Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

“ M ind if I steal my wife for the rest of this dance?” Oliver asked, though it was hardly a question.

He’d crossed the ballroom in swift, purposeful strides, weaving through the clusters of guests until he reached the dancing pair.

He had barely paused as he stepped up beside them, his gaze fixed on John.

Prescott blinked, fear flickering in his eyes, but he recovered quickly, offering a polite nod. “Of course, Your Grace.”

As the music swelled again, Oliver didn’t waste a moment. He slid his hand around Alexandra’s waist, pulling her close. Their bodies fit together as if they had done this a hundred times before. His grip was firm, openly possessive, and the look he gave her was searing.

“Oliver,” Alexandra began, startled by his sudden appearance, “I didn’t expect you to?—”

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” he interrupted, his voice low as he led her into the next step of the waltz.

Alexandra furrowed her brow, trying to read his expression. “Is there something wrong?”

“Not at all,” he replied, though his grip on her waist tightened, his fingers pressing into her side. “Just thought I’d remind everyone, including you, who you belong to.”

“Who I belong to? This marriage was never meant to be real,” she responded coolly, her eyes flashing with defiance.

“You’ve certainly underestimated what this marriage means to me,” he countered, looking her dead in the eyes.

The tension was back between them. This time, though, there was anger.

Only a few moments ago, they were on the cusp of becoming friends or something else—something deeper. But now, they were back to enduring the animosity between them. Despite it all, Oliver could not help but focus on her lush lips and her wide eyes. There was no artifice in her beauty, but he knew she was still wearing some kind of mask.

As the music ended, Alexandra pulled away from his grasp and left the ballroom.

Oliver did not have to wonder if he should follow. He just did.

“Do you always have to escape when you cannot handle a confrontation, Duchess?” he called after her as he rushed down the hallway.

“No. I feel suffocated. Tired. How can you accuse me of things as if there is something that ties us together—something more than what my father had placed upon you? Why did you not come to rescue me when he was abusing me just before I danced with John?”

John. The familiarity of the way she said the man’s name stirred other emotions within him. He was angry. He was confused. Most of all, he could no longer restrain himself.

Something more than what my father had placed upon you , she’d said.

Her father.

Guilt followed when he realized what she just said. He had caught a glimpse of Lord Hartwell and thought that he would not dare harass his daughter with members of the ton surrounding them.

He should have been more vigilant. Perhaps it was John Prescott who had saved his wife from her father, and that stung.

Oliver stepped closer, cupping her face in his heated palms. Inside his head, there was a battle brewing.

“I am sorry I wasn’t there,” he whispered to her, hoping she understood what he meant.

She did not seem to fight him. Instead, she stared back at him with an open mouth and heavy-lidded eyes.

Damn it, how was she so beautiful?

Before reason could take over again, he took her mouth in a searing kiss. All his frustration and pent-up desire fueled the way he claimed her mouth.

At first, she tensed up. He could feel her shock at the intensity of his kiss. However, she had not pushed him away. Not immediately.

After the momentary shock, she began kissing him back with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair and tugging at the strands.

Everything else—the world beyond the hallway—fell away.

His hand moved from her face to trace the curve of her waist, pulling her closer until there was no gap between them. No space. That was exactly what Oliver wanted—for her to be his. For them to be finally one.

His touch was possessive, and he could feel Alexandra spiraling out of control. She clutched his coat for balance, sharing the heat of her body. Such heat should have consumed him, suffocated him, but it only egged him on. He knew that he had the upper hand because of his experience, but she was also a willing participant.

How far would he take this?

His hand slipped lower, skimming over the fabric of her gown, teasing her senses. He felt her skin quivering beneath his firm touch, and he was nearly undone by her short gasps of pleasure. Their closeness was unraveling them both.

Oliver broke the kiss, only to look at his wife with raw desire. “Tell me to stop, Duchess. Tell me you do not want my hands on your body, my mouth on your lips,” he panted.

Even as he asked, he could not help but press closer, grinding his hips against hers so she could feel his raging erection. Her eyes widened in surprise before she moaned softly, making more blood rush to his manhood if that was even possible.

“Have I rendered you speechless?” he asked, knowing full well that he was playing a dangerous game.

Perhaps she was attracted to him. Perhaps she was merely curious. Seduced. He did not want seduction. He wanted her to want this. To ache for it.

“How about this?” he asked, flattening his palm against her stomach.

He slowly trailed his fingers up, giving her the opportunity to say no with each move.

She had not said no.

Yet.

Alexandra appeared to have forgotten how to breathe as his fingers skimmed over a breast.

“How about this?” he asked again as he traced his thumb over the swell of her breast.

She closed her eyes, her lips parted in a silent sigh.

She still had not said no as he played with her erect nipple. Her eyes remained closed, and her hips bucked against his.

“I want to taste you. I want to see you,” Oliver said through ragged breaths.

He pressed his forehead against hers and tried to gauge her reaction Her only response was a whimper and a heavy-lidded look.

“I can see how much you want this, too, Alexandra,” he murmured as he slowly got down to his knees in front of her. “How badly you need it.”

His words were like a caress, stroking her gently and seductively. He knew that he was succeeding when her hips bucked again. She was seeking some form of relief that only he could offer.

“Please…” she whispered hoarsely, her voice thick with unspoken desires.

Still unknown to her.

Oliver’s eyes darkened, and he shifted forward slightly, aligning himself with her. His hand slid down the soft fabric of her dress until it reached the hem, before sliding back up her leg. His fingers grazed the soft flesh of her inner thighs, making her breath catch in her throat. He saw her bite her lip to stifle the noises coming out of her.

“You don’t have to hold back,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re with me. You don’t have to hold back with me.”

Her resolve crumbled at his words, and she let out a shaky breath, her hips rolling forward to meet his hand. He rewarded her willingness with a firmer touch, his fingers tracing delicate patterns on her skin. Each stroke sent a jolt of electricity through her, pooling low in her belly and making her desperate for more.

“Oliver…” she breathed, her voice trembling.

He smiled, a slow, knowing smile. Her breathing became fast and ragged, echoing her pleasure. “Tell me, Alexandra,” he purred, his fingers moving higher, closer to the place where she ached the most. A place that was throbbing at that moment. “What do you want me to do?”

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. The question hung heavy in the air, taunting her with its simplicity. She didn’t know the intricacies of female desire, and there were layers of it she still didn’t understand. At least, that was what Oliver could read from her slight pause, the trembling of her thighs.

“I… I don’t know,” she confessed, her voice strangely muffled.

“Then let me show you,” he whispered.

Before she could respond, his fingers slipped beneath her drawers to press against the damp heat between her legs. She gasped, arching her back as his touch ignited a fire she hadn’t known was in her. His fingertips probed gently, exploring the contours of her most intimate place, learning the shape of her desire. They flicked back and forth, teasing her.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

She nodded, unable to form words as his fingers began to move in deliberate strokes, teasing her with the promise of release. Each stroke brought her closer to the edge, and she could feel the coil inside her tightening, ready to snap.

“Oliver… please…” she begged, her voice breaking.

Her voice made his self-control snap. He pushed her skirt up, baring her sex to him. Then, he shifted forward, to both adore and plunder her.

“Open for me,” he commanded, his voice rough with desire.

She obeyed without hesitation, much to his surprise and pleasure, opening her legs wider as he settled between them. He lowered his head, and his tongue darted out to trace a line over the seam of her sex.

“Oh, Oliver…” she gasped, balling her fists as his tongue found her clit and circled it lazily.

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against her most sensitive spot. “Does that feel good?” he purred.

Oliver could only guess what it must have felt like for his sheltered wife to be so thoroughly pleasured in a public place. However, he was too far gone. Her taste made him wild with passion, his tongue moving faster, licking and sucking with increasing intensity. Even though he knew he could coax her release that way, his fingers teased her entrance.

“Oliver… I’m…” She struggled to form words, her body trembling with the effort to hold on to her self-control.

“Shh… let go,” he soothed, his voice a deep rumble that reverberated through her. “Let me take care of you.”

He then continued his onslaught, tongue and fingers working together. He knew his shoulders would be bruised from the way she was holding on to them for dear life. But it was worth it. He’d sported bruises for much less than this heaven.

And then, with one final, excruciatingly delicious flick of his tongue, she shattered. Waves of ecstasy washed over her, and she whimpered his name weakly.

Suddenly, a door somewhere in the house opened and closed. The sound jolted them back to reality.

It was Alexandra who pulled away first, watching Oliver with wide eyes and nibbling on her lower lip.

Breathless, the two stared at each other. The intensity of her release had shaken him, and he could tell that it did the same to her. At the moment, though, she was frantically straightening her clothes, trying to hide the evidence of their passion. She inhaled deeply and exhaled with just as much force.

Oliver watched her, paralyzed by longing and frustration. When he finally reached for her, she stepped back. Her walls were back up.

“This changes nothing,” she declared, trying to sound firm. But her voice trembled slightly.

She then excused herself, slipping into the shadows and perhaps back to the ballroom.

Oliver stood alone in the hallway, torn between the desire to claim her and the painful realization that he might have to let her go.