Chapter 2

“Duke, please…!”

“Shh.”

The Duke seemed not to care about Irene’s instinctive attempts to push him away. Even if she resisted with all her might, he wouldn’t budge. Especially now, as she trembled under his touch. His hand slid down her back. She was thin and fragile, like a fawn that awakened his cruelty.

“Ah…!”

Irene’s resistance fell to the bed as helplessly as an Iris battered by summer rain. When the Duke gently bit her lower lip and moved down to her neck, baring his teeth, she was already staring up at the ceiling of the Duke’s bedroom. She tried to prop herself up on her elbows and retreat as if to escape, but it was useless. Instead, she ended up helping as the Duke lifted her skirt.

The Duke’s hands were both elegant and powerful. The heat simmering quietly beneath his large palms and long fingers glided over Irene’s ankles and calves, then gently squeezed her soft thighs.

In front of him, she was powerless. Like a young deer caught by a leopard. The Duke left a clear bite mark on her neck, pulling her firmly toward him. He was not only tall but also had a physique that rivaled any soldier. The justacorps that wrapped his beautiful body had seemed as enchanting as the hero of a romance novel to Irene’s eyes. But now, the thought that she was pinned under that body made her breathless.

Irene’s resistance fell to the bed as helplessly as an iris battered by summer rain. When the Duke gently bit her lower lip and moved down to her neck, baring his teeth, she was already staring up at the ceiling of the Duke’s bedroom. She tried to prop herself up on her elbows and retreat as if to escape, but it was useless. Instead, she ended up helping as the Duke lifted her skirt.

It felt as if the lowly scent of alcohol lingered between the breaths she exhaled. Irene turned her head to the side and bit her lips. Her lips were still wet. Even though she had only swallowed a single sip of alcohol, her entire body seemed to melt and grow weak. The bed turned into a lake, and she became a dead fish, sinking slowly—almost eternally—to the bottom. She was afraid. Everything that would happen atop this bed, the relationship with the Duke that could never be the same again.

She was terrified that if she became the Duchess of Orléans, their relationship would change completely. To go from a dependable guardian, a respected benefactor, to a married couple who must reveal and intertwine their most private selves. Irene feared the Duke of Orléans might become disappointed in her and click his tongue.

Everyone in the monarchy knew the Duke was sharp and discerning when it came to women. Even the lovers he met briefly were all noble ladies of exceptional beauty, intelligence, and birth. Could she, who was neither outstandingly beautiful nor of a flourishing family, ever satisfy him as a wife? If the Duke admitted that marrying her—a woman from a fallen house—was a mistake, then there would be no one left in the world on Irene’s side. If she lost even the Duke…

Feeling tears well up, she lifted her cold hands to cover her face. The Duke, who had gripped her thigh so tightly it felt as if he would leave a mark, now held both her knees and gently parted them. She curled up, like a worm writhing in damp earth.

“…My love.”

The Duke, looking down at Irene who desperately pressed her thighs together and tried to pull down her skirt, whispered softly as if sighing. His hands, which had been holding her knees, fell away and covered her frightened cheeks. Even as he leaned in to press gentle kisses to her sweat-dampened forehead, nose, and lips, she could not open her eyes.

“There is nothing that will hurt you, the Duchess of Orléans.”

Duchess of Orléans. From between Irene’s lips, pale enough to seem blue, a sob escaped.

“Huk, huuk, huk…”

What reason was there to hold out so foolishly? It had ended long ago. She was already the Duchess of Orléans—the most noble woman after the Queen. She was the wife of the man who gently kissed her legs to open them. Once, he had been her savior, her most fearsome and dependable guardian—

Her tears, once started, did not stop for a long time. The Duke merely stroked her hair and wiped her eyes, silently enduring.

“Duke…”

She called his name, voice trembling, as she turned away from him. It was as desperate and half-habitual as reciting the Lord’s Prayer in a nightmare. And the Duke of Orléans, as if responding, parted her legs.

It seemed the patience and waiting, almost obsessively gentle until now, belonged to another man. The husband who finally opened the gates was rough. He forced his bride to swallow her embarrassment like bitter medicine. Her sobs, which had faded, burst out again, but the Duke, with the same expression as when he kissed her forehead, simply removed her nightgown completely.

A few impatient candles melted into milky pools, swallowing their flames. The bedroom became sticky with darkness. That darkness pressed against her tongue and gripped her br*asts. Beneath her thin, soft skin, her startled heart thudded wildly. Her pale n*pples stood out in goosebumps, and the Duke eagerly teased them.

“Ah, hi…!”

Irene twisted her body at the unfamiliar sensation. Without hesitation, the Duke took one n*pple into his mouth and rolled it with his tongue, while his fingers rubbed the other. Her pure body, known only to the Duke, gave off a fresh scent like green grapes.

He had destroyed her family and played both hypocrite and savior for this very night. The thrill from bringing her, covered in ashes, to the ducal residence pierced him again. His firm, upright manhood was straining beneath the nightgown’s trousers.

“It’s strange, it’s strange, please…!”

Her saliva-soaked br*asts tingled at just a breath. Irene flailed, reaching out with tear-drenched hands. The Duke lightly bit her hand. On her plump palm, his neat bite marks bloomed like roses.

“There’s nothing to worry about. Trust me.”

He had always been dignified. In his blue eyes, the unveiled desire made her forget the sting of the bite. Instead, the goosebumps that rose foretold the pain to come.

At some point, the Duke’s shirt was undone enough to reveal his firm bare chest. Seeing a man’s n*ked body for the first time, Irene’s ears flushed red. Her gaze wandered, not knowing where to settle.

The bride, who had acted like a frightened rabbit, now blushed, and the Duke seemed to find her appearance pleasing. He pressed his lips to her sternum between her bare br*asts. Then, with his flat waist, at her navel, and lower abdomen, he slowly descended. His usually calm breaths grew rough, like a wolf on the hunt. Unconsciously, Irene bit her swollen lips at the sensation of her hips lifting.

“My love. Duchess of Orléans.”

It was hard to believe the Duke’s voice could sound even lower than usual. The sound seeped into her ears, deeper than an underground crypt, and burrowed between her legs.

“Ah, hick, not there!”

There were no more tears left to shed. She felt the Duke’s breath on the secret place she had hesitated to touch even with her own hands. Soon, his hot, wet tongue traced a long line along her s*x, and his long fingers parted her flesh to probe the hidden entrance. With his tongue and fingers persistently licking and rubbing as if tasting heavenly nectar, Irene felt she might faint. She struggled, but the Duke held her pelvis firmly in place, making resistance futile.

A strange heat pooled in her belly, then flowed down into her s*x, which the Duke was probing. Her shy cl*toris swelled with excitement, and milky fluids seeped out. Soon, the sticky sounds filled the large bedroom. Irene cried in shame and arousal. When his tongue suddenly entered the parted opening, she screamed.

But the Duke calmly tasted her fluids. The peculiar scent and texture, and the tight grip of her inner walls around his fingers and tongue, brought him close to his own limit. Seeing her wet, slick opening, he no longer hesitated.

The Duke lifted his face from between her legs and rose. He whispered gently.

“There’s no need to cry.”

With those words, the Duke guided her legs to wrap around him.

Irene could not bear to see her thighs hooked over the Duke’s sharp waist. She did not even have the courage to look straight at her own end.

‘How can I be the Duchess of Orléans? Something’s wrong.’

Now, there was no woman in the palace who could dare speak to Irene first—except the Queen. But Irene was not a woman worthy of such honor. Overcome by fear once again, she struggled like a frog about to be dissected. But everything blurred as the Duke’s skilled tongue entered her mouth.

With the Duke’s growling breaths, a frighteningly unfamiliar sensation touched her bare lower half. Over her damp s*x, his hot, firm flesh rubbed. Instinctive fear made her inhale sharply and close her eyes.

“Ah!”

The Duke of Orléans answered Irene’s final cry with a bouquet of pain. He wondered if anything in the world could be as lovely as his wife’s desperately clinging arms and legs.

Though she was thoroughly wet, accepting the Duke’s size was still difficult. Unable to bear the pain, Irene tried to push him away, but the Duke only drove deeper. Irene could barely breathe. Her sensitive s*x and narrow inner walls felt as if they were being burnt with a poker. To think there was such a space inside her, and that something so large and firm could enter it. The distinction between pleasure and pain vanished. With just a few thrusts, she nearly lost consciousness.

The Duke laughed softly and embraced the new bride’s waist. He gently lifted her so her head rested on his shoulder.

With his weight, the penetration grew deeper, and Irene moaned at the maddening pressure. The thick tip pressed relentlessly against her inner wall, spreading an unknown heat. The Duke’s stillness was almost painful.

Just holding him inside made her drip below. The subtle friction and twitching of her inner walls made her feel she might lose her mind. She was ashamed of herself, but the controlled pleasure was even harder to endure than the shame. In the end, Irene could only cling to the Duke’s neck and beg.

“Duke, please… Please.”

At her plea, the Duke smiled. Then, as the bride wished, he began to move his hips slowly. Overflowing fluids made obscene sounds as their bodies joined and parted. The Duke’s large, thick manhood stirred her narrow inner walls, sometimes rubbing slowly to torment her. Each time, Irene moaned and scratched his back.

“Ah, aaat, ah, huk, ng…!”

As their chests pressed together, Irene’s n*pples hardened and her sensitivity peaked. She tried to pull away from his torso, but the attentive Duke bent to lick her n*pples. The simultaneous sensation of his thrusts and his mouth on her chest made her arch her back and tremble. Her inner walls squeezed him wildly, and the Duke gritted his teeth, racing toward climax.

With intensified thrusts, Irene screamed. But her cries were no longer as sharp as before.

“Ah, Duke, ah—!”

The Duke gripped her pelvis and thrust deep, reaching climax. As if in return, he swallowed her wide-open lips and was certain: this young Duchess would soon come to enjoy the pains of love greatly.