The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)

“Look at you.” And he could, now. He stood up from the table and circled her. “Just look at you.”


The fabric molded to the peaks of her ni**les. Dreams and fevered imaginings paled before reality. A dream conjured up a perfect half-moon of a breast, but it missed the light smattering of freckles. He might imagine smooth, pale skin. This close, he could see that her skin was pebbled with cold. And it was a smattering of colors—a light overlay of pink, where her blood pounded beneath the skin, hints of tan and white. He could even make out a pale white line along one rib that could have been a scar.

Those minor imperfections riveted him. This was no painter’s imagination, no unreal fantasy displayed in his mind. This was Minnie, and she was here, real and breathing.

Red ribbon bows held the gown together at her shoulders. The one over her right arm was loose, and it seemed to taunt him, that half-made knot, not quite pulled firmly together, threatening to loose itself and let the sheer fabric slide down her skin.

“Do you remember that fundamental physiological flaw?” he muttered.

“Remember it? I’d hoped to exploit it.”

“Oh.” He reached for her. “Good. Then assume I said something brilliant.”

He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her in for a kiss. It wasn’t just a kiss, lips on lips. It wasn’t even just his body, pressing against hers. He could feel her breaths speed up, unbound by a corset. His hands slid up her body. Her br**sts were round and firm; her ni**les hardened as his fingers brushed them. This was the beginning of everything.

“Assume I said something bloody brilliant,” he muttered.

From her breast, it was only a short way to that loose ribbon, only a twist of his fingers to undo it and draw the silk down. He found her breast again, this time uncovered. The texture of female skin—so warm and vibrant, soft to the touch and yet firm when caressed—enthralled him.

But she was even less shy than he. She slid her hands under his coat, around his waist. She kissed him long and slow.

“Are you afraid?” he whispered, drawing her closer to the bed.

“I know I’m supposed to be…but no. No.” He’d always found her voice sensual, but now it was downright erotic.

She sat on the bed and crooked her finger. “I’m not feeling particularly clever myself. I want you.”

Any hope he’d had of restraining himself evaporated at that. He shed his coat while she undid the buttons of his waistcoat. They pulled off his shirt together, both of them laughing when his hand got stuck in one cuff and she had to turn it inside out on his wrist to pull it off. Her fingers explored his chest, setting him to shivering while he undid his trousers.

When he’d shed trousers and smallclothes in a great mass on the floor, she pulled him back on the bed and kissed him again. This kiss was even better—skin against skin, her hands brushing his thighs, then gently exploring his organ. He fumbled the other ribbon tie off her shoulder as their tongues met. They were chest to chest, then, as he clumsily extricated her from her gown, bare legs to bare legs. He took hold of her hands in his and pressed them together full-length.

Her mouth was hot against his. His c**k was hard against her hip. They kissed, his pelvis grinding into hers, and all his dreams, all his most sordid imaginings, paled before reality. He was going to have her. He was finally, really, truly going to have her. He spread her legs and got on his knees between them.

When faced with the pretty pink folds of her sex, it was impossible not to touch her. She let out a little gasp when he touched her there—not of shock, but encouragement. She strained against his fingers. Fingers weren’t enough. He came on top of her, careful, so careful with his weight. She moaned when he rubbed the head of his erection against the opening of her passage.

“Oh, God,” she said, in that so-arousing voice. “Robert…”

“God. I want you so badly.”

He pushed an inch inside of her.

She inhaled and set her hand against his chest—not a caress, but a slight pressure pushing him away, and he stopped. His biceps ached subtly, frozen as he was above her.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“No…” She smiled weakly and then said, in direct contradiction, “Only a little.”

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to pop the bubble of unthinking lust that had taken him so thoroughly. He was making a hash of things. He was forcing himself on her with scarcely a kiss and a fumble to ready her.

“Don’t stop,” she said, but when he thrust deeper inside, her entire body tensed. The pleasure he felt only magnified his unease. She closed around him—soft and warm, tight, so tight. She felt good. But he could feel her muscles, tense and unyielding beneath his body. Her fingers clenched in the bed sheets. Her jaw was set, as if she managed to grit her teeth only through strength of effort.

“I’m sorry.” He tried to kiss her. “I’m sorry.”