He had already set his eyes on her but wasn't daring enough to act on them from the first day itself.
He found himself hopelessly lost in the sway of her narrow hips, his gaze drawn again and again to the fullness of her curves. Every time his eyes lingered, a hungry thought followed—that maddening wish to see the true shape of her ass underneath the veil of fabric, to know just how generous her ass and curves truly were.
What followed was a gradual erosion of boundaries, justified by the fiction of care and hospitality but driven by desires that Emmanuelle had thought safely buried.
As usual, his pervert mind was at work as her hands moved over him, feeling the delicate and intimate touch.
She helped him into the bath, her hands lingering longer than necessary as she assisted with washing, her touch growing bolder as the evening progressed.
Jaenor smirked, watching her.
The duchess was beautiful for a woman of her years, elegant and sophisticated in ways that the girls he had known could never match. When she suggested he rest in her chambers rather than making the walk back to his own quarters, he found himself agreeing.
-
The last of the day's amber light bled through the high, leaded windows of the chateau's solar, catching the steam rising from Jaenor's shoulders.
He stood by the hearth, a towel slung low on his hips, his skin still glistening from the bath. Water droplets traced the hard lines of his back, catching the firelight like tiny jewels before disappearing into the linen at his waist.
Emmanuelle watched him from her divan, a silver goblet of wine forgotten in her hand.
The sight of him, so young and vital, so achingly familiar, sent a visceral pang through her core. Every roping muscle, the broad span of his shoulders, the way his damp hair curled against his neck—it was like gazing at a ghost, a youthful echo of the man she had loved and buried.
Gods! He is the very image of his grandfather.
Jaenor turned, sensing her gaze.
A slow, knowing smile spread across his face, a smile that was entirely his own—brash, confident, and dripping with a lust he never bothered to conceal.
"Do I meet with your approval, Grandma?" he asked, the title a deliberate, cheeky provocation on his lips.
The word, so improper, so thrillingly wrong, shattered the last of her restraint.
The air grew thick, charged with a tension that had been simmering for days now.
She set the goblet down with a soft click.
"Do not call me that," she murmured, her voice huskier than she intended.
"Not tonight."
He took a step closer, the fire casting dancing shadows over the damp planes of his chest.
"What should I call you then?"
Emmanuelle rose, the heavy silk of her gown whispering against the floor.
She closed the distance between them, her eyes fixed on his. She could smell the clean scent of soap on his skin, mingling with the deeper, muskier scent of him. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of long-denied need.
"You know what I see when I look at you, dear Jaenor?" She whispered, her hand coming up to hover just over his pectoral, not quite touching.
"I see his fire. I see my stallion. The man I loved with every breath in my body."
His smile softened, but the hunger in his dark eyes only intensified.
He remained still, letting her have her fill.
"It is a cruel trick of the gods," she continued, her fingers finally making contact, tracing the line of his collarbone.
His skin was warm, alive.
"To give me back this face, this body… this youth… in the form of my own husband's blood."
Her thumb brushed a nipple, and she felt the sharp intake of his breath.
"It is a torment."
"A pleasant one, I hope," he breathed, his own hand coming up to circle her wrist, not to stop her, but to feel her pulse race against his fingers.
"It is madness."
She looked up, her dark eyes swimming with a mixture of grief and raw desire.
"And I can bear it no longer. My dear little Jaenor… I need you to…"
He waited, his gaze burning into her.
"You need me to…what?" then he asked, a little smile playing on his lips.
She looked at him with a shimmering gaze that spoke of her lust, but Jaenor wanted to listen, in her words, to what she wanted.
"I need you to fuck me," she breathed, the crude word a shocking, liberating whisper in the elegant room.
"But not like the animal I know you to be. Not tonight. Tonight… fuck me, tenderly. Lovingly. Make me believe, once again, that I am a woman."
"All these years I have forgotten that I am one."
A low groan rumbled in his chest.
"Emmanuelle…" he breathed, forsaking all titles.
That was all the permission she needed.
She surged forward, capturing his mouth with hers.
It was not a gentle kiss. She lapped at his lips with hers, taking them on with her tongue too.
It was decades of longing, of loneliness, of pent-up passion unleashed. Her lips were desperate and searching, and he met her with a ferocity that made her knees weak.
His strong arms wrapped around her, crushing her voluptuous body against the hard, damp wall of his chest.
She could feel the formidable proof of his desire pressing against the softness of her belly, even through the layers of their clothes.
His mouth slanted over hers, his tongue delving deep, tasting of wine and wildness. His hands slid down her back, over the curve of her hips, and gripped her ass, pulling her tighter against him with a guttural growl.
"You have no idea," he muttered against her lips, "no idea how long I have dreamed of this. Of you."
A surprised moan escaped her lips as she continued kissing him. She didn't know that Jaenor was thinking the same as her. She moved with even more excitement.