I want a lot more, too, but I’m not sure I deserve it.
7
Ada
“Where are you taking me?” My voice is low.
“Away from prying eyes,” the Duke answers.
A thrill shoots down my spine, settling deep in my womb. I clench against the emptiness between my legs, letting my eyelids flutter closed for a moment.
Does he have any idea what his voice does to me? How his hand on my back makes my head spin? How for the first time since college, I feel like more than just a person—I feel like a woman who wants and needs and craves?
We walk for what feels like a long time, but it’s probably only a few minutes. The sounds of the ball fade in the distance as our footsteps echo in the hallway.
“Here,” the Duke says, his voice low. He pushes a heavy wooden door open for me, and I step through, taking a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
We’re in a medium-sized room with tall, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Farcliff Lake. The night sky is dark, with a big, yellow moon hanging low in the sky. In front of the windows is a grand piano, gleaming bronze with the light of the moon.
I gasp, recognizing the piano even in the darkness. It’s the custom-made Blythe grand piano, made for the previous royals.
This piano is a thing of legends. King Charlie’s mother used to play, and it’s rumored this piano cost over two million dollars to make. I walk up to the instrument, almost afraid to touch it. Different types of wood are inlaid so perfectly that the instrument looks like a watercolor painting. I run my fingers over the polished wood, eyes wide and heart thumping.
“You should play it,” the Duke says, stripping his tuxedo jacket off and laying it over the arm of a sofa. His white shirt stretches over his chest and arms, betraying the raw power of the muscles coiled underneath it. His broad shoulders taper to slim hips, and I wonder if there’s a deep V carved between his hips.
My cheeks burn. I shake my head, gulping. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” He settles onto the couch, letting his arm hang over the back of the leather sofa. His other elbow rests on his jacket, his head propped between his thumb and index finger. He watches me, eyes hanging low.
I stand next to the piano, letting my hand drift to the cover protecting the keys. I shake my head. “It’s not mine to play.”
“No one’s touched it in years. Not since the Queen Mother died. Instruments are meant to be played.”
I glance at the Duke. He looks completely at ease here, his ankle resting on his opposite knee. Head still propped in his fingers. Arm slung over the back of the sofa.
How did he even know this piano was here?
“Ada,” he says, and a shiver tumbles through my veins. Say it again, please. Say my name. I glance at him, eyes widening. He nods to the instrument. “Play for me.”
The command sends a thrill rushing through my body. My body clenches, skin too sensitive against the silky material of my gown.
“What do you want me to play?” My voice is a breath. A whisper.
“Something sad,” the Duke replies. “Anything but Christmas music.”
I glance at the man on the sofa, remembering that it was right before Christmas when his brother was found. The anniversary of his death will be coming up next week, or the one after. I’m not sure of the exact date.
Moonlight cuts across his angular features, casting half his face in darkness. He holds my gaze, and for just a moment I see pain flash across his eyes.
He lost his whole family four years ago. He’s been carrying the dukedom on his shoulders since then. Everyone thinks he’s a recluse who has women and booze delivered to his door—but for just a moment, I see him. The real him. The man who’s been cut deep, who’s been suffering on his own. The man who has taken the responsibility for his lands, and by all accounts let the family business die.
Is that true, though?
How did he know where this piano was? I saw the familiar way King Charlie spoke to him. Like they’re friends. He’s probably at the castle all the time.
Then his face grows stone-hard, and his expression is shuttered again.
I swallow past a thorny mess in my throat and sit down at the piano bench, lifting the cover to reveal the black and white keys. My fingers drift over them. Smooth and polished and familiar.
I’m glad the couch is behind me; I wouldn’t be able to play if I could see the Duke in my peripheral vision. Even the prickling of his gaze on my bare back makes all my senses heighten.
I close my eyes and try to forget he’s here. Kicking my heels off, I feel the rightmost pedal under my foot. Then, with a breath, I start to play.
I’ve always loved Chopin. His nocturnes are full of tragedy and complicated emotions, pierced with positive moments that dissolve into nothing. For the Duke, I play my favorite one. Number 19, Opus 72, in E minor.
Playing one of my favorite pieces of music on the royal grand piano worth almost as much as my entire family’s estate sends me somewhere deep. I forget where I am. Who I’m with. Why I’m here.
It’s just me and the music, until I sense the Duke get up. He comes to stand beside the piano, watching my fingers dance over the keys. His presence only intensifies the moment. He breathes in the melody, staring at me. Feeling me.
My whole body grows electric. My breasts feel heavy. Arms feel light. A bud of heat unfurls in the pit of my stomach as the Duke listens to me play. His grip on the edge of the piano tightens as his breath grows shorter. I can almost feel it whisper over my skin, but I keep playing.
A strand of hair falls across my face. I ignore it.
It’s not until the music ends that I take my hands off the keys, place them in my lap, and I take a full breath. I lift my eyes to the Duke, almost afraid of what I’ll find.
His face is cracked open, pain and desire and wonder carved into every feature. Every curve of his lips. Every eyelash and indescribable shade of green.
“Stand up,” he rasps.
I stand.
He reaches for me, circling his arm around my waist and tugging me close. I crash against his chest, catching myself against the fine white fabric of his shirt. My eyes widen, head spinning from the closeness of him.
“I want to kiss you,” he says, his voice strained. His eyes angle toward me, dropping to my lips. His brows draw closer, as if he’s in immense pain. “Tell me I can kiss you.”
My voice catches. Breath stays stuck somewhere in my throat as my body screams at me to comply. As my fingers curl around the nape of his neck, feeling the softness of his dark hair, I finally part my lips.
“You can kiss me,” I whisper.
I expect him to crush his lips against mine. To make the inferno inside me burn hotter. To cut me open and watch me bleed out.
But he hesitates, lifting his eyes to mine. “Ada,” he rasps. “Tell me you want me to.”
My heart thumps so hard I know he can feel it. My breasts are pressed against the thin fabric of his shirt, my nipples sensitive buds against his chest. My core is burning so hot I wonder if he can sense it. If he knows how wet it is between my legs. If he understands that never have I ever felt like this before. Never have I ever wanted this as badly as I do now.
“Kiss me, Your Grace. Please.” Am I begging? Is that pathetic?
I don’t care.
His arms are around my waist and his chest is pressed against mine. It smells like him everywhere. I’m breathing him in. I can feel the pulse hammering through his body, and something hard throbs between his legs.
He lets out a low groan, closing his eyes. His hold on me doesn’t loosen. Instead, his hand sweeps up my side, brushing my waist and teasing the edge of my breast. When his fingers slide over my jaw, his thumb brushing over the gloss on my lips, he shakes his head.
“The moment you walked into that ballroom, I knew you’d be mine tonight.”
His eyes are dark. Hungry.
My body begs for him. I cling to him, not carin
g that my nails are digging into the nape of his neck.
And the Duke listens. He angles his mouth to mine and kisses me, his lips parting as a soft groan slips through them.
I melt. Burn. Need.
My arms circle his neck as he deepens our kiss, his hand still cupping my cheek as his other arm slides down to rest against the dimples on my lower back. He presses me against his body, grinding his hips toward me.
He’s hard.
Oh my God, he’s hard. For me. Right now. At the royal ball.
His tongue slides over my bottom lip and then dips inside my mouth, and I taste him for the first time. Hot and spicy and so deliciously male. My whole body thrums for him as he backs me against the side of the piano, his hands sweeping down to my waist to hold me in place.
“I’d fuck you right here against that piano,” he groans, nipping at my bottom lip. Kissing my jaw, my neck, my earlobe.
Dirty, dirty Duke.
How did I get here again? Do I even care?
I pant, clinging to his broad shoulders. “That’s where I draw the line,” I say, leaning my head back as he kisses the space between my breasts. His hands cup them, squeezing gently as he runs his thumb over the fabric of my gown, feeling the pebbled nipples that have been hard for him all night.
“You won’t fuck me?” He lifts his head to glance at me, his lips tugged into a smirk. As if it’s a challenge. As if he can make me change my mind.
“I won’t desecrate this piano that way,” I say, fire burning deep in my core. I know my eyes are full of desire. I know he sees the way he’s unravelling me with little more than a kiss.
I don’t care.
All the tension inside me needs release. All the stress of the evening needs an escape.
And damn it, he’s perfect. He’s broad and strong and commanding, and he makes my panties so wet they cling to me.
I can have one night, can’t I? Soon, I’ll be like Maggie or Rhoda. I’ll have someone chosen for me. I’ll have to marry for honor or titles. I’ll have my whole life laid out for me, and I won’t be able to do this. It could be my last chance. My one night of passion.
Why not with the Duke of Blythe?
The chances of seeing him again are slim. He’s a recluse. I won’t run into him at the concert hall. If things get awkward, it’ll only be for tonight.
And his lips are firm, yet soft. His hands are broad with long, fine fingers that make my pulse thump. And he’s hard. For me. Right now.
The Duke lets out a low rumble. It rattles through my chest as he stands tall, pressing his body against mine. The cold, polished wood of the piano is behind me, and the Duke’s hot body in front. I lift my eyes to his, loving the way he sinks his fingers into my hips.
“For the record,” he says with a grin, “I don’t have women delivered to the estate.”
“No?”
He shakes his head, moving his fingers to the zipper at the side of my dress. “I haven’t made love to a woman in two years.”
The teeth of the zipper catch as he tugs, slowly lowering it down as my pulse quickens.
“No?” I repeat, breathless.
He shakes his head.
“Why not?”
One big boulder of a shoulder moves up in half a shrug as his hand keeps moving my zipper down. “Didn’t fill the void inside me. Made me feel emptier. So I stopped.”
“And tonight? Me?”
He doesn’t answer. The zipper is undone, and the Duke moves his hands to my shoulders. He slides the silver fabric over my skin, letting it puddle at my feet.
Apart from a tiny thong covering the space between my legs, I’m naked. He’s not.
His eyes darken, drinking in every inch of my body. The backs of his fingers touch my bare stomach, sending a tremor straight through my core. He runs his hand higher up, turning it around to sweep his palm over the top of my breast. His thumb teases my nipple.
I shiver, but not from the cold.
Finally, the Duke speaks. His voice is low. His eyes dark. “Tonight,” he says, “you’re mine.”
8
Ada
Reaching for the Duke’s bowtie, I unfasten it with long, slow movements. He watches, standing before me unmoving.
“If anyone were to walk in right now…”
“They won’t,” he answers, completely sure of himself.
I bite my lip, eliciting a groan from the Duke. I tug his bowtie free and lay it gently against the piano bench, then move to his shirt. Before my hands can get there, though, the Duke is unbuttoning it.
I don’t know what it is about the sight of him tugging those little white buttons open, but it sends heat ripping through my core. The broad palms. The tendons and muscles flexing over the back of his hand. The sliver of exposed chest growing wider, and wider, and wider.
When he pulls the shirt free from his pants, I suck in a hard breath.
There’s a V, and it’s glorious. Carved deep into his abdominal muscles, it leads my eyes down to the promise of something good. Crawling my gaze back up, I inhale every hard plane and sweeping muscle in front of me.
The Duke is more than a man. He’s some sort of higher being, crafted from stuff that isn’t quite human. No one can be this perfect. It’s not fair to other men. It’s not fair to my poor, ruined panties.
Reaching for his chest, I let my fingers hover an inch from his skin. Flicking my eyes up to his, I see him grin.
“You can touch. I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.”
A blush creeps over my cheeks, my fingers still hovering close enough to feel the heat of his skin, but not close enough to touch. He catches them in his hand, bringing the tips of my fingers up to his mouth. A soft kiss lands on each fingertip, and my knees knock together. I feel weak.
His eyes drink me in. They’re so green and deep with the pupils blown out, and I feel so incredibly naked and so incredibly good.
Then, the Duke parts his lips and takes the tips of my fingers in his mouth.
I melt. A breath escapes through my parted lips as my eyelids flutter, hardly able to take the closeness of someone who looks like sex incarnate. “Your Grace…”
“Heath,” he says. “Call me Heath.”
“Heath,” I repeat in a whisper, knowing from my little sister’s ramblings that he never lets anyone call him by his name. A thrill pierces my gut as the Duke—Heath—opens my palm and lays a soft kiss in the center of it.
With one step toward me, his chest brushes mine. I lean in, feeling the softness of my breasts press against the hardness of his muscle, tilting my head toward him.
I need more. I need his kiss. His hands. His cock.
I need everything he’s willing to give me.
This could be the last time I feel this way. The only time! It could be my one chance with a man like him, who makes me feel like the world falls away. Who convinces me to play the royal piano and then undresses me beside it. Who takes my fingers in his mouth and seems to like the taste of my skin.
When Heath’s hands slide over my hips, the warmth of his skin makes my breath catch. He drops his head to my neck, laying a kiss on my burning flesh.
I tilt my head to the side, closing my eyes.
My head spins. It’s too much. Not enough.
My own hands run up every ridge and valley of his muscles, committing them all to memory. I want to be able to call up the sight of his body whenever I need it. I want to remember every taste. Every smell. Every touch. I want to remember the way my heart skips a beat whenever a soft groan slips through his lips. How a touch from his palm makes sparks explode across my skin.
Sliding his hands to my back, I feel him notch his thumbs into the dimples above my ass. They fit perfectly, like they were made for him. His hands slide over my ass, squeezing gently as he pulls me into him.
And I feel him. His tuxedo trousers do nothing to hide the bulge growing between his strong thighs. As the Duke kisses my neck, my shoulder, my jaw, I reach down to palm his stiffening cock.<
br />
He groans, and I revel in the noise.
I’m making him feel this way. I’m the reason he’s making those noises. I’m the one who has him harder than steel. Is his cock weeping already, I wonder? Soaking into the fabric of his underwear? Throbbing every time I press my lips against his skin?
I wrap my fingers around his cock, wishing there were no fabric between us.
The Duke groans. He pulls his head away from my neck, staring into my eyes. “If you keep doing that, I’ll come in my pants.”
A wicked smile tugs at my lips, and the Duke’s eyes darken. He likes when I’m bad.
I give his cock another stroke, letting my lips part. Heath stares at my face, his eyelids dropping as my hand moves. Up and down. Up and down. The feeling of his hard cock makes all kinds of pressure build in the pit of my stomach.
Then, with a roar, the Duke pulls my hand away. He wraps his arms around me and throws me over his shoulder as if I weighed nothing, marching to the couch. He throws me down so I bounce on the soft cushions, catching myself before I tumble off. The Duke kneels before me, spreading my legs wide.
“Are you wet for me?” Heath asks, staring up at me through thick, black lashes. He pulls my legs so my ass is hanging off the edge of the sofa, then presses the inside of my knees wide until they’re pinned against the soft leather.
My chest heaves. I bite my lip, unable to answer. His head is so close to my core he must be able to see the wetness soaking through my thong. He must be able to smell the arousal leaking out of me.
Using his big shoulder to keep my leg pinned against the sofa, the Duke slides his hand over the inside of my thigh and gently, oh so gently, tugs my panties over to the side. A satisfied groan reaches my ears, and I know he sees just how wet he’s made me.
When I glance down at him, Heath has a smile on his lips. His thumb runs over the crook of my hip, so close to my outer lips. Not close enough. I sigh, leaning back against the sofa as he spreads me wide. Exposes me. Looks at me like no one has before.
Yours for Christmas: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (Royally Unexpected) Page 4