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“That isn’t how historical accuracy …” Her eyes look back to her briefs as she swallows nervously.
“Miss Lane,” I whisper into her ear, and a shiver runs through her. “I suggest you stop arguing with the duke.”
The laugh that escapes her is somewhere between amusement and affection. And I still, smiling against her neck.
“There she is,” I say, dropping the accent entirely. I want this to be just me. Just us.
She places her hand on my chest, tracing the line of my muscles all the way down to my sweats. I sit back on my heels, not letting her take charge tonight. I reach down and slip my fingers into her sleep shorts as she helps me shimmy them off her legs.
“You are so damn beautiful. I could look at you all day.”
She squirms. “You can look later. I need you. Now.”
My hands slide up her calves, propping her legs wide to give me the access I need. My thumbs move toward her opening, gently parting her folds as she bucks against me. I begin to kiss down the inside of her thigh, slowly sliding my hands away.
“You’re teasing me,” she groans in frustration.
“I. Would. Never,” I say in between kisses.
“Jack—”
I don’t let her finish the thought as I take her clit into my mouth. I lick and suck until she is grinding herself against my face. Taking two fingers, I slide them inside her warmth, curling them at the perfect angle while I apply just the right amount of suction to her clit.
“Jackson,” she whispers, writhing in ecstasy.
“I got you, always.”
That’s all it takes for her to fall over the edge. I stay where I am, slowing my movements, letting her ride out her pleasure, and enjoying every second. She looks perfect like this. Hair splayed out, eyes unfocused. She gives me a soft smile, one I feel like she saves for me.
“Is that all you got, duke?” she teases.
Tickling her to get the sound of her sweet laughter, I pick her up bridal style and take her to the bedroom. I soak up each moment like this I have with her. Hoping and praying I figure out how to make sure these aren’t the last.
3
PHOENIX
“Where are we going?” I ask in the front seat of Jackson’s Range Rover one Saturday morning.
“You’ll see.” He looks over at me, one hand on the wheel, the other on the center console where my arm is looped in his.
We are hours outside of Cascadia when we pull into an antique shop. The kind of place you don’t stumble on—you have to be looking for it. The only sign is a weathered wood one, half-hidden off the road and about to crumble.
“Wait, how did you find this place?” I ask, eyeing him as I push open the car door.
He shrugs, walking around to meet me. “You said you were looking for a sink.”
“I said I’d keep an eye out.”
“Same thing.”
Inside, it smells like old wood and something faintly floral, with shelves stacked too close together, with history I don’t have time to think about.
We split up, and I find the vanity first—solid, worn in the right places, something I can bring back to life. I’m running my hand along the edge when Jackson appears behind me.
“Looks like it needs some work,” he says, not surprised.
“It’s fixable,” I reply briskly, as he grunts in agreement.
