The Duke's Perfect Wife

“Very.” Eleanor put her good arm around him and pulled him into a warm embrace.

Hart tucked his hands back under her bu**ocks, lifting them the slightest bit, so that his very needy arousal could find the place she opened. “You’re wet for me,” he said.

She laughed, which made her move against him in the nicest way. “I’m straddling the most glorious, naked Highlander.”

Hart licked across her lips while he pulled her down onto him, his stiffness sliding straight into the goodness of her.

He nipped her neck, then licked to ease the bite. He wanted to suckle every part of her, could imagine the taste of her warm br**sts, the skin of her throat, the heat between her thighs. He wanted to taste her and drink her and not stop.

Gently. She’s hurt.

Hart knew how to be gentle. Rough play had its place, but there were times when the softest love was the best.

Perhaps one day they could…

Tell her everything.

Eleanor touched his face, hers soft with pleasure, skimming her fingers along his unshaven jaw. She smelled of her lavender soap, the scent that broke him open inside.

Hart pushed into her warmth, feeling her close around him, encasing him a tight embrace. God, yes. Eleanor’s eyes slid closed, her head going back while she clutched his shoulder with her unhurt hand. Her nails creased his skin, the little moan in her throat exciting.

Hart and Eleanor were locked together, their bodies firmly against each other’s. Hart’s skin prickled, and Eleanor’s little sigh let him know she was feeling him.

He could stay here forever…

The small rocking motion formed a hot point around which Eleanor existed. It was an exquisite sensation, Hart inside her, their bodies pressed together, hips locked.

His eyes were dark in the dim light, pupils spreading as his passion took over. His face softened from its usual hard mask, his lips parting to let out an ah of satisfaction.

Hart’s entire body embraced her, sweat trickling along his skin. His muscles were firm, a joy to feel. He exuded power, and yet, his eyes had swum with tears while he’d traced the name of the son he’d lost.

You break me, Hart Mackenzie.

At the moment, he was watching her intently. As though to warn her that he was being kind now, but he was holding back. He could turn wild at any moment.

The thought excited her. “You feel good,” she whispered.

“You feel like fire, my wicked wife.” Hart licked her neck. “I want to love you the rest of the night and all through tomorrow.”

Yes. She wanted him inside her, wanted to hold him and have him hold her, where all was safe and warm.

He lifted a little, thrusting harder. “Don’t let me hurt you,” he whispered.

He’d never hurt her. Eleanor drew her good hand down his back, lightly scratching. Hart made a little noise in his throat, and when he looked at her, all traces of sorrow had gone.

“You make me glad I’m a sinner, Eleanor Ramsay.”

Eleanor couldn’t answer. Her arm throbbed, but she scarcely felt it as she held on to Hart, her husband. Every point of her awareness went to where they were joined, and she saw nothing, felt nothing, but him.

She was going to scream. And then her throat was hoarse as Hart laughed and called her his sweet, sweet lass.

“Eleanor, you unmake me.” Hart’s words were lost in his groan as he pushed up into her, holding her, and let go of his seed.

The feeling didn’t end. It went on, Eleanor squeezing him, Hart rocking into her, his arms around her to keep her from falling. They were locked together, one.

Hart stayed inside her as he quieted little by little, his face at last relaxed, the tension released from his body. Eleanor knew she was one of the few able to see this, the Scottish duke letting himself be at ease.

Hart kissed her, with the warm kiss of lovers who had found their all in each other. He held her in his strong arms, licking the trail of freckles that led down her neck, and she felt the scrape of his teeth.

When he at last lowered her to the pillows, Eleanor was half asleep. He withdrew, the friction of him going out almost as heady as it had been going in.

He eased Eleanor onto her side and pulled the covers gently around her, Hart warm at her back. His thigh moved between her legs, solid strength, which both excited and comforted her. Surrounded by that comfort, Eleanor dove into a profound sleep.

Hart jumped awake to a clatter, a crash, a sigh of exasperation, and a mutter of, “Oh, blast.”

He forced his eyes open. Sunlight streamed through the windows, landing on the warm indentation in the mattress where Eleanor had lain. The pillows bore her lavender scent, but Eleanor had gone.

Hart lifted his head, stifling a groan as his muscles protested. He found Eleanor at the foot of the bed in her dressing gown, trying, one-handed, to unfold something that looked like a cooking crane.

Hart rubbed his face, his hand finding deep stubble on his chin. “What the devil are you doing?”

Eleanor had mischief in her eyes. “Setting up the photographing apparatus. It’s a bit difficult one-handed. Perhaps you could help?”

Hart sat up. Eleanor beamed and went back to her task, as though it was perfectly reasonable for her to be wrestling with a camera the morning after making love with her husband.

“You want to take photographs now?” he asked.

“In truth, I wanted to take one of you lying uncovered in the bed, with you half on your side as you were. You looked beautiful with the sunlight on you. But I had to drop the tripod and wake you.”

“You were going to take photographs of me while I slept?”

She blinked, as though to say Why not? “Do not worry. I will show them to no one. They are for me to look at while you’re away in London winning your election or stuck in Parliament all day. I know you won’t be staying here much longer, so I must take opportunities as I can.”

Hart came out of the bed. Eleanor, unworried, kept rattling the tripod until Hart grabbed it out of her hands. “I’d thought you’d forgotten about this.”

“No, indeed. I am afraid I am going to be the sort of wife who refuses to let her husband run off to a mistress. If you see that I am adventurous enough to take nude photographs of you, perhaps you won’t need to turn to a courtesan like your Mrs. Whitaker.”

Hart opened the tripod with one yank and set it on the floor. “I told you, I have no interest in Mrs. Whitaker.”

“You will be away in London quite often, and you are a very passionate man.”

“Passions I control very well.” Except when I am with you. “Whatever you think of me, I am not a youth led by his desires. And I don’t intend to plant you here while I am in London. You’ll travel with me wherever I go.”