The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 415: Duchess is demanding

Jazmin stood and moved to stand directly in front of him, close enough that he could smell her perfume.

"I don’t want everyone knowing about us. My position requires discretion. So I came here, in secret, to make my intentions clear."

"And your husband?" Jolthar asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I’m told you’re still married."

Jazmin’s expression turned contemptuous.

"My husband is a lazy bum who does nothing but lie around the house all day, spending the money his brother sends and contributing absolutely nothing. We haven’t shared a bed in years. The only reason I haven’t divorced him completely is that the legal complications would be tedious and expensive."

"And mainly because of his brother. He is a terrifying man."

She waved a hand dismissively.

"He’s irrelevant to this conversation."

"I see," Jolthar said.

He studied her for a moment—this confident, powerful woman who was being remarkably honest about what she wanted.

"So you came here tonight to seduce me?"

"To be seduced by you," Jazmin corrected with a smile.

"I prefer a man who takes what he wants rather than waiting to be given permission. Though—" she ran a finger along his shoulder "—I’m making it very clear that permission is enthusiastically granted."

Jolthar caught her hand, holding it gently but firmly.

"I appreciate the honesty, Duchess. And I won’t pretend I’m not interested. But I’ve had a very long night. People are after my life, and I’m still processing the political implications of tea with the Second Empress tomorrow."

"I heard about the attack," Jazmin said, her expression becoming serious.

"News travels fast, even in secret channels. Are you alright?"

Jolthar raised an eyebrow, surprised that she knew about it. It had been only a couple of hours since the attack, yet she knew.

But Jolthar didn’t ask her. He could see her staring at him in a daze; she was practically drooling for him.

Heaved a heavy sigh, and he said, "Physically? Fine. Mentally, I’m very tired."

Jolthar released her hand but didn’t push her away. "Which means I’m not at my best for... whatever you have in mind."

Jazmin studied him, then smiled slowly, a fox recognizing a worthy challenge in the weariness of her prey.

She didn’t retreat; instead, she moved closer, her hips brushing against his knees as she stood between his parted legs. The heat of her body through the layers of velvet and silk was a palpable force.

"Tired," she repeated, her voice dropping to a husky murmur that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room.

"I can see it in your eyes. The strain of constant calculation, of wearing that clever mask. Of surviving."

Her hand came up, not to caress, but to trace the line of his jaw with the back of her knuckles, a surprisingly tender gesture from a woman of such formidable presence.

"You know what I think tired men need, Baron? Not more thinking. Not more strategy."

She leaned down, bringing her face close to his. Her perfume was richer up close—night orchid and something spicier, like cardamom.

"They need to stop thinking entirely. To feel something real, something that isn’t a threat or a transaction."

Her lips were a breath away from his ear.

"Let me be that for you tonight. Let me be the distraction that requires no thought at all."

Jolthar felt the pull of her offer, a siren song of oblivion that was dangerously appealing. The adrenaline crash from the assassination attempt was a lead weight in his veins, and the prospect of losing himself in pure, uncomplicated sensation was a potent lure.

Her hands slid up his chest to curl around the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair.

"Tonight, there is only this. Let me take the weight, Jolthar. Just for a few hours."

The last thread of his resistance snapped. He was tired of suspicion, tired of holding the world at arm’s length. Here was a woman offering an alliance with no false promises, only mutual interest and blistering attraction.

It was a risk, but inaction felt like a greater one.

"Alright," he murmured, the word a surrender and a beginning all at once.

That was all the permission she needed.

Jazmin’s kiss was not gentle. It was claiming, demanding, a conflagration that started at their joined mouths and raced through their bloodstream. There was nothing tentative in it; her tongue swept into his mouth, tasting of wine and ambition, and he met her with equal fervor. His hands slid from her hips to the small of her back, pressing her flush against him, and he could feel the generous swell of her breasts crushed against his chest, the rapid hammer of her heart matching his own.

When they broke for air, both were breathing heavily. Jazmin’s eyes were dark pools of triumph and lust.

"Upstairs," she commanded, though it sounded like a plea.

"Take me to bed and ravage me, my beautiful boy!!"

He didn’t carry her; there was no theatrical sweep into his arms.

They just moved together, a tangled, urgent knot of limbs and seeking mouths, through the hall and up the grand staircase, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpets. They passed a guard stationed at the top of the stairs; the man stared rigidly ahead, pretending absolute blindness, a faint blush visible on his cheeks even in the low lamplight.

Jolthar shouldered open the door to his borrowed chambers—a spacious room dominated by a large four-poster bed hung with dark blue drapes. As soon as the door clicked shut, Jazmin attacked the fastenings of his tunic with ruthless efficiency. Her fingers, usually adorned with rings, were nimble and sure.

"You talk too much," she breathed against his throat, nipping at the skin there.

"I want you silent. I want you overwhelmed."

He laughed, a short, breathless sound, and returned the favor, his own fingers fumbling with the intricate clasps and laces of her gown. The emerald velvet proved a formidable adversary.

"Your dress is a fortress," he grunted.

"A fortress you are welcome to storm," she shot back, helping him, guiding his hands to hidden hooks.

The heavy fabric finally gave way, sliding from her shoulders with a whisper to pool at her feet. She stood before him in a chemise of sheer ivory silk that hid nothing, showcasing the full, heavy curves of her breasts, the dark peaks of her nipples already taut against the fine material, the generous sweep of her hips, and the shadowed triangle at the junction of her thighs.

Jolthar’s breath caught.

She was magnificent, a statue of ripe, unabashed femininity.

"Gods above!!" he whispered, all wit deserting him.

That seemed to please her immensely.

A slow, victorious smile touched her lips as she watched him look his fill.

Then she stepped forward and pushed the tunic from his shoulders, her palms smoothing over the hard planes of his chest, the old scars from past battles, and the tense muscles of his abdomen. Her touch was both worshipful and possessive.

"On the bed," she ordered, giving him a slight shove.