She’d watched her sisters fall in love. She’d seen them blush and quiver when their husbands looked at them. Nora had thought it all stemmed from ridiculous sentiment, but now she knew sentiment had nothing to do with it. She was not in love with Constantine Sinclair.

But she wanted him. Her body quivered for him.

There could be lust with love. And lust without love. These two truths could coexist together.

That was a revelation. As was the way he felt in her hand. Like silk on steel. Incredibly, it felt as though he was growing, thickening in her grip, and she had never felt so empowered in her life. She flexed her fingers around him and a hissing breath escaped from between his teeth.

She stilled, her gaze shooting to his face. “Am I hurting you?”

He shook his head, his dark hair falling across his forehead in charming disarray. He looked vulnerable, almost boyish—a marked contrast to the stern duke-to-be with never a hair out of place. Her heart squeezed at the sight. She longed to reach out and brush the strands away from his face. “Only when you stop. Please. Move your hand on me. Like this.”

His hand came over hers, his long fingers wrapping around hers. He moved them together, his hand covering hers, sliding, rolling her palm and fingers up and down his silky length in a steady rhythm. He moaned and dropped his hand away from hers, letting her continue on her own.

She shifted and fidgeted, seeking the best position to appease her body’s own burgeoning aches, especially the one between her legs. Nothing helped to achieve that, however.

“Are you still in pain?” she asked.

“The sweetest pain,” he breathed, his eyes fluttering shut as though he were savoring her ministrations.

Nora settled down to recline on the bed, stretching out beside him, aligning her body to his and enjoying the contact, the brush of her breasts against his bare chest. She wished she were without her nightgown and robe, too, so that she might have the full experience of their skin rubbing together.

Truthfully, she was quite enjoying herself. The sensation of him in her hand was not at all what she had expected. She had thought to only bring him pleasure. She had not expected to find such pleasure in this act for herself.

She looked back and forth from his face to his splendid manhood. Both were beautiful sights. She rolled her thumb over the distended head of him. Moisture rose up to kiss her thumb and she rubbed the evidence of his desire over him, lubricating him.

More fluid rose and she used it to slick her hand over him, gliding faster over his stiff rod, her fingers exerting slightly more pressure and squeezing him harder.

He seemed to enjoy that. He growled and she watched his contorting face, riveted and hungry for every variation of his expression.