Duke of Desire Quotes

“She moaned, long and low, wanting to arch, to thrash, to scream. Instead she opened her mouth and bit his shoulder, tasting salt.
Tasting want.
Then she gasped. "Please."
"What do you want?" he whispered in her ear, an incubus, dark and alive and in her. "Tell me. What do you need?"
"I..." Her mouth opened, wordless.
"Tell me," his smoky voice curled around her.
"You."
He chuckled, dark and low.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“This?" He thrust short and hard into her, the impact sending jolts of pleasure through her body. "Yes, that," he murmured to himself as if pleased, and did it again.
And again.
Until the heat between them combusted. Until she felt hot liquid wash over her limbs. Until she looked up and wondered why she'd ever thought his gray eyes emotionless.
He was watching her with passion. With lust.
With so much love.
She felt tears in her eyes.
He groaned above her, his hips jerking without rhythm, but all the while he watched her with those eyes.
And when he at last stilled and rested his sweaty forehead against hers, he whispered, "I love you.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“She felt enthralled by him, enthralled by her own sexuality. He bared something in her that she hadn't even known was there before she married him.
Something base, primal. Had it always been there, this fierce drive to feel? Or was it something that had been engendered by his touching her?
Her touching him?
She knew that she should be wary of this part of herself. Ladies were often exhorted to ignore any animal urges. To be polite. Formal. Cold.
But the flames of her desire, meeting and burning higher with his compulsion, were intoxicating.
It felt wonderful.
Too good to ignore. Too good to give up.
And when his fingers traced the wetness of her vulva, into the depths of her pleasure, she cried out, her eyes still caught with his.
He smiled, crooked and sinister because of his scar, but a smile nonetheless. A smile that wasn't exactly nice or gentlemanly.
But a smile that was all for her.
Only her.
No man- no one- had ever looked at her so before.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“The peach gown she'd chosen was the color of the sunrise, the rippling watered silk seeming to subtly change from rose to pink to nearly orange in different lights. She'd fallen in love with it at once.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“For a moment she studied the sketch. It had been done in pencil and the artist was very skilled. The single sharp line that edged her nose, the delicate shading on her bottom lip, the suggestion of light reflected off her forehead.
In the sketch she lay asleep and peaceful- and beautiful. Iris had never thought of herself as beautiful. That word was for the lauded belles of society. The women who walked into ballrooms and made conversations stop.
But in this sketch she was beautiful.
And in the corner were the initials R.d' C.
This was how he saw her.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“His nostrils flared and he couldn't wait any longer. He lifted her bodily, moving her farther up on the bed, placing her head and shoulders against the pillows, and then pushed up her chemise, crawling between her spread thighs and settling to enjoy what he'd found.
There. There she was, her pretty, pretty pink cunny, all coral lips and wispy dark-blond curls. He hiked her trembling legs over his arms, ignoring her gasp of shocked surprise. He glanced up at once and saw wide, wondering eyes gazing back at him. Her gentlemanly first husband had evidently never done this to her.
More fool he.
Then he bent and feasted.
His nose pressed into her mound, inhaling her woman's scent, his cock grinding hard into the bed, his tongue licking into tart and salt and her.
Oh God, her.
She squealed at his first touch and tried to squirm away, but he held her fast with his hands on her hips. He almost smiled against her tender flesh, his teeth scraping oh so gently. She might be startled, might be outraged and shocked, but she liked it.
Perhaps even loved it- what he was doing to her.
She was moaning now, low in her throat, making little mewling sounds, so erotic and sweet, her hips twitching against his lips, trying to get more. He opened his mouth, covering her, breathing over her. He stiffened his tongue and speared into her as far as he could reach, his jaw aching. She cried out at that and he felt fingers tangling in his hair.
He withdrew his tongue and moved to her clitoris, taking the small bit of flesh gently between his teeth and pulling. She froze, trembling all over, and he could hear her gasping breaths. He opened his mouth and licked her. Softly. Tenderly.
Thoroughly.
And at the same time he shoved two fingers into her, feeling her wet walls contract against his knuckles, smelling the rise of her arousal.
She arched under him, her soft thighs thrashing restlessly, making no sound, but he knew.
He knew.
He curled the fingers inside her and stroked her wet, silky inner walls as he pulled them back.
Then he shoved them again into her, hard and firm, repeating the motion as he suckled her clitoris.
She moaned- loud in the quiet room- and pushed against him, and he felt her tremble and suddenly grow wetter. She shuddered helplessly and he was drunk on her release, his cock a heavy, near-painful throb.
He turned his head and kissed the inside of her soft thigh, listening to her pant.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“He was covered, of course, but she knew what lay beneath the sheets- she'd seen him entirely nude at the Lords' revels. She had the image burned into her memory: a proud, thick penis, heavy sac, and curling midnight hair. If the coverlet slipped just a little bit downward, she would see the upper edge of that nest of black hair.
The thought made her press her thighs together under her dress.
Did he know how his body affected her?”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“I want to make you weep. I want all your pleasure, Iris, all your pain, everything you are. Come for me."
And she felt herself bow with the stark white bliss of her epiphany, the shattering realization of his words and his hands and his mouth. She was gasping for breath, shaking, lost, unseeing. The center of her being pulsing with pleasure.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“Her gaze dropped to the right side of his mouth, to the corner of his lip that was permanently pulled into a slight snarl by the edge of the angry scar, and then to the other side of his mouth, to the sensuous curve of his lips. She raised her hand, reaching out to touch that perfect curl. She stilled, her hand hovering, as the sunlight glinted off the ruby ring on her finger. It was a pretty little ring, delicate and made for a woman. In any other circumstances she would've worn it with happiness.
Here, though... Well it was almost a mark of possession, wasn't it?
Iris inhaled and jerked her hand back before she made contact. This man might be her 'husband' now- courtesy of a series of terrible events and his own stubbornness, but he was still a stranger.
A stranger she wasn't even sure she could entirely trust.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“She had known that he could move quickly. Still it was a shock when she found herself pressed against the back of her seat, his face inches from her.
"God's blood, woman, how much control do you think I have?" he whispered, his clove-scented breath brushing her face. "You must think me a saint by the way you harangue me despite my warnings. Listen and listen well: I am no saint."
"But I don't need a saint," she breathed, her voice trembling. "I don't want a saint. I want you."
"God forgive me," he snarled, and pulled her mouth to his.
His kiss wasn't gentle. He opened her lips with his tongue, invading her angrily. Passionately. How had she ever thought this man uninterested in bedding her?
His big, hot body pressed her against the seat and he scraped his teeth over her bottom lip.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“His nostrils flared just a little bit, and the lines bracketing his mouth grew deeper. He snarled with his beautiful, twisted lips and she thought, half on the edge of falling again, she thought he looked like a demon making love to her. A demon fighting for his life or light or possibly redemption.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“Do you remember that I said I have something to show you?"
Back when they were entering the house. Before she'd seen Hugh. Before their argument. "Yes?"
He pushed open the door to her bedroom. "Look."
She went inside and saw Valente sitting on the floor in front of her fireplace with a basket. He had a silly grin on his face.
She glanced over her shoulder to Raphael. "What-?"
Her husband tilted his chin toward Valente and the basket. "Go and see."
At the same time she heard an animal whimper.
Her lips parted and she picked up her skirts to hurry to the basket. It was lined with a soft blanket and inside was the sweetest little blond puppy, looking very sorry for itself.
Iris stared, torn. Did Raphael think a 'puppy' would be an adequate substitution for him?
The moment the puppy saw her it began whimpering and yipping, trying to climb from its wicker prison, but its legs were too short to make the attempt and it ended by falling backward, revealing that it was female.
It was hardly the puppy's fault that she was angry with Raphael.
"Oh," Iris breathed, sinking to her knees on the carpet opposite Valente. "She's perfect."
Somehow the words made tears start in her eyes again.
She picked up the puppy, which wriggled in Iris's hands until she held the small animal against her chest. The puppy promptly began licking Iris's chin with a tiny pink tongue.
Iris looked up at Raphael through her tears. "What is her name?"
He shook his head. "She has none that I know of. You must give her one."
Iris stood, cradling the still-squirming puppy carefully, and went to her husband. "Thank you."
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips, trying to convey all she'd said before. All he'd pushed aside.
'Stay. Stay. Stay.'
Raphael took her arms gently and kissed her, angling his face over hers. He embraced her as if she were a lifeline.
As if he wished to remain with her forever.
The puppy yelped and he took a step back, breaking the kiss.
Drawing away from her without effort.
He walked out of the bedroom.
Iris closed her eyes to keep her sorrow and tears in. She kissed the top of the puppy's silky head and whispered in her ear, "Tansy.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“Iris," came a low, smoky snarl from the doorway. "Come here."
She felt Hugh's arms tighten around her as she glanced over her shoulder.
Raphael stood on the threshold, Ubertino, Bardo, and Ivo behind him. Her husband's eyes were so icy a gray that from where she stood they nearly shone.
'Oh.'
His gaze flickered from her to the man holding her. "Unhand. My. Wife."
Raphael's face was set and stern, entirely frozen over and it occurred to her- strange thought at the moment- that she'd never heard him really laugh. He'd made only that cawing sound- not joyous laughter at all. Had he ever laughed since he was a boy? Or had his father destroyed all laughter in Raphael that night?
It was a terrible thought.
Out of the corner of her eye, Iris saw Riley and Jenkins, Hugh's men, sidle closer to her and Hugh.
Raphael tracked their movement.
The potential for violence seemed suddenly very high.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“Come with me, sweet girl."
She blinked up at him, wide blue-gray eyes a little dazed.
He covered her mouth again before she could speak- either to consent or decline- and drew her slowly backward, step by step, toward the bed, until he hit it with the backs of his legs. He broke the kiss, looking down at her, her wet ruby lips parted, her cheeks flushed pink.
She looked edible.
"Raphael," she whispered, his name on her lips like a plea, and something within him broke.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“Iris tasted of red wine- the red wine she must have drunk at dinner- and all the reasons he shouldn't do this fled his mind. A vital chain broke in his psyche and everything he'd held back, everything he'd restrained with all his might, was suddenly set free. He surged into her mouth, desperate for the feel, for the taste of her, his wife, his duchess, his Iris. She was soft and sweet and warm and he wanted to devour her. To seize her and hold her and never let her go. The deep unfathomable well of his urges toward her frightened him, and he knew that if she became aware of them, they would frighten her as well.
But that was the thing- she 'wasn't' aware of them. She thought she was simply consummating their marriage or some such rot, God help them both.
She gripped his naked arms and the beast within him shuddered and stretched, claws scraping against the ground.
Dear God, he wanted this woman.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“For a moment she simply stood there in the dark corridor, her heart stopped, the duke roaring huskily behind her like some beast out of one of her childhood nightmares.
Despair wrapped chilly fingers around her throat.
Then she brought her hand before her face and looked at the ruby ring on her little finger. Delicate. Lovely. Eternal.
She breathed again.
Dyemore was no beast. No Bluebeard. No fairy-tale nightmare.
He was a man- a man in pain.
And she was going to pull herself together and help him.
She was already moving toward the stairs.
He hadn't liked the sheets. Something to do with the cedarwood scent had driven him to this crisis. Nicoletta had tried to give her the worn-out sheets- the ones not stored in the cedarwood cabinet. Therefore she needed to go down and find those sheets and return to her husband.
No, it was more than that.
Dyemore had saved her at great risk to himself, and she'd rewarded him by shooting him. He'd nearly died from that wound- continued to be ill from that wound. She owed the man.
And more still.
It didn't matter that he was maddeningly autocratic, unsmiling, and abrupt. Or even that she found him to be the tiniest bit frightening. He'd asked her about her childhood. Engaged her in discussion. Was interested in her opinions on Polybius's "Histories"- and even when he didn't agree with those opinions, he'd respected them.
His cool gray eyes as he'd watched her face during their debate had been intent and focused, as if she was the only thing he cared about at the moment. She'd had his entire attention.
And that? That was worth fighting for.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“Her breath caught as she swept over his nipple with the cloth. Did he feel that? Did it feel any different from the rest of his skin? Did he feel as she did when cloth brushed over her bare nipples?
She dared to peek from under her lowered eyelashes.
His nostrils were flared, his eyes mere slits.
And his nipple was erect now, a sharp little peak on his chest.
It might've been from the cold of the water and the air.
Perhaps.
She washed down his side and to his waist where the coverlet lay, watching as he sucked his stomach in at her touch. There was a whorl of black hair about his navel that trailed into the depths of the sheets.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“She nudged his arm to wash under it, where his dark hair grew in a swirl.
Where the scent of his masculinity was the strongest.
She shouldn't find this erotic. A lady shouldn't find this erotic.
And yet she did.
His lifted arms made the muscles move over his ribs stand out in intriguing ridges, and she wanted- rather badly, in fact- to lean down and inhale his scent.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“His duchess caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she carefully poured warm water over his hair. Her lips were very pink. Plump, with a prominent Cupid's bow on the upper one. Her mouth gleamed softly with moisture.
His eyelids dropped as he considered what he wanted to do with that mouth.
She was working soap into his hair now with strong, slim fingers that massaged his scalp.
He clenched his jaw to keep from groaning.
She scrubbed backward through his hair, stroking, pressing, and he found his eyes closing like a lazy cat's. He'd not been touched like this by another since...
Well. Not for a very long time.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“You’re burning,” she gasped. “Then you ought not to touch me,” he said seriously. “You’ll be consumed.” “Too late,” she muttered, and pivoted, trying to drag him, he presumed, toward the bed. “You’re awfully heavy—” “My soul is made of lead.” “—and you’re delirious,” she ended decisively. “I need to get help.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“It was spring and they stood on the banks of the small river that ran beside the ruins of the old cathedral at Dyemore Abbey. The stone arch rose into a clear, blue sky and below, the scattered stones that had once made up the cathedral were carpeted with yellow. Hundreds of thousands of daffodils, wild in this part of England, had taken over the old ruins and made a home for themselves. The view was gorgeous. The daffodils rolled in a yellow-dotted wave right up to the stream itself and splashed over onto the opposite bank, disappearing into the little wood there.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“Late that afternoon Raphael stood at the window of his study, looking out over the back of his garden. He could see small blue flowers blooming along the gravel paths, but for the life of him he could not recall what their name was.
Somehow he knew that Iris would be able to name the tiny blue flowers.
He pushed the thought aside. He'd lived over thirty years without Iris in his life and never felt the lack. Yet now she was gone merely hours and he was gazing out the window, mooning after her.
He could shove her from his mind.
He must shove her from his mind.
But he still saw her tearstained face. Heard her pleading with him. Remembered her saying, "I love you."
He closed his eyes.
She was haunting him.
It was as if she were in his blood now, a part of him as surely as the veins running under his skin, the lungs that let him breathe air. She'd permeated him until he could no more separate her from himself than tear the heart from his body.
She was essential to his life.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“Raphael walked into the breakfast room at the unfashionable hour of half past nine the next morning and kissed his aunt on her soft cheek. "Good morning, Zia."
"Up at last," was her tart reply as she peered at him over her gold spectacles.
The remains of Zia Lina's breakfast was already on the table, and he knew well that she'd probably been awake for over an hour.
"Perhaps I've grown soft," he said, sitting across from her.
Or perhaps he'd woken to silken limbs and a tangle of golden hair and simply wanted to linger for a while in that warm feminine embrace.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“His wide brow, his Roman nose, those too-cold eyes, and the lips that in another life- another, better world- would still have been beautiful.
This man was her husband. He was intense and intelligent, arrogant and vulnerable, dark and strange.
The more she found out about him, the more she thought that perhaps she might fall in love with him, Raphael de Chartres, the Duke of Dyemore.
What was more, he was hers.
And in that she would not fail.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“When he'd woken this morning, her soft limbs entangled with his, he had spent long minutes simply gazing at her in wonder. Her lips were a dark pink and parted softly, and her eyelashes lay against her cheeks like moth wings. She was beautiful and she was determined and he hadn't thought that marriage to her would result in this intimacy. He'd wanted her near, true, for he was a selfish, wicked man, and he didn't particularly like the dark that he lived in. She was to be company- nothing more. But it seemed he'd deceived himself, both about the power of her lure and about his own savage desires.
The last thought made him uneasy.
Had he frightened her? Had his lovemaking over the last two nights been too... carnal? Too crude for her?
He grimaced, looking away from her. He hadn't much experience with gentle ladies, truth be told. Not with a face like his.
Not with a past like his.
When his baser instincts could no longer be put off, he bought his relief.
But if he had shocked or repulsed Iris, perhaps that was for the best. She wouldn't be so quick to seek him again, which should make his own resistance easier.
Except that even now he found himself leaning infinitesimally toward her as if his body, having once tasted of her fruit, now not only understood hunger, but could be satiated by her and her alone.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“Lie down," she said, and she couldn't recognize her voice. It sounded slow and languid and low, as if it were warm honey.
She felt the place between her legs heat.
He cocked his head at her, and for a moment she thought he wouldn't obey her. He seemed a god of the darkness, scarred and black haired and gray eyed. He was tall and lean but with ropes of muscles down his arms and legs. A formidable creature. A creature accustomed to wielding power. Did such as he follow the commands of mortals?
But he humored her, crawling onto the bed and settling himself in the very middle, sprawled against a pillow like an Ottoman potentate.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“She leaned forward, her expression determined. "Do you mean to sleep with me tonight?"
He looked at her.
She was like a dog that would not leave a bone. She sat across from him in his mother's old yellow dress- the same dress she'd worn ever since he'd risen from his sickbed. He couldn't wait to clothe her in brocades and velvets. To present her with everything she deserved as his duchess.
Now her rose-pink lips were pressed into a line as she awaited his answer, her brows drawn together. She watched him very seriously.
And dear God, he wanted to kiss her. To pull her from her chair and taste her sweet mouth again. To make love to her until she gasped and panted.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“She swallowed.
He was covered, of course, but she knew what lay beneath the sheets- she'd seen him entirely nude at the Lords' revels. She had the image burned into her memory: a proud, thick penis, heavy sac, and curling midnight hair. If the coverlet slipped just a little bit downward, she would see the upper edge of that nest of black hair.
The thought made her press her thighs together under her dress.
Did he know how his body affected her?”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“The woman who'd shot him had eyes the color of the sky above the moors just after a storm: blue-gray sky after black clouds. That particular shade of blue had been one of the few things his mother had found beautiful in England.
Raphael agreed.
Despite the fear that shone in them, Lady Jordan's blue-gray eyes were beautiful.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“He loved her, he knew that now. 'That' was what that longing, this never-ending want was.
How she believed in him- despite all that had happened, despite all that he was- he did not know, but he was grateful.
He angled his head, taking her sweet lips with his, drinking her succor, her faith in him. She was his light, his hope, guiding the way out of the depths of his Stygian despair.
"Iris," he murmured against her wet lips, "my radiant wife, my love, my life. I promise I will try to live up to your belief in me. I do not think I can do otherwise, for I would repine and die were I to leave you. I would be blind and alone, howling in the darkness. I would go mad without you."
He captured her mouth again, forcing her lips open, sliding his tongue into her, claiming her as his own.
Dark to light.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire