A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 102 - Hundred And Two

The silk belt of her robe, now entirely free from its knot, slipped through Rowan’s long, warm fingers. The sound of the smooth fabric sliding against itself seemed impossibly loud in the quiet, shadowed space of the study.

The heavy, dark silk parted. It fell open on both sides, sliding over Delaney’s shoulders and exposing the thin, delicate white cotton of her nightwear beneath. The chemise was modest by design, meant only for sleeping, but under the intense, burning heat of the Duke’s eyes, it felt like she was wearing nothing at all. The cool air of the room touched her skin through the fine white lawn fabric, making her shiver, though she was not cold.

She was burning.

Rowan did not step back. He stayed exactly where he was, standing so close that the crisp linen of his unbuttoned shirt brushed against the front of her nightgown. His chest rose and fell in a heavy, uneven rhythm that perfectly matched her own.

Delaney pressed her back firmly against the wooden panels of the bookshelf. She tried to draw air into her lungs, but the oxygen in the room seemed to have simply vanished.

"Your grace..." Delaney said.

Her voice was ragged, broken into a breathless whisper. Breathing had suddenly become one of the hardest things for her to do. Her mind was a chaotic storm. She knew she should push him away. She knew she should remind him of the actor sleeping upstairs, of the Farringtons down the hall, of the terrible danger that hung over their heads.

But looking at the raw, naked desire etched into every line of his handsome face, her sense of duty completely melted away.

"Rowan." He corrected her instantly.

His voice was a dark, low rumble that vibrated through the narrow space between them. It held no trace of the polite, distant Duke who managed estates and sat in the House of Lords. This was just a man. A man who had been pushed to the very edge of his sanity by jealousy and longing.

He lifted his hand from the wall. He reached out and gently took her right hand, which had been resting nervously against her chest. His fingers wrapped around her much smaller, trembling ones.

He brought her hand up to his face.

Delaney gasped softly as the warmth of his skin met her palm. He pressed her hand firmly against his jawline. She could feel the hard, rigid line of his bone and the slight, rough scrape of his evening stubble against her soft skin. He turned his face just a fraction, pressing a brief, burning kiss to the center of her palm.

"Just Rowan," he repeated, his voice dropping into a husky plea. His eyes locked onto her hazel ones, refusing to let her look away. "I want to hear my name from your lips. I am so tired of titles, Delaney. I just want to hear my name from your lips. Not my title. My name."

He let go of her hand, allowing it to rest against his neck, where she could feel the frantic, rapid beating of his pulse.

His thumbs moved upward. He cupped the sides of her face, his large hands cradling her jaw. His thumbs brushed gently, reverently, against her lower lip. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a jolt of pure electricity straight down to her toes. Delaney parted her lips slightly, letting out a shaky breath that fanned across his fingers.

"Let me be the only man that fills your thoughts," Rowan whispered, his face moving inches from hers.

The jealousy he had felt all evening—watching Smith pull out her chair, watching that actor smile at her and call her his wife—was still boiling hot in his veins. He wanted to erase the fake husband. He wanted to erase every other man who had ever looked at her. He wanted to claim every single corner of her mind.

He moved his hands down from her face, tracing the line of her neck, down to her shoulders. He caught the edges of the dark silk robe that was still hanging loosely on her arms.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he pushed the fabric off her shoulders.

He removed the robe completely and let it fall to the floor. The heavy silk pooled around Delaney’s feet in a dark puddle, leaving her standing before him in nothing but the thin, white cotton chemise.

She felt completely exposed, stripped of her armor, her defenses, and her matching-making disguise. Yet, the way Rowan looked at her made her feel incredibly beautiful, cherished, and deeply wanted.

"Make me yours, Delaney," he said.

His voice was husky, rough with an emotion so deep it sounded almost like pain. It was a stunning reversal. A man who commanded thousands, yet he was standing in his study, completely vulnerable, begging a woman to claim him, completely at her mercy.

"I’m willing," Rowan continued, his gaze dropping to her mouth, tracing the shape of her lips. "I’m willing to do whatever it takes to have my image, my voice, my scent etched in your mind so deeply that any other man’s touch feels repulsive to you."

He wanted to brand her, not with ink or contracts, but with passion. He wanted to ruin her for anyone else.

He raised his hands again. He cupped her face firmly, his fingers tangling in the loose, dark curls of her hair at her temples.

"I want to be the object of your desires," he confessed, laying his soul completely bare.

As he held her face, keeping her eyes locked on his, his other hand began a slow, dangerous journey downward.

He moved his left hand to her waist. He touched the soft cotton of her chemise. Then, his hand moved lower, tracing the curve of her hip. The heat of his large palm bled right through the thin fabric, searing her skin.

Delaney’s breath hitched violently. She gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging into his white linen shirt to keep her knees from giving way.

His hand trailed down to her thighs. With a slow, excruciatingly deliberate motion, he began bunching her chemise in his fist, pulling the hemline upward toward her waist. The cool air of the study brushed against the bare skin of her legs as the fabric rose higher, exposing her to his touch.

It was incredibly naughty. It was wildly improper. A gentleman simply did not behave this way with a lady in a study. But Rowan had stopped being a gentleman the moment Smith Jones had kissed her knuckles in the drawing room.

His warm fingers brushed directly against the bare skin of her outer thigh.

A sharp, delicious shock of pleasure ripped through Delaney’s body. The friction of his calloused hand against her skin was completely overwhelming. She had never been touched like this before. She had never felt a fire like the one currently consuming her from the inside out. Her head fell back against the wooden bookshelf.

"Ro...Rowan..." Delaney moaned.

The sound slipped from her parted lips before she could stop it. It was a breathless, needy sound, filled with a desperate yearning that she had tried so hard to hide for weeks.

Rowan stopped moving his hand. He looked at her face. Her eyes were half-closed, her cheeks flushed a deep, beautiful pink, and her lips were parted as she struggled to breathe.

Rowan smiled.

It was a wicked, triumphant, and deeply satisfied smile. It was the smile of a rogue who had finally captured the prize he had been hunting. The sound of his actual name, spoken in that ragged, wanting tone, was exactly what he needed to hear.

"Yes," Rowan whispered, his voice dark and dripping with praise. "Just like that, Del."

He moved his body closer, pressing his hips gently against hers, letting her feel the hard, heavy evidence of exactly how much he wanted her.

"I want only my name to come out of your lips just like that," Rowan murmured, his mouth hovering just a fraction of an inch above hers. He was teasing her, torturing her with the closeness but refusing to close the final gap. "I want your body to react to only my touch. Not his. Only mine."

He brushed his nose gently against hers. His thumb stroked the bare skin of her thigh, sending another wave of heat rushing through her veins.

"And I want your lips to part only for..."

Delaney didn’t allow him to finish.

The talking was driving her completely mad. The slow, torturous build-up of tension was too much for her to bear for another single second. The logic, the rules, the fear of Lord Hawksley, and the fake husband upstairs all vanished into thin air, burned away by the sheer, overwhelming physical need to connect with him.

She let go of his shoulders. She moved her hands up to the starched collar of his open shirt. She grabbed the white linen fabric tightly in her fists.

With a sudden, fierce burst of strength, Delaney pulled him forward.

She kissed him, madly.

It was not a polite, hesitant kiss. It was a violent, desperate collision of mouths. Her lips crashed against his with a bruising force that spoke of weeks of hidden glances, unspoken jealousy, and suppressed desire.

Rowan let out a low, rough groan against her mouth. The sound vibrated against her lips. He dropped the bunched fabric of her chemise instantly. Both of his large arms wrapped tightly around her waist, pulling her flush against his hard body. He lifted her slightly off the floor, pressing her firmly against the wooden bookshelf, devouring her mouth with a hunger that was entirely untamed.