Page 44 of The Duchess Games

She nibbled on her lower lip. “Did you want to come with me?”

Caitriona Sparrow. A duke does not want to come to your cottage that smells of wet dog.

He paused, gaze sliding towards her. “I would, yes.”

Oh.

She hadn’t expected that. Even during that forbidden summer so long ago he had been careful not to come to her house. There would be too much gossip.

They walked in companionable silence, climbing down the road towards Little Crumpet. The sea was a constant backdrop, the sun flashing on the water, the tiny white specks of boats in the distance. The cottage sat on the edge of the village, which she loved. It was quiet and she could open the door and let the dogs out for a run even late at night. It came into view as they crested a hill, the thatched roof which had seen better days, the whitewashed walls. They’d painted the windowsills a bright red for a bit of cheer. There were too many feelings welling up inside her, it was hard to sort them out: pride, embarrassment, nerves, confusion.

So, she did what she always did when the worry threatened to make her hands shake or her breath stutter. She moved. Action always helped. Laughter was even better. She tucked a strand of hair that had been pulled loose by the wind behind her ear. “It occurs to me that these Duchess Games are rather unfair.”

“It occurs to you now?” He stopped walking because she had. “They’re not unfair, they’re downright ghoulish.”

“True,” she flashed him a grin. “But they are also uneven. We show off for you, but when do you show off for us?”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting. Usually, a duke’s very presence was enough.

“I propose a race,” she added. “A footrace.”

“You want me to race you?”

She had flummoxed him. Good. It was high time he felt as unmoored as she did.

“Are you ready?” she asked. “Good. Go!” She tossed over her shoulder.

“I never said I—damnation.”

Her laugh trailed behind her as he broke into a run. She was fast and she knew the path well. But he’d grown up walking the beaches and wading into the waves. Riding horses. Pugilism. Still, she hadn’t expected someone so big to move quite so fast.

It was quickly apparent that she had miscalculated.

This was supposed to be a spot of silly fun, something to defuse the tension. She hadn’t counted on the primal breathlessness he evoked by closing in behind her, his footsteps approaching, his shadow at her heels. Hunting her.

Did everything the man did have to make her feel as though he’d already taken all of her clothes off?

She pushed a little harder. He kept close. She felt the pounding of his boots in the ground. Yellow finches erupted out of the grass around them. Her neck prickled, even as she suppressed an inappropriate giggle. The cottage garden loomed, the wall snaking around it. She risked a backward glance at him, and the laugh died in her throat, replaced by a whimper of need. There was nothing polite in his expression, only intensity and smug satisfaction and the same kind of need that drove her. She could all but taste it.

He was running her to ground and she was loving it.

She reached the wall first. At least, she thought she reached it first. It was hard to tell when he was suddenly there and his hands were on her and she was spinning around, her back hitting the stones. They struggled for breath, eyes locked together. The morning spun away, the sun through the clouds, the call of herring gulls, the smell of the rosemary plants nearby. None of it mattered.

It took an eternity for their mouths to meet. He paused there for so long, teasing them both. When she finally closed the distance between them, touching her mouth to his gently, a nip here, a nibble. There was no softness in his response.

Only hunger.

His fingers closed in her hair, tilting her head back and anchoring it so he could find his pleasure. Which was her pleasure. He kissed her deeply, hungrily, chasing the whimpers she made against his mouth. Every sound of pleasure made his fingers flex. The sting of her scalp kept her in the moment.

He flattened his other hand to the small of her back, dragging her closer. The hardness of him thrilled her, thighs flexing against hers, muscled chest pebbling her nipples, cock nudging between her legs. The answering pull of heat made her squirm against him. His tongue touched hers again and again, a taste, a retreat, another taste. She didn’t know how much more she could take. She hated every stitch of clothes between them.

“Are you wet for me, Miss Sparrow?”

She moaned against his mouth but when she didn’t otherwise answer he pulled back, just slightly. She pressed forward, moaning again, insisting.

“Answer the question, Caitriona.” His voice was rough against her ear, demanding, teasing. His teeth followed, a gentle scrape along the side of her throat. “There are rules.”

She shivered. “Y-yes.”