The Duke's Return: Regency Erotica

She slid her hand up and down his back, loving the play of muscles as he moved, loving the feel of his heated skin. As he filled her, stretched her, stroked into her, she moaned from the incandescent feeling of it, the feeling of being so utterly filled, completed, of joining so thoroughly with this man. Somehow the slowness of his rhythm was more intoxicating than his desperate thrusts of a moment ago had been. It made the pleasure build in her slowly, but with a strength and certainty that only grew with every deep, sensuous stroke.

He broke the kiss and lowered his head to the sheltered spot on her neck, just below her jaw, and breathed against her, his breath leaving him in small, ragged bursts. He moaned with each breath, his muscles tensing as he found a rhythm that was more exquisite than any other, so exquisite that he could only give into it, give over his whole being to it, close his eyes and breathe against the intense pleasure of it.

His hips surged fluidly, driving him into her over and over again, so deeply, so completely, with a relentless rhythm that neither quickened nor slowed. The steadiness of it reached some hidden depths in her, made her tense and grasp his arms, made her arch towards him and strain to be closer, closer, to feel all of him, to feel every delicious stroke until she shattered around him again, curling up towards him on a cry of desperate relief and falling back down to the bed. He gazed down at her, his breath coming fast and uneven, and she watched his release claim his eyes first. Pleasure shot through them, pleasure and pain and torturous, exquisite release and he lowered his head again and shuddered, breathing out his climax on soft, quiet groans that were almost sobs.

When he finally stilled, when she could finally feel his thundering heart begin to slow, he pressed a kiss to her neck, and then another, until his lips found her earlobe and gently suckled. She shied away from the ticklish sensation and laughed. He lifted his head and smiled down at her, but he didn't withdraw from her. She could still feel him, hard inside her, even though he had just spent himself twice in the last half hour, and it was a strange, welcome, comforting feeling. They weren't making love, but they were joined, and she thought that she could stay like this all night if he'd let her, surrounded by him, filled by him, deliriously pleasured and pleased by him.

"You are divine." he whispered, pressing a kiss to her jaw, and then her lips. "I've never known such pleasure."

She felt her throat tighten. She couldn't have spoken even if she'd known what to say. A kind of euphoria filled her at his words, and she closed her eyes to savour them the better. Perhaps all gentlemen said this kind of thing to their mistresses, she thought. Perhaps that was the very reason men took mistresses, for the sheer pleasure lovemaking with them could bring. But she couldn't manage to care very much at that moment. For she had never even imagined such pleasure was possible, let alone experienced it, and she wanted to just drift for a moment longer, in his arms, joined with him, feeling his lips press light little kisses against her skin.

When she finally pulled away she felt the loss of him, and immediately ached for his return. He settled beside her, pulling her into his arms and cradling to him, stroking her hair as the drowsiness of their shared afterglow overcame them both. She laid her head against his chest, and listened to the slow, easy cadence of his heart.

She awoke a short time later, the night still dark and swirling with wind and rain outside her windows. She should have risen to close the shutters against the storm, but lying next to Sebastian, listening to him as he breathed deeply in sleep, she wouldn't have moved even if the roof had caved in.

It was remarkable how beautiful he was, she thought, taking in the firm, straight line of his jaw. She ran a finger lightly along the stubbled plane, knowing he wouldn't awaken from such a light touch. She paused, reflected how lovely it was to know a person so well as to be privilege to such an intimate knowledge. She let her hand fall to the bed lightly, feeling the heat of his muscled arm seeping into her skin as she rested beside him. Even his skin was beautiful. Warm and rich, it looked almost like bronze in the low firelight, the lines of his muscles standing out in fine shadows and valleys.

He turned on his side, grasping the pillow with his arms, and looked at her. He looked rumpled and sleepy and boyish, in spite of his thirty-five years.

"Am I still alive?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep. "Or did some heavenly goddess slay me with her favours?"

"I don't know." she answered. "I think some heavenly god might have slain me with his."

He smiled, that beautiful smile that transformed his face with light. He reached for her idly, caught her hand with his and twined their fingers together. His hand was so much larger than hers, his fingers long and strong and solid between hers.

"I..." she swallowed, knowing somehow that this was the only moment she'd have to find the courage to speak. "I have something to say to you. Something I..."

She thought perhaps her inarticulate attempt might have caused him to frown, or to worry about what she might say next. Certainly after lovemaking like they'd just enjoyed, other women in his past had probably blurted out their love for him, or thought it safe to start asking for favours of a different kind. But if any of this passed through his mind, his face revealed none of it. He simply regarded her, his eyes soft and drowsy, from pleasure or sleep or both.

"I have to thank you." she said, finding her voice again. "Please allow me to-"

"You're welcome." he said almost soundlessly, and smiled at her.

"No, no, not for this." she smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Although, thanks are not entirely out of order."

He grinned, pleased with himself, and removed his hand from hers to skim over her hip and into the dip of her waist.

"No, I must thank you for...for your service to my family." she said. She swallowed, gathering her courage, and then smiled cautiously. "Your Grace..."

His hand stilled. His eyes sharpened and the smile, so rare, so beautiful and so fleeting, fell from his face.

*author's note - Dukes/Duchesses in the UK are addressed formally as "Your Grace" the way Princes/Princesses are called Your Highness, and Kings/Queens "Your Majesty". To call someone "Your Grace" means you are aware they are a duke/duchess.

/end