One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(90)

“It made me want to teach you a lesson.”

He roughly prodded her legs apart and moved to stand between them. Excitement rushed through her. In the mirror, the reflection of her br**sts rose and fell at a suggestive pace, as though he were already moving inside her. His own breath came faster as he leaned against her, propping her skirts at her waist with his abdomen while his hands worked the buttons of his fall.

Within seconds, she felt him poised at her entrance. Her body ached for him. Wept for him.

“Yes?” he breathed.

“Yes,” she answered.

Yes. He entered her in one hard, quick thrust that rocked the dressing table on its legs. Her body cringed at the sudden assault, but he gave her no quarter. He slowly withdrew, pulling out almost to the tip before driving home again, all the way to the hilt.

“This is mine,” he said, clutching her hips. He nudged deeper still. “Mine.”

He was so deep inside her, so hard and strong. He was all she could feel. Toes, fingers, lips, ears, skin … all the fringes of her body melted to insignificance.

Lifting her at the waist, he began to thrust, setting a brisk, unforgiving rhythm. Atop the dressing table, her bracelet rattled on the gilt tray. The reflection of her br**sts bobbed in time with his movements, bouncing erotically and threatening to overflow her bodice. As the force of his thrusts increased, the dark border of one areola eased free. Now the neckline chafed her hardened nipple … back and forth, back and forth as he moved, hemmed silk rubbing against the exquisitely sensitive nub.

And inside her … oh, God, inside her he was reaching places she hadn’t known existed. Pleasure coiled in her womb, volatile and intense. A devastating explosion seemed inevitable, and she worried that afterward, she would never be the same again. The strength left her arms. She leaned forward over the table, resting her weight on her elbows. The change in position earned his grunt of approval, and he began to thrust faster still. The folds of her skirt and petticoat wadded between her pelvis and the table edge, and as he moved, the bunched fabric stroked her just where she needed it.

“Spencer,” she gasped. She let her head roll forward, resting her feverish brow on one forearm.

“No.” His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back up. The sharp yank on a thousand nerve endings sent pain and pleasure rushing from her scalp to her toes.

“Watch yourself,” he commanded her. “Watch yourself as you come. Every other man can see you as you were downstairs. Witty. Desirable. Charming. Elegant.” Each word drove home with another thrust. “But this is when you’re goddamned beautiful, and this beauty is mine. It’s for me, and me alone. Now and forever. Do you understand?”

She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he doubled the force of his motions again. A bottle of eau de cologne rolled to the floor, crashing open in a flood of rich scent. Her senses were overwhelmed.

“Mine,” he said, on a hard, spanking thrust.

“Yes.” She watched, mesmerized, as her reflection flushed pink. Her swollen lips fell apart, exposing the tip of her tongue. She stared into the jewel-like blue of her own eyes, soaring closer to release with each delicious thrust. He was right; there was true beauty there.

“Yes. Oh, Spencer. Yes.” Her eyes squeezed shut as she came. She couldn’t have stopped them, any more than she could keep her eyes open for a sneeze. The force of her climax was too powerful, too sudden. It went on and on, as he drove into her relentlessly.

As the tremors in her core ebbed, she sensed the shift in him—that slight hitch in his motions that signaled he’d gone past the point of return.

And now she forced herself to look. She watched in the mirror as his jaw went tight, and his lip curled back to reveal gritted teeth. His face was contorted with pleasure, as if it felt so good it hurt. His eyes closed, and his neck arched.

That mask of primal, raw lust—it was for her. She’d done that.

“Yes,” she urged him. “Come for me now.”

He gave a harsh cry and froze as he spent inside her, digging his fingernails into her hips. She would have bruises there tomorrow. She would cherish them.

They remained there, joined, gasping and shuddering against the much-abused dressing table. He laid his brow on her bare shoulder. Perspiration misted them both.

He withdrew from her body, and she trembled helplessly in his arms. Her knees refused to solidify. She wondered if she’d even be able to stand.

“Oh, Amelia,” he finally said, sounding drugged and weak. “Come here.”

He helped her to the bed. She lay boneless atop the coverlet while he played lady’s maid, removing her gown, stockings, and undergarments. He dampened a cloth at the washstand and swabbed her brow and neck with cool water before dragging the cloth lower, to soothe the tender flesh between her legs.

He stretched out beside her on the bed. “Are you well?”

She managed a nod.

He smoothed the stray hairs from her face and kissed her cheek. Then he kissed her neck. And then that delicate pulse just beneath her ear. He kissed her everywhere. No eager nips or seductive swipes of his tongue. Just tender, reverent brushes of his lips against her skin, from crown to toe. Her exhaustion was so complete, she wasn’t even ticklish. He kissed the insides of her elbows, her belly, her knees, and even the broad, fleshy mound of her hip. She didn’t so much as flinch. Then he settled between her legs, spreading her thighs to accommodate the breadth of his shoulders. His fingers parted her gently, and he dropped a soft kiss against her sex.