’m free now.

  I’m surrounded by good people here, aren’t I? Their money pays for the women’s shelter that is my current address. And look at all the pretty Christmas lights strung overhead. Didn’t I see the massive Christmas tree on the main deck, swamped in baubles and tinsel? Didn’t I hear the orchestra playing “Deck the Halls”? How could I feel so miserable, so lost, in the middle of all this festivity?

  I want to jump so damn much. Just fuck it.

  “I’m lost,” I sob quietly, speaking to the ocean sprawled beyond, like it wants my answer.

  I should’ve brought one of my girls with me. Pepper or Iggy. But I’m alone. It’s a blessing and a curse.

  I stare out across the vast horizon and raise my champagne glass to it.

  “So here’s to you, Jared,” I murmur, rising the champagne flute to my lips and downing it all in one gulp. The bubbles burn. My other hand slides along the smooth, cool metal of the railing, and I let my shoulders soften, let my back curve. My eyelashes kiss closed and I sigh. He’s gone now. He’s gone. But where does that leave me?

  I loosen my fingers and let my glass tumble into the immense wake of the turbines. It flips end over end, winking in the moonlight, and then vanishes. I don’t even hear it. It’s just gone.

  It could be like that for you, too.

  I can’t even sing anymore. I can’t write anymore. I don’t remember how to make friendly conversation. I don’t remember how to handle money. I don’t remember anything except how to make Jared happy. How to run Jared’s house. How to be Jared’s wife. I still jolt when my phone vibrates. I still cry if dinner’s burnt.

  I hitch up my skirt and swing a leg over the railing. Then the other.

  On this side of the railing, the entire world changes. Winter winds rip at my gown and hair. The floor falls away, falls fifty feet to the black Pacific below. I’m very aware of my fingers all of a sudden. My mouth tightens with determination. My heart’s going like a jackhammer.

  No one notices I’m doing this. The rumble of murmured conversation at my back doesn’t break. No one cares. No one even remembers which girl I am after I walk away. If I let go, no one will notice. They won’t turn around and come back. Nothing in the whole world will change. I only had one job to do—be Jared’s wife—and now that I’m free, what is there for me? Who am I? I used to be known for my earthy, resonant vocals. With Jared, I learned to speak softly. Slowly, my entire personality got carved away, and I was just a husk. An extension of him. Now that he’s gone…

  “That bored?” a charming British accent wonders from behind me, and I flick a terrified glance over my shoulder.

  A blond Goliath fills the space behind me, smelling lightly of aftershave. His shoulders are so broad, he could be more gorilla than man, but he is clean-shaven and fits perfectly into a royal blue suit. Cornflower blue eyes spring out at me. His gold hair is well-kept, trim on the sides and styled on top. He just doesn’t look like he belongs in such trappings. He looks like he could flex and bust out of them.

  A fine tremble takes over my body as I begin to seriously doubt the spiraling emotions that brought me to this place.

  “Are you an angel?” I ask him in a voice as delicate as spun glass.

  “Not even hardly. Come here.” The blond spreads his hands down my shoulders and a brushfire of tingles sets off. I shiver, but he doesn’t notice, concentrating only on collecting me from the wrong side of the railing.

  He gently twists me to fully face him, and I feel vertigo when I look into his eyes. They’re so familiar, even though I’m sure I’ve never seen him before.

  I meant it when I asked him if he was an angel.

  His hands scoop around and hook on the other side of my skirt. “Here you come,” he promises me warmly, lifting me into the air. I yelp and my hands claw behind his neck, clinging to him like a cat. I swallow the lump in my throat as soon as I can feel relatively solid ground beneath my feet. “See?” he says. “You do want to live.”

  I gingerly extricate myself from his embrace, though one of his hands is still on me. I feel it burning into the small of my back.

  “I just had to get away for a little bit,” I tell him, a hint of my real voice seeping out, husky and sonorous.

  “But not forever, I hope.” He moves toward a bench along the stern and gestures to it, guiding me gracefully with one hand still planted at the base of my spine. Other than Jared, he’s the first man to touch me—even this tiny bit—in almost seven years. I should be having another panic attack right now, but I’m not. I’m mesmerized as warmth spreads from his fingers and across my skin.

  I settle alongside him, my skirt splashing out in front of us.

  “I used to escape all the time, too,” he confesses to me. “Then, a good friend of mine said something very useful: ‘A prison can become home if only you have the key.’”

  With that, he flourishes a single, intricately detailed brass key from his jacket pocket and holds it up for me to examine.

  “He gave this to me. Here, take it.”

  I obediently pluck the key from his fingers.

  “Because you can always just go,” I agree, turning the key over between my fingers. “A key changes everything.”

  It hits me for the first time since I arrived there two weeks ago: I need to get out of the Second Chances shelter. I need to have my own home. My own bed. A real job.

  My own key.

  I’m staring at the key so hard, I don’t notice the man stretch out a finger and graze the faded bruise on my jaw.

  I gasp, and my eyes flash to his. He stares back at me knowingly, eyes dark with pain. His finger doesn’t move, and I don’t want it to. He’s so warm, his touch so…penetrating.

  “It can keep everyone out,” the man whispers conspiratorially. His eyes seem to fill the whole world now. “Or it can let someone in.”

  The clinking of forks against champagne glasses draws those deep blue eyes away from mine, snapping the tether that held us so tightly together. As his finger leaves my cheek, I feel the vacuum of December air rush between us.

  A distant patron gestures to the golden boy, hollering that it’s time for the major contributors to make their speeches.

  “Bollocks, I have to go,” the intriguing man in the royal blue suit murmurs, coming to a stand. His key is still clutched in my hand. He smooths one large palm down the front of his suit and uses the other to point a finger at me. “I’ll find you after this,” he promises, then pivots and marches away.

  I slide the key into my little purse.

  The yacht docks at the marina in Long Beach almost two hours later.

  I never do see the mysterious blond again, and I step off the gangway with his key still tucked into my purse.

  I wear it around my neck now to remind myself that I will never be imprisoned agai
n.

  Chapter 1

  Blake

  Cosmo calls my appeal ‘steel wrapped in velvet.’

  I never demanded a retraction...

  If you’re in the gardens, you can’t tell. You can’t even tell if you’re standing on the balcony. But at the end of the sweeping driveway, just beyond the twelve-foot gates and the matching lion statues, there’s a swath of “journalists” which runs ten feet wide and thirty feet long. Their trigger-happy cameras pop at every shadow. They howl my name like banshees in the night.

  I can’t even leave my own damn house anymore.

  I heard that a picture of me is worth $500,000.

  “Starting early this morning,” Miles comments drily, offering me the customary warmed towel on a silver platter.

  “People like them don’t sleep.” I recline my head and lightly drape the white cloth over my face. I hear the tinkle of breakfast plates removed from the table, although I’m not sure which servants are here.

  I sit back and relish the refreshing hints of cucumber and mint infused with the towel’s cotton and relax.

  “Please tell me there’s nothing on the agenda today.”

  “I can tell you that there’s nothing between your 11 a.m. and your 2 p.m.,” Miles offers. “But Candace Madden will be here any minute.”

  I jolt and rip the warm towel from my face, skin tingling against the suddenly chilly air. “It’s 7 in the morning.”

  “That was what I said.” Beneath his graying mustache, a knowing smile spreads on Miles’ lips. He’s known me for thirty-eight years, and he loves to be right. “But you confirmed with her last week. You said she was an old friend.”

  “Not old enough, I’m sure.” I scowl up at him and stand to inspect my attire: blue silk pajamas. Lovely. “Send someone to intercept her from the gates. I’ll be down in five.”

  Five minutes later, I’m fastening cufflinks in the master bath, cursing my reflection for scheduling this goddamn meeting. My cobalt eyes are merciless right now, glaring above the nose for which I’m famous: slightly crooked after being broken in a street fight. It reminds me of that American actor with the charming Southern accent. I scrape fingers through shaggy, wheat-colored hair and nod to myself. If only the clean-cut boy I’d been could see me now…