One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(54)

He obeyed, gladly.

Hiking the filmy gauze of her skirts, she straddled his lap, just as she had last night. The same as last night, except that much less fabric separated them. He could already feel the heat of her skin burning through that meager excuse for a petticoat.

His erection throbbed against his trouser fall. Surely she could not fail to notice his aroused state, and virgin or no, she seemed too clever a woman not to understand what it meant. Instead of bringing her pelvis flush with his, however, she sat back toward his knees, denying his aching groin any direct contact. Her hands went to his waist and she gathered the fine lawn of his shirt in trembling fingers, drawing it slowly up.

As she exposed his bare torso, her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “Lift your arms.” Her words were a husky whisper.

He obeyed in silence, and she stretched up on her haunches, pulling the shirt over his head. She didn’t fold it this time, but tossed it carelessly aside.

His flesh blazed as she surveyed his bare chest. Her breathing was shallow, her throat and bosom prettily flushed. However she’d felt about paying this forfeit a few minutes ago, she was a more than willing participant now. Her obvious desire only multiplied his own.

Still she sat there, hesitating.

“Whatever you wish,” he scraped out. “Do whatever you wish.”

Her hands went to cover his. She traced each finger individually and smiled, evidently amused by the way he was clutching the chair’s upholstered armrests. Good. Let her know what she did to him. Yes, Amelia. I’m clinging to restraint by an ever-fraying thread. And if I don’t bed you soon, I may lose my grip on sanity forever.

Her touch feathered over his wrists and up his forearms, tracing the prominent cords of muscle and sinew. She progressed to his upper arms, pressing her palms flat against the solid swells of his biceps. Just to tease her, he flexed. A little gasp was his reward. Women usually enjoyed exploring the contours of his arms and chest—unlike most gentlemen of his station, he was strong and toned from working the horses.

She paused, hands balanced on his shoulders. A fresh wave of blood rushed to his groin. As if that part of him needed any further reinforcement.

Her fingertips swept to the back of his neck. A hot thrill shot to the base of his spine and simmered there. She was repaying him for last night, mimicking his attentions caress for caress—just as he’d hoped she would. It was torture to sit passively and take it, but his inaction was exactly what the situation required. He had to be patient, so patient … even if it killed him.

Her gaze dropped to his chest.

Yes. Yes. Touch me there. God, kiss me there.

He fought the urge to grasp her fingers and direct them, the desire to tangle a hand in her upswept hair and drag her open-mouthed kiss everywhere he craved it. His lips, his neck, his chest, his—

She leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “You said last night, you’d been wanting to … to lick me. To bite me.”

“Yes.” Those carnal words, from her innocent lips … the image of her neat, delicate teeth closing over his earlobe, her tongue stroking over his skin … Oh, God. His hips bowed upward, seeking friction to soothe his rampant arousal. His erection brushed ever-so-slightly against her belly—but it wasn’t nearly enough. The light, teasing contact only increased his desperation.

“Well.” Warm, rhythmic breaths caressed his neck. “I’ve been wanting something, too.”

Sweet heaven. Was it too much to hope that what she’d been wanting required full nudity and a firm mattress? Because he was absolutely ready to oblige. When she hesitated, he couldn’t keep silent any longer. “What?” he asked into her hair. “What is it you want?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t. I swear it.”

“I have your word?”

“Yes, of course.” Every muscle in his body tensed with the effort to keep still. His mind churned with depraved fantasies. What carnal act spun from a virgin’s imagination could possibly make her so abashed? Whatever it was, it was bound to be good. Very, very good.

“This,” she whispered finally. “Just this.”

Her hands slid over his shoulders and linked behind his neck. She bent her head, and her soft br**sts flattened against his chest. Excitement rushed over his skin. Every inch of him anticipated the imminent, exquisite sensation of her kiss.

But she didn’t kiss him. Instead, she rested her cheek against his collarbone, tucking her face into the curve of his neck. And then she released a deep, full-body sigh and went still.

Spencer was confused. Had she changed her mind? Perhaps embarrassment had conquered her desire. Damn.

“Won’t you hold me?” she murmured, nuzzling further into his neck. “Please? I’m homesick and tired, and it’s been a wretched day.”

Oh.

Oh, sweet holy infant. What a lust-addled fool he was. She hadn’t shied away from some lascivious fantasy. This was what she wanted. A chaste, comforting embrace. A hug.

“It’s not so very difficult,” she said. “Just put your arms about me. Husbands do it all the time.”

Damned if he knew how to refuse.

His arms went around her waist, gathering her close. She was so soft, and so warm, and she all but melted against his bare chest. As some consolation to his frustrated lust, the embrace brought them closer, until her thigh wedged snug against the hard ridge of his arousal. She didn’t startle or squirm away. For his part, Spencer resisted the urge to grind his hips. And so there they sat, hugging. Him in the chair, her on his lap, and the world’s most insistent erection between them. If he’d wanted sweet torture—by the devil, he had it. In trumps.