One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(46)

Her lips parted, and his name rushed out with her breath. A helpless plea for mercy, but he seemed to take it as encouragement.

“Amelia.” He clutched her hips tighter, nuzzled her ear. “God, we’ll be good together. I’ve known it from the first.”

No, no. Such dangerous words. She tried to block them out, but her shields faltered, and she let herself imagine, for just a moment, there was more than lust behind them. In her ears, his words echoed and altered, warping around all her girlhood fantasies and romantic dreams. We’ll be good together. I’ve known it from the first. I’ve known you from the first. Oh God, Amelia. I’ve loved you from the first. The foolish, useless craving for affection throbbed in her blood, made her hot between the legs. And her heart …

She didn’t think her heart could bear it if he spoke again, so she kissed him, out of sheer self-preservation. Stupid, stupid mistake. The emotions unleashed in that rough press of mouth against mouth … oh, they were a thousand times worse. His taste was too familiar now. He explored her mouth so thoroughly. It was all so unbearably intimate, it made her ache deep inside. She broke the kiss, intending to break away entirely.

But then he had his hands on her br**sts again, and his mouth captured her nipple … Pleasure swamped her last hold on resistance. She was lost. Her hips moved of their own accord, rocking against his in a steady rhythm.

Hot sensation gathered between her thighs, spreading sweetly through her limbs. And still she craved more. She’d never imagined she could achieve pleasure this easily—still mostly clothed, her body not yet attuned to his rough, masculine touch. But, oh, she was close. So close. That shimmering pinnacle of bliss hovered just beyond her reach, but she was striving toward it. Climbing higher … higher …

Thud.

She fell straight back to earth.

He lifted her by the waist, abruptly breaking the contact between their loins. “Enough,” he rasped.

Enough? Amelia consulted her body. No. No, that was most definitely not enough.

Pushing her farther away, he straightened in the chair. “Ten minutes.” Red-faced, he nodded at his watch. “They’re over. The wager is satisfied.”

Was he mad? Perhaps ten minutes were up, but Amelia wasn’t nearly satisfied. And neither was he, from the looks of the straining bulge in his trousers.

Nevertheless, he rose from the chair and half-carried her into the bedchamber, abruptly releasing her. His hasty retreat left several paces’ distance—and the connecting door—between them. “Go to bed, Amelia.”

Reeling, she grasped the bedpost for support. Her whole body felt like blancmange, soft and quivering. And she ached … oh, how she ached for completion. Surely he knew how aroused she’d become, from the way she’d wantonly ridden him. Goodness, from the sounds she’d made. He conquered any resistance with his seductive touch and that hot, wicked mouth. Caught in that haze of lust, she would have surrendered her virtue easily.

“We agreed on ten minutes,” he said, turning away to make discreet adjustments to his trouser fall. “And I gave you my word.”

Was she to believe he was being honorable? From the moment he’d drawn out that pack of cards, he’d drawn her straight into his clutches. Literally. And now he was walking away, leaving her a frustrated, trembling mass of thwarted desire and unfulfilled need.

“You don’t need help with your laces?” he asked.

She numbly shook her head.

“Good night, then.” He started to pull shut the connecting door, then paused to give her an enigmatic look. “I’m just here, if there’s anything you need.”

Chapter Ten

Alone in the antechamber, Spencer unscrewed the top of his flask with trembling fingers. He tossed back a quick, scorching swallow. Then another.

His movements jerky and agitated, he stripped himself of his waistcoat. He flung open a trunk, pulling out a set of clean linens and snapping them open to cover the narrow cot. As if he’d be able to sleep.

He strode to the table to light a fresh candle. When his fingers refused to work the flint properly, he cast the damn thing away. Swearing quietly into the darkened room, he tugged at the buttons of his breeches placket, untucked his shirt, and stopped postponing the inevitable. Bracing one hand on the table, he freed his aching erection with the other. He was still hard as a pike, and primed for release.

Oh, God.

Her br**sts. Her hips. Her mouth on his. Her softness and heat. Her little mewls of pleasure. The sound of his name from her lips. The taste of her skin. Her br**sts again, because they bore repeating. And those ni**les … God, she had the most pert, luscious ni**les he had ever—ever—laid eyes or thumbs or lips upon. And the look on her face, when he’d carried her to the bedroom. Bewildered, mussed. Half-naked and fully aroused. She was there, right now, in the bed. He could join her. He could have her under him. Surrounding him. Gripping him tight. Panting and writhing and—

Sweet. Holy. Merciful …

Behind his eyelids, the world went searing bright. Gritting his teeth against an involuntary cry, he came in a frenzy of brisk, tight-fisted strokes, spurting jet after jet into a loose fold of his shirt. His breath grated in and out of his chest as he clutched the table’s edge for support.

After a minute, he straightened, pulled the soiled shirt over his head and cast it aside, then flopped onto the cot to savor the numb, joint-loosening sensation of release.