Dukes By the Dozen

But morning would come, and with it a return to Lady Beatrice Falk, a spinster in her twenty-seventh year, and the commanding Duke of Highrow.

There would not be another man like him in her life.

No lover before, no lover after, could compare to Wulf.

“Dawn is only a few hours away,” she whispered, cupping his cheek so the rough stubble brushed against the palm of her hand. “Will you make love to me again? Once more before the night is over?”

He did not answer her. Instead, he dipped his mouth to hers. Hot and firm and skilled, he seized the control she’d had only a while earlier. Heat swirled in her belly, clogged her lungs, as she ran her hands over his chest.

Mouth never leaving hers, Wulf continued to play with her tongue—teasing, tasting—as one hand drifted below to caress her hip, her bottom.

But his gaze had shuttered. He was different now, as though he’d reined himself in. From her body, from their conversations. She understood that. Knew he had lost himself the first time—and knew as if it had been she just how terrifying that was. Control was as necessary as breathing or eating.

Could she give it to him? She did not know if she wanted to.

When he trailed his mouth between her breasts, she sighed. Let the licks and nips and kisses stir her desire. Sliding her hands upwards, she gripped the edge of the blanket and bared herself to him. He settled between her thighs, created magic with his fingers and mouth.

She wanted to stop him, to make him bend to her will instead of being lost in the need pulsing between them. In his caresses. In the pounding of her heart and the singing of her skin. Instead, Bea let his mouth and hands draw her up, bring her to pleasure, and lay her down again.

She opened her arms as she had before, wanting to bring him close to her again. Wulf shifted above her, arms braced on either side. His eyes, so deeply blue they held her captive, stared into hers.

“Who are you?” he whispered. “I want more of you. I don’t want tomorrow to be the end.”

“No one.” A part of her soul broke away, the pain of it slicing through her. There was nothing for them, whatever she might want. “There is only tonight, Wulf. That is all.”

His body was poised just at the entrance of hers. Hot, heavy. He held himself still, waiting. Thinking. Oh yes, he was thinking. And wanting.

“It is not enough.” He pressed his lips to hers and thrust into her, the muscles in his arms and shoulders shifting beneath his skin.

“Only tonight,” she repeated. Clamping her legs around his waist, she swung them around until she straddled him. Took him into her and rode him. “There is only tonight. We will make every moment count.”

CHAPTER 8

THE THICK BLANKETS still enveloped him, but Wulf was alone in that warm soft wool. Morning light crept through the cottage windows, infusing the room with a white glow. The fire had died to embers, and the air had cooled enough he could see his breath.

Through the curling vapor, he saw her clothing was missing. The boots she’d set by the fire had disappeared.

The highwayman was gone. Without a goodbye, without a word.

Damnation! At the very least, she could have woken him. Instead, she’d stolen away in the dark.

Wulf shucked off the coverlet and rose into the chilled air to dress. Cursing again as the cold fabric touched his skin, he pulled on his breeches, then what was left of his tattered shirt. They had agreed to nothing, but the woman could have afforded him common courtesy at least and said goodbye.

Intent on leaving the cottage prepared for some other stranded traveler—or highwayman—he folded the blankets and replaced them in the trunk. She had already stacked the kettle on the shelf with its mates, so there was little to tidy. He spread the embers in the hearth and strode toward the door.

Setting his hand on the latch, he turned for one final look at the room. The simple table and chairs. The wide hearth. He would always remember her lying naked on the blankets, beautifully curved, her nipples a dusky pink.

That vision would be forever seared into his mind.

Part of him understood they should mean nothing to each other beyond shared passion. She was clearly a woman who went her own way. A highwayman, while he was a duke. They would not meet again, and that was for the best.

Bugger that. He wanted more than one night. Wanted more from her.

He opened the door to the cottage, the chill of the morning bolstering his sudden fury instead of cooling it. He would find her—find her, explain that one night was not enough, and make love to her again. Then once more.

Because she had made him think, made him feel. Made him want more deeply than he’d ever wanted.

She was his highwayman. For good or ill, and for how long, he did not know—but at least for a little while, they would belong to each other.

Assuming he could find her.