CHAPTER 128: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND TWENTY EIGHT

Derek stood up slowly. The mattress creaked softly as his weight shifted.

Marissa was still standing by the door, her back to him. She had her hand on the brass doorknob. She stood frozen, listening to the sound of his bare feet moving across the carpet.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He was coming closer.

Marissa’s heart began to beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She should open the door. She should tell him to leave. But she didn’t move. She couldn’t.

She felt the heat of his body before he even touched her. He was standing right behind her, so close that his chest was almost brushing against the silk of her robe. She could smell him—the clean scent of soap, the faint smell of the night air, and the unique, masculine scent that was just Derek.

"How about..." Derek whispered. His voice was low, a deep rumble that vibrated through her spine.

He leaned down. She felt the weight of his chin resting gently on her shoulder. It was a heavy, claiming gesture.

"...how about you prove it physically?" he asked. "To clear my name?"

Marissa’s breath hitched in her throat. The air seemed to vanish from the room.

"Clear your name?" she thought, her mind spinning. "He means the rumor. The rumor that he is impotent."

She tried to speak, but her voice was barely a whisper.

"How?" she asked. "How do I prove it?"

Derek didn’t answer with words. He moved.

His right hand, large and warm, moved from his side. It reached out and covered her hand—the one that was clutching the doorknob.

He didn’t pull her hand away. He pressed it flat against the wood of the door. His fingers laced through hers, locking them together. It was a trap, but she didn’t want to escape.

His left arm snaked around her waist. It was strong and solid. He pulled her backward, pressing her back flush against his chest.

Marissa gasped softly. She could feel the hardness of his body through the thin fabric of her nightclothes. He was warm. He was solid. He was very, very real.

"What do you think?" Derek asked.

His voice was right at her ear. His warm breath washed over the sensitive skin of her neck, sending shivers racing down her arms. It felt like a burn, but a pleasant one.

He turned his head slightly, burying his nose in the curve of her neck. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of her skin, her lavender water, her hair.

Marissa’s knees felt weak. Her brain was sending warning signals—Danger! Danger!—but her body was ignoring them. Her body was leaning into him.

His head on her shoulder was sending signals to her brain that she couldn’t process. It was intimate. It was possessive. It felt like he belonged there.

His arm, the one wrapped around her waist, began to move. It moved down.

His hand slid slowly, deliberately, from her waist to the flat plane of her abdomen. His palm was hot. He pressed his hand against her stomach, his fingers splayed wide.

Marissa threw her head back, resting it against his shoulder. Her eyes closed. She couldn’t help it. The sensation was overwhelming.

His hand on the door tightened, his fingers squeezing hers.

"My reputation has been tarnished, Mari," he whispered into her ear. He used the nickname again. It sounded sweet and dangerous on his tongue.

"Senna said terrible things," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "She said I couldn’t function. The whole estate will whisper about it tomorrow."

He moved his hips slightly, pressing closer to her.

"Clear my name," he commanded softly.

Marissa’s breath became ragged. She was panting, short, shallow breaths. Her mind was a fog.

Clear his name, she thought dizzily. He wants me to know he works. He wants me to know he is a man.

His hand on her stomach moved lower.

It slid over the silk of her robe. It found the opening of the fabric. His fingers brushed against her bare skin.

Marissa shuddered.

His hand traveled to her thigh. He didn’t rush. He moved with agonizing slowness. His fingers traced the shape of her leg through the thin material of her nightgown. Then, he gathered the fabric in his hand.

He began to lift her gown. Slowly. Inch by inch.

Every touch was a shock. Every brush of his fingertips against her thigh was like a spark of fire. He raised the silk higher, exposing her skin to the cool air of the room, and to the heat of his hand.

Marissa felt like she was melting. The control she prized so much, the cold mask of the Grand Duchess, was gone. She was just a woman, trembling in the arms of her husband.

"Derek," she moaned.

It wasn’t a protest. It was a plea. She didn’t even know what she was pleading for. Did she want him to stop? Did she want him to continue?

She turned her head slightly, seeking him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to turn around and wrap her arms around his neck.

Derek heard her moan. He felt her body soften against his. He felt her surrender. His hand on her thigh tightened for a split second. He froze.

The air in the room was thick with tension. It was a rubber band stretched to its breaking point.

And then, suddenly, Derek stopped.

He stopped everything.

His hand stopped lifting her gown. His fingers stopped tracing her skin. His breath stopped tickling her ear.

He let out a long, shaky exhale.

He slowly removed his hand from her thigh, smoothing the silk gown back down to her knees. He unwrapped his arm from her waist. He untangled his fingers from hers on the door.

Marissa opened her eyes, confused. The sudden loss of his warmth made her shiver.

Derek took a step back. He gently grabbed her shoulders and turned her around to face him.

Marissa looked up at him. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated, her lips parted. She looked flushed and beautiful.

Derek looked down at her. His eyes were dark, burning with a hunger he was fighting hard to control. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes. He looked like he wanted to devour her right there against the door.

But he didn’t.

He lifted his hand and brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. His touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the heat of a moment ago.

He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

It was a chaste kiss. A sweet kiss. It was the kind of kiss a husband gives a wife he cherishes, not a woman he wants to use.

He pulled back and smiled. It was a crooked, boyish smile, though his breathing was still uneven.

"Sleep well," Derek said. His voice was husky.

He stepped back again, putting distance between them. He reached for the doorknob.

"I have a surprise for you tomorrow," he added.

Marissa blinked, still dazed. "A surprise?"

Derek nodded. "Yes. Something you will like."

He opened the door. The cool air from the hallway rushed in, breaking the heated atmosphere of the bedroom.

He looked at her one last time, his eyes sweeping over her form in the silk robe. He looked like he was memorizing her.

Then, he stepped out into the hall.

"Goodnight, my Duchess," he whispered.

He closed the door.

Click.

Marissa was left alone.

She stood there, staring at the wooden door. Her hand was raised, hovering where his breath had been.

Her legs felt like jelly. She slumped back, leaning her weight against the door for support. She slid down slowly until she was sitting on the floor, her robe pooling around her.

She pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a wild drum. Thump-thump-thump-thump. It was beating so hard it hurt.

She touched her forehead where he had kissed her. The skin still tingled. She touched her thigh where his hand had been. It felt hot.

"What..." Marissa whispered to the empty room. "What is wrong with me?"

She buried her face in her hands.