2
" You’re burning,” she gasped. “Then you ought not to touch me,” he said seriously. “You’ll be consumed.” “Too late,” she muttered, and pivoted, trying to drag him, he presumed, toward the bed. “You’re awfully heavy—” “My soul is made of lead.” “—and you’re delirious,” she ended decisively. “I need to get help. "
― Elizabeth Hoyt , Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane, #12)
6
" His wide brow, his Roman nose, those too-cold eyes, and the lips that in another life- another, better world- would still have been beautiful.
This man was her husband. He was intense and intelligent, arrogant and vulnerable, dark and strange.
The more she found out about him, the more she thought that perhaps she might fall in love with him, Raphael de Chartres, the Duke of Dyemore.
What was more, he was hers.
And in that she would not fail. "
― Elizabeth Hoyt , Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane, #12)
8
" She felt enthralled by him, enthralled by her own sexuality. He bared something in her that she hadn't even known was there before she married him.
Something base, primal. Had it always been there, this fierce drive to feel? Or was it something that had been engendered by his touching her?
Her touching him?
She knew that she should be wary of this part of herself. Ladies were often exhorted to ignore any animal urges. To be polite. Formal. Cold.
But the flames of her desire, meeting and burning higher with his compulsion, were intoxicating.
It felt wonderful.
Too good to ignore. Too good to give up.
And when his fingers traced the wetness of her vulva, into the depths of her pleasure, she cried out, her eyes still caught with his.
He smiled, crooked and sinister because of his scar, but a smile nonetheless. A smile that wasn't exactly nice or gentlemanly.
But a smile that was all for her.
Only her.
No man- no one- had ever looked at her so before. "
― Elizabeth Hoyt , Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane, #12)
11
" She had known that he could move quickly. Still it was a shock when she found herself pressed against the back of her seat, his face inches from her.
"God's blood, woman, how much control do you think I have?" he whispered, his clove-scented breath brushing her face. "You must think me a saint by the way you harangue me despite my warnings. Listen and listen well: I am no saint."
"But I don't need a saint," she breathed, her voice trembling. "I don't want a saint. I want you."
"God forgive me," he snarled, and pulled her mouth to his.
His kiss wasn't gentle. He opened her lips with his tongue, invading her angrily. Passionately. How had she ever thought this man uninterested in bedding her?
His big, hot body pressed her against the seat and he scraped his teeth over her bottom lip. "
― Elizabeth Hoyt , Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane, #12)
12
" The face that was revealed had once been as beautiful as an angel's but was now horribly mutilated. A livid red scar ran from just below his hairline on the right side of his face, bisecting the eyebrow, somehow skipping the eye itself but gouging a furrow into the lean cheek and catching the edge of his upper lip, making it twist. The scar ended in a missing divot of flesh in the line of the man's severe jaw. He had inky black hair and, though they were closed now, Iris knew he had emotionless crystal-gray eyes.
She knew because she recognized him.
He was Raphael de Chartres, the Duke of Dyemore, and when she'd danced with him- once- three months ago at a ball, she thought he'd looked like Hades.
God of the underworld.
God of the dead. "
― Elizabeth Hoyt , Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane, #12)
14
" He loved her, he knew that now. 'That' was what that longing, this never-ending want was.
How she believed in him- despite all that had happened, despite all that he was- he did not know, but he was grateful.
He angled his head, taking her sweet lips with his, drinking her succor, her faith in him. She was his light, his hope, guiding the way out of the depths of his Stygian despair.
"Iris," he murmured against her wet lips, "my radiant wife, my love, my life. I promise I will try to live up to your belief in me. I do not think I can do otherwise, for I would repine and die were I to leave you. I would be blind and alone, howling in the darkness. I would go mad without you."
He captured her mouth again, forcing her lips open, sliding his tongue into her, claiming her as his own.
Dark to light. "
― Elizabeth Hoyt , Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane, #12)
15
" Iris lay there, her eyes closed, her golden hair spread on the pillow, half-turned toward him.
She must've been exhausted to have fallen asleep so swiftly.
The candlelight sent shadows spilling from the tips of her eyelashes, made her brow and cheeks glow, and left the valley between her breasts in darkness. She was so lovely it felt like a hook digging into his heart, tearing a jagged hole.
He turned and went to his traveling trunk, then knelt to open it. Inside, under a layer of folded banyans and pairs of breeches, he found his sketchbook and pencil case. Then he picked up a straight-backed chair and set it down next to the bed.
And began to put on paper what he couldn't say in words. "
― Elizabeth Hoyt , Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane, #12)
16
" Do you remember that I said I have something to show you?"
Back when they were entering the house. Before she'd seen Hugh. Before their argument. "Yes?"
He pushed open the door to her bedroom. "Look."
She went inside and saw Valente sitting on the floor in front of her fireplace with a basket. He had a silly grin on his face.
She glanced over her shoulder to Raphael. "What-?"
Her husband tilted his chin toward Valente and the basket. "Go and see."
At the same time she heard an animal whimper.
Her lips parted and she picked up her skirts to hurry to the basket. It was lined with a soft blanket and inside was the sweetest little blond puppy, looking very sorry for itself.
Iris stared, torn. Did Raphael think a 'puppy' would be an adequate substitution for him?
The moment the puppy saw her it began whimpering and yipping, trying to climb from its wicker prison, but its legs were too short to make the attempt and it ended by falling backward, revealing that it was female.
It was hardly the puppy's fault that she was angry with Raphael.
"Oh," Iris breathed, sinking to her knees on the carpet opposite Valente. "She's perfect."
Somehow the words made tears start in her eyes again.
She picked up the puppy, which wriggled in Iris's hands until she held the small animal against her chest. The puppy promptly began licking Iris's chin with a tiny pink tongue.
Iris looked up at Raphael through her tears. "What is her name?"
He shook his head. "She has none that I know of. You must give her one."
Iris stood, cradling the still-squirming puppy carefully, and went to her husband. "Thank you."
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips, trying to convey all she'd said before. All he'd pushed aside.
'Stay. Stay. Stay.'
Raphael took her arms gently and kissed her, angling his face over hers. He embraced her as if she were a lifeline.
As if he wished to remain with her forever.
The puppy yelped and he took a step back, breaking the kiss.
Drawing away from her without effort.
He walked out of the bedroom.
Iris closed her eyes to keep her sorrow and tears in. She kissed the top of the puppy's silky head and whispered in her ear, "Tansy. "
― Elizabeth Hoyt , Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane, #12)
17
" His nostrils flared and he couldn't wait any longer. He lifted her bodily, moving her farther up on the bed, placing her head and shoulders against the pillows, and then pushed up her chemise, crawling between her spread thighs and settling to enjoy what he'd found.
There. There she was, her pretty, pretty pink cunny, all coral lips and wispy dark-blond curls. He hiked her trembling legs over his arms, ignoring her gasp of shocked surprise. He glanced up at once and saw wide, wondering eyes gazing back at him. Her gentlemanly first husband had evidently never done this to her.
More fool he.
Then he bent and feasted.
His nose pressed into her mound, inhaling her woman's scent, his cock grinding hard into the bed, his tongue licking into tart and salt and her.
Oh God, her.
She squealed at his first touch and tried to squirm away, but he held her fast with his hands on her hips. He almost smiled against her tender flesh, his teeth scraping oh so gently. She might be startled, might be outraged and shocked, but she liked it.
Perhaps even loved it- what he was doing to her.
She was moaning now, low in her throat, making little mewling sounds, so erotic and sweet, her hips twitching against his lips, trying to get more. He opened his mouth, covering her, breathing over her. He stiffened his tongue and speared into her as far as he could reach, his jaw aching. She cried out at that and he felt fingers tangling in his hair.
He withdrew his tongue and moved to her clitoris, taking the small bit of flesh gently between his teeth and pulling. She froze, trembling all over, and he could hear her gasping breaths. He opened his mouth and licked her. Softly. Tenderly.
Thoroughly.
And at the same time he shoved two fingers into her, feeling her wet walls contract against his knuckles, smelling the rise of her arousal.
She arched under him, her soft thighs thrashing restlessly, making no sound, but he knew.
He knew.
He curled the fingers inside her and stroked her wet, silky inner walls as he pulled them back.
Then he shoved them again into her, hard and firm, repeating the motion as he suckled her clitoris.
She moaned- loud in the quiet room- and pushed against him, and he felt her tremble and suddenly grow wetter. She shuddered helplessly and he was drunk on her release, his cock a heavy, near-painful throb.
He turned his head and kissed the inside of her soft thigh, listening to her pant. "
― Elizabeth Hoyt , Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane, #12)
19
" When he'd woken this morning, her soft limbs entangled with his, he had spent long minutes simply gazing at her in wonder. Her lips were a dark pink and parted softly, and her eyelashes lay against her cheeks like moth wings. She was beautiful and she was determined and he hadn't thought that marriage to her would result in this intimacy. He'd wanted her near, true, for he was a selfish, wicked man, and he didn't particularly like the dark that he lived in. She was to be company- nothing more. But it seemed he'd deceived himself, both about the power of her lure and about his own savage desires.
The last thought made him uneasy.
Had he frightened her? Had his lovemaking over the last two nights been too... carnal? Too crude for her?
He grimaced, looking away from her. He hadn't much experience with gentle ladies, truth be told. Not with a face like his.
Not with a past like his.
When his baser instincts could no longer be put off, he bought his relief.
But if he had shocked or repulsed Iris, perhaps that was for the best. She wouldn't be so quick to seek him again, which should make his own resistance easier.
Except that even now he found himself leaning infinitesimally toward her as if his body, having once tasted of her fruit, now not only understood hunger, but could be satiated by her and her alone. "
― Elizabeth Hoyt , Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane, #12)
