Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(80)

Then he lowered her feet to the floor and bent forward, looming over her on the desk. His hands covered hers where she clutched the edges of the desktop. She felt a drop of his perspiration splash against her exposed shoulder.

“Who am I?” His voice was so close—and so guttural. Her intimate places pulsed in response.

“A duke.”

“Which duke?”

“The eighth Duke of Halford . . . your grace.”

Her whole body throbbed for release. His c**k was so long and solid inside her. Why had he stopped? She rolled her hips, trying to entice him back into a rhythm.

He held firm, motionless. “The courtesy titles. Recite them, too.”

Oh, God. “I don’t recall.”

“I recall. I never forget who I am. Not even when I’m this deep inside you and so desperate to come I could explode.” His hips flexed. “Do you understand?”

He began to move again. This time his pace was slow but relentless. He drove into her with such force, a dry sob wrenched from her throat with his every thrust.

“Griff,” she pleaded.

This “lesson” of his was both arousing and devastating. When they were together, alone, she did want him to forget the thirty-three rungs between them on the ladder of English society. But he couldn’t. And she couldn’t. The truth would never go away.

“I’m the Duke of Halford,” he said, plunging deep.

She shut her eyes, trying not to cry. It was all too much—the emotion, the pleasure. The hopelessness.

“I’m the Marquess of Westmore.”

Thrust.

“I’m also the Earl of Ridingham. Viscount Newthorpe. Lord Hartford-on-Trent.”

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

“And I am your slave, Pauline.”

Oh, mercy.

She sobbed in earnest that time. She couldn’t help it.

He stopped, the full length of him buried deep inside her. Filling her, lifting her, shaping her to his desire. When they parted, she would ache with emptiness for him, always.

His voice was edged with need. “Do you hear me? Do you believe it now? There could be a thousand ranks between us, and I would not give one damn. Every blue-blooded vein in this body pounds with desire for you.”

He slid an arm beneath her torso, lifting her as he drew himself tall. Her back fell against his chest. He held her up with that strong, powerful arm, and his other hand burrowed under bunched petticoats until his fingertips grazed her pearl. A shiver of ecstasy had her trembling on her toes.

“Look up at me,” he rasped. “Kiss me.”

She did as he bade, and gladly, turning her head and stretching to press her lips to his. His tongue plundered her mouth, and his c**k filled her sex, and his fingertips worked her just where she needed it. He had her wrapped in strength and adoration.

She didn’t want to come. She didn’t want this to ever end. This was the purest bliss she’d ever known.

But he was wicked and skillful and so cursed efficient. Within moments her whole body was racked by waves of pleasure.

His thrusts quickened, lost their elegance. Once again that coiled power in his thighs had her toes lifting off the ground. He broke the kiss and buried his face in her hair. Profane, inarticulate mutterings rained on her ear, making her pulse drum even harder.

“I don’t forget who you are,” he whispered. “And it’s you I want. So . . . damned . . . much.”

He withdrew, finishing with a few last thrusts between her thighs. His primal growl gave her a thrill of satisfaction.

And then he held her so tightly it grew difficult to breathe. But she didn’t mind.

“Well,” he said finally, hoarsely. “I hope that’s settled.”

“Quite.”

He slumped into the armchair and pulled her into his lap. They sprawled there, tangled and sweaty, filling the silence with ragged breaths. He lazily stroked her hair with one hand.

She pressed her face to his shirtfront. “Griff, that was . . .”

“I know,” he said. “I know. It was. I don’t mind saying I’m rather proud of it.”

“You should be.”

His chest rose and fell with a deep, satisfied sigh. “I feel like jaunting over to Piccadilly to wait for someone in passing to ask me, ‘How do you do?’ Simply so I could reply, ‘Just had the best sexual encounter of my life, thanks for asking.’ ”

She laughed, imagining that exchange. “Best of your life?” she couldn’t help but ask. “Truly?”

“Until later tonight, at least.” He nuzzled her neck. “Pauline. Every time with you is the best of my life.”

And how many more times would they have left? Too few, too few.

Ding . . . ding . . . ding . . .

As if it were some fateful portent of their time growing short, a nearby timepiece chimed the hour. Pauline looked over at the side table. She recognized it as the clock he’d been tinkering with all week.

“You were able to repair it,” she said.

He shushed her, and his breath warmed her earlobe. “Watch.”

From a little window in the front, a tiny couple emerged. A soldier and a lady. In halting, mechanical motions, they bowed to one another, twirled in a little waltz, then parted and retreated back into the clock.

“Oh, that’s charming.”