How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) by Bianca Blythe

breasts. He wanted to lick his way to her zeniths, and to feel them tighten inside his mouth.
    Blood surged to his rod. It was thicker, firmer than ever before. His soldier strained inside his pantaloons, and he fought the urge for friction.
    Her breasts tantalized him. Would she wake if he pressed his hands against them? If he traced their shape with his fingers? If—Zeus—he slipped them inside her dress, so he could cup bare globes, brush his fingers over her peaks? Delve his fingers further under, so he might pierce her most sacred mound? Thrust them into her flesh as she arched and moaned against him?
    The vision nearly shattered him, and he forced a space between their bodies, even though every part of his being seemed to scream at him that his action was foolish. He’d promised that he wouldn’t take advantage of her, he’d scoffed at the very notion that he would want to, and yet even then, ever since their kiss and perhaps before, he’d been frustratingly aware of her every movement.
    She challenged him. That was it. Simple. Obviously it was perfectly natural that his mind might leap toward the forbidden. He waited for relief to surge over him at the realization, but it never came. Nothing about the woman beside him was simple.
    His rod ached and his ballocks tightened. He yearned to spill his seed inside her and tangle his fingers in her long locks.
    His stomach stiffened. Obviously the dowager was right. How could he attempt to fulfill all the responsibilities of being a duke if his mind was occupied with conjuring up illicit acts?
    He pressed his lips together and glided his arm from underneath her head, removing himself from all possibilities of pleasure. The woman swiveled her head toward him for a moment, and he froze.
    But she was still asleep. Thankfully.
    She’d removed the shabby cloak, and at some point she must have scrubbed her face.
    His gaze roamed the planes of her face. Pink tinged the apple cheeks he longed to trace, and long lashes swooped downward. A liberal distribution of freckles scattered around the well-formed composition of her face. Her nose swung up slightly, lending her an almost innocent air, and now that she no longer directed a knife at him, he could see that she must only be in her early twenties. Plump lips, slightly parted, were inches from him, and he longed to narrow the space between them. He longed to swoop his lips against hers, continue where they’d stopped last night.
    Instead he yanked his arm away from her.
    She woke up.
    Green eyes flickered open, and he scrambled away, wobbling as he remembered his wooden leg too late. He rolled from the bed, and his body slammed against hard floorboards.
    “Percival!”
    The next moment she peered over the bed, and he forced his gaze to rest on her widened eyes and rounded mouth.
    Not the sweet dip of her cleavage as she dangled over him.
    Not at all.
    He would not peek at the tops of her rounded breasts.
    No matter how terribly tempting they were.
    He refused to.
    The woman’s grey dress had seemed everything proper, absurd for a highwaywoman, though he supposed the cold and an urge to blend into the night may have influenced her choice of attire.
    But there was absolutely nothing proper about the vision before him. His rod ached, and he rolled over. He would not let the woman see how she affected him. Sheets rustled above him.
    “You fell off the bed.”
    “Yes.” His heartbeat quickened, and he waited for his erection to subside.
    “Let me help you.”
    “No need.” He uttered an unmanly squeak.
    She clambered from the bed, and for a blissful moment slim ankles flashed before him. Fiona bent down, offering him a hand, and he squeezed his eyes shut and forced his mind to contemplate every vile vision he’d seen at war, before he allowed his hand to press against her warmer one.
    Heat prickled against the back of his neck, moving toward his cheekbones, and he swiveled away. He clutched hold of one of the thick dark