Deeply In You by Sharon Page

too easy, too tempting, to lean back onto the bed.”
    “But nothing will happen to you, Miss Winsome.”
    It wasn’t when he teased her that he caught her off-guard, dumbfounded and startled her. It was when he threw out something that seemed to have far more meaning behind it than just the words he spoke.
    Why would he not have his intimate relations in this enormous, lavish bed? “Where do you do it, then? If not in this?”
    His brows lifted. “I acquire houses for my mistresses.”
    “You don’t have more than one at once, do you?”
    “Sometimes, I have done. I don’t believe that complication would occur with you, Miss Winsome.”
    “I should hope not. I thought, since I would be surrendering so much, that it would be exclusive. If you expect it of me, I expect it of you, Greybrooke.”
    He laughed. “I love to see you sputter with indignation. I promise, then; when I’m clandestinely fucking you, I will not even look at another female. I believe you will capture all my attention.” His language shocked her.
    Slowly his smile faded and his mouth softened and he looked at her . . . differently. With an expression she couldn’t describe. Not lust. Longing? Something that spoke of desire and hunger but in a way that drew her to him instead of pushing her away.
    What would it be like to sit on his bed, so close to him? Daringly she took a step toward him. He caught her hand and helped her lower to the soft mattress.
    Her bottom sank into pure comfort. She put her hands on the mattress and bounced on it.
    A grin broke on his face. “Feel free to bounce, love. Play around. Enjoy yourself.”
    She stopped and straightened her back, sitting properly.
    “Miss Winsome, I think you have a devilish streak also. You fight hard to restrain it, don’t you? Now I know how you work wonders with Jacinta’s children. You know what the boys are going to get up to, because that’s how your mind works.”
    “It certainly is n . . .”
    Her voice faded as the duke suddenly put his brandy on a side table, then lay back on the bed, stretching his arms over his head. Did he think she would lie—?
    A white pillow sudden launched through the air and smacked into her side. He’d thrown a pillow at her. He sat up quickly, armed with another pillow in a white silk case, grinning at her.
    But she had the first one, the one that had bounced off her shoulder, and she clutched it with both hands and swung. It slammed into Greybrooke’s face, and he let out a howl of surprise and fell backward. She threw so much of herself into the attack, she lost her balance. Next thing she knew, she had fallen on the bed too. Only she couldn’t move, not on the soft mattress, held prisoner by her wretched dress.
    Wild laughter bubbled up. Who knew triumph made you feel so exhilarated? So giddy! And such a silly triumph—smacking an unsuspecting duke with a pillow.
    “I knew it,” Greybrooke growled. “You are naughtier than I, Miss Winsome.”
    Then he was over her, braced on his arms, limned by the candlelight. Eyes a dazzling green, wickedly mesmerizing. She couldn’t look away. She was floating into them. Falling up into them.
    He caught hold of her hands and held them against the bed. Capturing her.
    “Never, Your Grace.” Her voice was a throaty purr, and she almost quaked at the pure eroticism it held.
    No one had ever looked at her like this. As if she were the only thing in his entire world.
    “Now I suppose you want your kiss,” he said, and his beautiful mouth looked softer and silkier and plumper than the pillows on his bed.
    Ever since the moment in Berkeley Square when he’d rescued her and leaned close to her, she’d tried not to think of how tempting his mouth looked. Now she wanted to feel what it would be like to have her lips press against his.
    One dreamy kiss. A moment of something special, monumental, sweet. She got ready: eyes closed, lips puckered. Her heart thundered.
    Time ticked by—she could hear his mantel