Chapter 11: The Debutante's Waltz
The ballroom's heat clung to her skin, a suffocating press of bodies and candlelight. Elara slipped through the French doors, the cool night air a relief against her flushed cheeks. The terrace stretched before her, pale marble gleaming under the full moon, ivy trailing over the balustrade like dark fingers. She gripped the stone railing, drawing a deep breath, the white silk of her gloves stark against the night.
She did not hear him approach. She felt him. A presence that darkened the silver light, a warmth that cut through the chill. She turned, and there he stood. The Duke of Ashford. Caspian. His green eyes caught the moonlight, sharp and knowing, his dark tailcoat impeccable, his cravat a stark white at his throat.
"My lady," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her bones. "You hide from the dance."
"I hide from the heat," she breathed, but the words faltered as he stepped closer. His hand found her waist, fingers pressing into the whalebone of her corset, and her breath caught.
"Then let me cool you," he said, and before she could protest, he spun her, pressing her back against the cold marble balustrade. The stone bit through her gown, a shock of chill against her spine. He hiked the silk, gathering layers of muslin and lace until the night air kissed her bare thighs. She gasped, her gloved hands flying to his shoulders, scrabbling at the fine wool of his coat.
"Your Grace," she whispered, a plea or a warning, she did not know which.
He did not answer. His hand slid between her legs, finding her slick and ready through the slit of her drawers. He groaned low in his throat. "You are wet for me. A virgin's welcome."
He freed his cock, the head brushing her thigh, hot and hard. She trembled, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He lifted her, settling her weight against the balustrade, the stone cold against her ass. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance, a pressure that promised pain and pleasure.
"Look at me," he commanded. She obeyed, meeting those emerald eyes. "You will remember this night long after the music fades."
He thrust. A single, brutal stroke that tore through her hymen, filling her virgin cunt completely. She cried out, the sound swallowed by the distant waltz. Pain lanced through her, sharp and bright, then faded into a deep, possessive fullness. He held still, letting her adjust, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged.
"Mine," he whispered, and began to move.