The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) by Sophie Jordan

Her eyes dipped, straying to his swollen manhood jutting forward, so close now that she could reach out and touch it. And why not?

He was here for the offering. She wanted to touch it. Him.

She yearned for him with a fierceness that should have shamed her, but it did not. Perhaps a modicum of this had always been there. This longing. This craving. For no other reason had his unkind words hurt her so much when she was a girl at his birthday party—or all those times she had visited his house as a child and been largely ignored by him. He’d enamored her. She’d thought him as beautiful and glittering as some distant star. And that was the truth she had never permitted herself to acknowledge before.

Now that star was before her. Bright and burning, but hers to touch and hold.

Perhaps this was it. He was it. Her one chance, her one taste of passion until she returned to a life of spinsterhood.

Holding his gaze, she scooted back on her elbows, her arms trembling with tension as she made more room for him on her bed.

He watched her for a long moment, his gaze scouring her in a hot sweep that she felt deep in her bones.

“You are certain you want this?” he rasped, his voice a husky growl—the words like a gauntlet thrown down, waiting for her to pick it up and accept. And of course, she would.

She nodded her assent and he lowered his second knee to the bed. The mattress dipped from his weight. He moved in, walking on his knees like a great seductive beast intent on devouring her, his muscles undulating beneath his smooth taut skin. Her thighs instinctively parted for him, welcoming him in, even as she was both thrilled and petrified.

The intensity of his gaze as he looked down at her was like a physical touch. She forgot to breathe under that stare. Her hands fluttered to rest on his shoulders—so delightfully, shockingly naked.

“So lovely,” he murmured, brushing the hair back off her forehead.

She laughed nervously. That was the first time someone said that . . . someone who actually meant it. And he meant it. He was not a pretender. Not a man to say things he did not mean. She knew that much about him.

He smiled wickedly, knowingly, as he settled deeper between her knees, the warmth of his body, his skin, singeing the insides of her thighs. His chest pressed against hers, grazing her sensitive nipples into stiff points. She arched her spine, enjoying the sensation, craving more, to which he delivered.

Dipping his head, he sucked the tip of her breast deep into his warm mouth. His teeth scraped the hard point, spiking her need.

She cried out at the intense pleasure and he quickly covered her mouth, gently admonishing her with a “Ssh” against her ear. “You don’t want to wake the house, do you?” She felt his smile against the whorls of her ear.

She nodded and he slid his hand away, dragging it back down to her breast, fondling the mound until her entire body was an inferno, boiling from the inside and ready to burst.

His manhood nudged at her core, the hard heaviness of him rubbing against her. The intimacy of him over her, splayed between her thighs, prodding her, left her gasping, desperate to be filled. Her inner muscles clenched, aching with need.

Perry seized her lips in a consuming kiss. There was no sliding into it. No gentle easing. Nothing soft or mild. His tongue delved into her mouth, stroking her own tongue until she moaned, a writhing wreck beneath him. She pushed up toward the hard length of him.

He seized her head with both hands as their kiss grew wild and hungry. His hand descended on her breast in a fiery trail. He tweaked her nipple, rolling and pinching it, coiling her passion higher, tighter. She felt that familiar swell building and coming over her again. Just like at the pond with the warm rock bed under her. This time she had a soft bed and it was an improvement.

The head of him prodded her opening. Moisture rushed between her legs. She wiggled her hips eagerly until his manhood began pushing inside her.

She inhaled sharply at the tip of him entering her.

He paused. “Is this . . . do you want me to stop?”

She shook her head. “No!” The very idea of him stopping filled her with panic.

He smiled slightly, knowingly, and then gave the faintest teasing nudge, deepening his penetration. The motion had her puffing and wiggling. “Say it. Say what you want,” he encouraged.

“What I want?” She was confused . . . and in torment and could scarcely form a thought.

“My cock,” he supplied. “You want my cock, Imogen? Ask for it.”

At his profane speech, she grew wetter. The ache between her legs was almost painful now.

Anxious for all of him, she pushed up against his hardness, seeking relief.

“Say it,” he instructed. “Cock.”

“Cock,” she snapped. Then softer, pleading, need thick in her throat: “I want your cock. Please.”

He gave her what she wanted and met her hunger, lodging himself deeply, seating himself all the way with a rumbling groan.

There was no resistance. Just a general stretching and burning that wasn’t completely comfortable, but any discomfort diminished alongside the delicious friction of him as he set a pace, moving inside her.

His lips brushed her head. “Your quim feels so good . . . perfect.”

Nodding wildly, she panted, her fingers clenching on his shoulders, hanging on as he withdrew and drove inside her.

Her nails scored his shoulders. Moaning, she wrapped her legs around his waist.