One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(25)

Because she wanted this, she admitted. She wanted this kiss. She wanted to feel wanted. In all honesty, some depraved part of her wanted to go back to his carriage and do everything differently. To find out what would have happened if she hadn’t startled and moved away, but allowed him to keep caressing and kneading her thigh. Perhaps trail his fingers up and up, to the warm, damp place between her legs …

The very thought made her weak.

His gaze settled on her lips.

She held her breath. Braced herself. Grew an inch out of sheer anticipation.

And then he took two steps away.

Oh, Lord. He’d rejected her. In a darkened carriage, she was good enough for a squeeze, but one honest look at her in full daylight, and he’d decided she simply wasn’t worth the trouble.

He cleared his throat. “If I’m to do this properly …”

With his left hand, he began loosening his right glove. First, he undid the small closure at the wrist. Then he began at the little finger and worked inward, working the close-fitted black kid loose with firm, confident tugs. After separating his thumb from its leather sheath, he raised his hand to his mouth. A shiver ran through her as he caught the middle finger of the glove between his teeth … and pulled.

Oh, his hand was lovely. Amelia couldn’t tear her gaze from his fingers as they worked. They were long and dexterous, graceful yet strong. Soon he had the second glove loosened, and when he stared her straight in the eye, took that nub of leather between his teeth, and slowly pulled his right hand free … she couldn’t help it.

She sighed. Audibly.

At once, she understood why men threw away so much money on opera dancers. She wondered why similar establishments did not exist for ladies. Perhaps they did, and she was simply innocent of them. There was a powerful, illicit thrill to watching a man bare himself—even these relatively innocent parts of himself—for her benefit.

Tossing his gloves atop Laurent’s desk, the duke closed the distance between them. He raised his hands—not to her face, but to her hair. Those long, deft fingers plucked the hairpins from her debilitated upsweep. He stood close to her as he worked, almost as though he held her in an embrace. The pose gave Amelia an intimate view of the strong line of his jaw, and the exposed curve of his throat beneath it, where the rough beginnings of whiskers dotted his skin. He smelled of brandy and leather and starch; and beneath all these commonplace scents simmered the unique musk of his skin. She inhaled deeply.

As he freed the last pin, her hair tumbled around her shoulders. His fingers raked deliciously over her scalp as he arranged the locks to his satisfaction.

“There,” he said. Strong, warm hands cupped her face and tilted it to his. “Now we can do this properly.”

A surge of excitement flooded every inch of her body. And it didn’t come from the heat of his breath on her lips, or the firm pressure of his hands bracketing her face. Its origin was that tiny word: “we.” Now we can do this properly.

It wasn’t that he would kiss her. They were going to kiss.

His lips brushed hers, slowly, sensually. And in an abrupt, volcanic explosion, Amelia d’Orsay’s world gained a whole new continent.

She’d suffered a number of Mr. Poste’s kisses, back when he’d courted her. Could it truly have been almost ten years ago? Those horrid kisses still lurked in her memory: wet, grabby embraces that had made her feel helpless and ashamed.

But this was different. So different. The Duke of Morland had spent the past several hours assaulting her feelings with one rude, arrogant remark after the other. The man had no notion of polite discourse.

But this kiss … now, this kiss was a conversation. Again and again, he pressed his lips to hers, then retreated, inviting her to reciprocate. And reciprocate she did, with unabashed pleasure.

“Yes,” he murmured, as she gingerly placed her hands on his shoulders. “Yes, that’s the way.”

Encouraged, she moved her hands higher, clutching his neck. His hands slid backward to fist in her hair, and she followed his example, at last twining her fingers in those dark, touchable curls. Oh why hadn’t she removed her own gloves? She would have given much at that moment to feel his hair sliding between the sensitive webs of her fingers. But she took heart in the little growl he gave when her gloved fingertips stroked his nape. Satin did have its advantages.

He paused to draw breath.

Oh, don’t stop. Don’t stop.

She caressed his neck again, and he renewed the kiss with even greater vigor. Her body went soft to the bones. His lips were insistent, demanding. But what he demanded was not her surrender, but her escalating response.

She hadn’t known kissing could be like this: not a conquest, but a trade. A steady bartering of caresses, licks, gentle nips. She’d never known the corner of her mouth to be so exquisitely sensitive, until he touched the spot with his tongue.

Oh, this was dangerous. Delicious, but dangerous.

He was not just teaching her, he was empowering her. And he was forcing her to reveal far more of herself than she ought. How could he fail to sense her desire for him, when she purred with it? When she drew his lower lip into her mouth to mirror the way he gently sucked her upper one? And oh—oh, Lord—once their tongues had done this, how could she convincingly use this same mouth to refuse him?

And then she finally stopped thinking and gave herself over to sensation. Blissful, all-consuming sensation. Her body sang, shivered, ached. She needed more. She needed to feel his hands on her body, somewhere below the neck. Everywhere below the neck.