Dancing in The Duke’s Arms

by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel

  Her captured a handful of her hair. “Orange?”

  “You’re teasing me again.” She tapped his chest, and he caught her hand.

  He smiled. “What brought you here? It couldn’t have been my charm.”

  That elicited a soft, uncertain smile. She caressed his face. “You underestimate yourself.”

  He was afraid to wait, afraid she’d change her mind, afraid he’d say something to offend her. Most of all, he wanted possession of her, he wanted her to embrace their coupling as she did everything else. He wanted, needed, her to embrace him as she did life. “I want you on your back now.”

  “On the floor?”

  “Yes.” He threaded his fingers through her hair and brought it over her shoulder. His heart had grown too big for his chest. “Lovely, lovely George.”

  She smiled and all for him, for there was no one but him to see. “I didn’t think you could say it.”

  “I saved that name for this moment. I’ve a few others yet to be consummated.” Her eyes stayed on his face, curious. Cautious too. She was here. She’d come, and now he would have her. All her passion for life would be his for at least this night. “Come here by the fire.” He tugged on her hand and dropped her hairpins into the pocket of his banyan.

  When they stood before the mantel where his half-finished wine sat abandoned, he moved behind her. He settled a hand on her shoulder to let her know he wished her to stay as she was. He rested his other hand on her shoulder too and bent to inhale the scent of her. Her hair fell to her waist, thick with waves from her braid. “Something to eat or drink?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t, I don’t think.”

  “Later, then.” He didn’t think he’d ever engaged in sexual relations with such a triumphant joy. He swept his first and second fingers along the side of her throat, then under her hair to her nape. His. She would be his tonight. Already, he anticipated the moment when he would thrust into her. Jesus. Yes. Anticipation would drown his ability to see to her pleasure.

  “All right.” She spoke softly.

  “If you change your mind, you’ve only to tell me.” Now. He must make love to her now, before something happened.

  “I shan’t change my mind.”

  “I am relieved.” He trailed a finger along the top of her shoulder. “What made you reconsider?”

  She turned her head toward him, serious. He moved so close there were but inches between his front and her back. “You. The way you kissed me. The way you made me feel as if no other man…” She closed her mouth and bit her lower lip.

  Stoke tightened his hands on her shoulders. “No other man?”

  “Is you. Anything like you, I mean.”

  That wasn’t what she’d meant at all, but he let it stand. “Yet, here you are.”

  She faced him, and her grin stopped his breath. “Yet?” she said, eyebrows arched. “I ask you, what is this, yet? Do you think yourself a villain? I assure you, my reconsideration was purely selfish on my part. My study of your nuances is incomplete.”

  “I comprehend.” He laughed, delighted, soaring inside. “I am both the object and the beneficiary of your intellectual curiosity.”

  “Yes, you understand precisely.” She set a hand on his stomach, and he watched her smile fade. “No one but you makes my heart take wing.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. There are other gentlemen in the world whom I have met. Several in Hopewell-on-Lyft. Your brother. Lord Revers. Lord William’s friends. Lord Ingelforth. Even if they were the only men I’d met, you aren’t the judge of the matter, I am. And I say it’s so.”

  “How long has it been, that you’ve compared such effects? A week? A month?”

  “A year at least.”

  “No.” He threw back his head, but managed not to laugh. “No. That is not possible. I have been too cold to you for that to be true.”

  “Since I came out of mourning. You came to Uplyft Hall that spring, early because there was still frost, and we sat down to tea with you and Lord William. You complimented our Colwick cheese.”

  “You wore green. Silk with bows and lace.”

  “Did I? I don’t recall. You’ve described most dresses we ladies wear. I remember I looked at you, and you were so quiet. So somber and noble and terrifying, and I thought–I thought there isn’t any man more compelling than you.”

  He pulled her into his arms. “George.”

  “I miss this.” She stroked him from shoulder to mid-belly. “I want to know what it’s like with you. If that makes me a sinner, and I suppose it does, then I will have to face God and explain to him that I was weak.”

  He bent his head and kissed the side of her throat bared when he’d moved her hair over the other shoulder. She smelled of violets, and her skin, God, her skin was so soft. His fingers went to the fastening of her night-robe, the first, the second, the rest too quickly, except he wanted her out of this robe, even while he admired the contrast of her hair against the olive fabric. She took several quick breaths, then a longer, calming one, until he moved forward, his hands underneath the robe to push it off her shoulders.

  The fabric fell to the floor, for she’d lowered her arms. In the firelight, he saw the shape of her, and he whispered her name, “George,” while his wandering fingers slid over curves and, lightly, lightly for now, over her breasts. Yes, Lord in heaven, yes, lush, delicious curves. Just the tips of his fingers over her nipples, through the lawn of her chemise.

  He was in danger of going too fast when what he wanted was to exploit every second of his revelation of her body. He reached for his wine and, one hand still cupping her and, caressing her breast, drank half of what remained.

  He offered her the glass. “A premier vintage.” She shook her head, and he took back the goblet. “No?” He drained the rest. “There’s more here, so later.”

  She bit her lower lip, holding back a groan, he was sure, because she took a breath, and yes, God, yes, her breast filled his palm. He gathered a handful of her chemise and drew it up, and up, one-handed and then with both when her thighs were exposed, and then until she had no choice but to lift her arms. There was a moment when her hair swung away, then settled over her shoulders. He had his first unguarded view of her naked body.

  Stoke stood with her chemise clutched in his hand, his breath gone, thoughts flown, no longer in command of his soul. More bosom than he’d expected, voluptuous, round, a slender waist, strong legs, delicate ankles and wrists. Her skin was pale, too pale. She looked fragile, as if she’d never survive even a second in the sun. Pale freckles were scattered on her skin, nearly invisible, some of them.

  He brushed the back of his hand across her upper chest, then swept downward. His mind split in two. Half of him reveled in the knowledge that her body was his to enjoy, that there was no reason in heaven for this perfection except for his pleasure. The other half was a joy so acute his heart was pierced. She’d agreed to this, and it was his duty to give her the pleasure she wanted, to bring her to shuddering climax because anything else would be a betrayal of them both.

  He turned his hand and slid the backs of his fingers along her torso. All his brain registered was that she was naked, and he was aroused beyond his ability to survive it. Her nipples were pale, pale brown, as light a brown as her freckles. He swept his hand down, around the side of her, then cupped her. The weight on his palm was more than he could bear.

  She arched toward him, a moan coming up from the back of her throat. “More,” she whispered. “It’s wonderful, the way you make me feel. Touch me more.”

  In one motion, he pulled her into his arms, swiftly, not half swiftly enough, and carried her to his bedchamber. He joined her on the mattress, his banyan a hindrance to be disposed of as quickly as possible. Hands propped on either side of her, he kissed the top of her shoulder, along her collarbone, the curve of her jaw. Downward to her breasts, as plump as he’d conjured in his crudest imaginings of her. He rested his hips against hers. They were
skin to skin. “George. George. I want you now, this minute.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and sighed the words, “Sooner, please.”

  He didn’t yet, though. Instead, he pressed his hand to her mons, slid his fingers down and along her sex and found her wet. Ready for him. He trailed kisses down to her breasts. He licked her nipple once, again, then nipped. He’d been too long between women, too long without seeing his mistress. Too long shutting away the depth of his attraction to her. Those empty months of knowing he’d lost her to Edward Lark and then grappling with the contradictions of his grief for her loss of him.

  He closed his mouth over her, and her nipple tightened under his tongue. He drew harder. All the while his hands smoothed her silky skin, and she shifted beneath him, a moan on her breath, arching toward him. A kiss to one, then the other, so soft and round. She sucked in breath when he bit not too gently, enough for them both to react. He moved between her legs and positioned himself to push into her.

  “I cannot wait. Impossible to wait,” he said.

  She opened her eyes and pressed her hands to his torso. Her eyes weren’t focused, and her mouth, that decadent, gorgeous mouth smiled at him, so sweet, so wicked. “Your Grace. Don’t. Don’t wait. I’ll go mad.”

  “Darling George, if it pleases you, call me Stoke.” He remained poised above her, watching her face, enjoying her touch, her obvious, undeniable lust for him. He shifted, nudged her thigh, and she responded. He pushed forward into warmth and heat and softness. Home. Yes. Her. Only her. Stunned, he could not think. There was only his cock and her passage.

  Her hands tightened on his upper shoulders. “My God, my God.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, you beastly, man.” Her eyes opened. “Don’t deny me now. I’ll hate you forever if you do.”

  “Perish the thought.” Stoke reached to stroke her thigh and tug upward on the back of her knee, and when she complied with that unspoken request, he sank deeper into her.

  She groaned and pushed her head into the mattress. “Oh, oh, Stoke, yes. This feels so wonderful. You, I mean. I mean you feel wonderful.”

  He withdrew and moved back, and the pressure on his cock—he wasn’t going to last long. Couldn’t, and then she met his thrusts, and in a very short while, they’d arrived at a rhythm. He watched her, bemused, besotted, while she worked out what felt good for her, and he came closer and closer to losing his mind.

  He slowed their pace, and she matched him. When he circled his hips and angled himself inside her, she bit her lower lip, and her eyes fluttered closed. He leaned down and kissed her, utterly lost, given over to sensation.

  His climax approached and for several seconds, he considered finishing. He pulled out and waited, arms holding his weight. Her eyes shot open, questioning. “I don’t want to come yet. Forgive me?” He kissed the center of her chest, then down her midline to her stomach, lower to her belly. He adjusted his body and hers, and then, with a grin that felt smug and with words that were, said, “Allow me to make amends.”

  “How, you fiend?”

  “Like so.” He proceeded to kiss her sex. She wasn’t the least hesitant or ashamed. She pushed toward his mouth and at one point, she pressed on his head. She cried out when he brought her close to climax, and then again as she fell. Nothing held back. She made him feel as if there were no better lover in existence but him.

  “My God,” she whispered. “My God, what have you done to me?”

  He slid back up her body, and she gave him a joyous smile that brought an answering smile from deep within him. He adjusted so that he entered her quickly and smoothly. “My dear. George. I hope I’ve given you the pleasure you so desperately needed.”

  “You have.” Her breath came in gasps. “I commend you for your diligence.” She threw her arms around his shoulders. “You’re wonderful. This is wonderful. I adore you like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Naked.” She grinned at him. “Hard.”

  He never laughed at a time like this. It wasn’t seemly, he’d always thought. He’d never had a partner who met him without reserve. George did. She laughed, and if she did, it was because he’d amused her. He laughed too.

  She bent both knees and brought his head to hers. She kissed him, took control of that, and he sank into her literally and figuratively. Before long, he was oblivious to anything but the two of them, their bodies and the spark of approaching orgasm.

  “Stoke.” The way she moaned sent him speeding toward the edge. “Stoke—”

  She didn’t mind that he thrust hard, for she held him closer, closer yet. Her body was unconscionably soft, and Lord Almighty, she clenched around him, and cried out, a wordless moan, and then a sob. He broke over her, her name on his lips, then incoherent as his climax took him. More than anything, he wanted to come inside her, to finish in her, but he couldn’t. He was only just in time.

  Chapter Thirteen

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  Imagination and reality merged and became a single version of Stoke Teversault and both were now firmly hooked into her being. She would never, ever, forget this encounter, nor regret it, even when she faced the gates of heaven. Heartbreak was the only possible outcome of this, but she did not care.

  Stoke would walk away from her, having given her a glimpse of the man behind the hard exterior, and leave her bereft. She’d rather have this now and the pain of his future leaving than never know him like this.

  She left her arms draped around Stoke’s shoulders. Her palms were on his bare skin, one of his wiry-muscled legs lay half over hers, his right hand covered her breast, his head beside hers on the pillow. She listened to him breathe and missed, with fond sadness, those times when she’d lain awake at night listening to her husband breathe.

  With him asleep or very near it, and she hoped, as replete as she felt, she slid from underneath him.

  “Stay.” His voice was warm and muffled. Sleepy.

  George sat on the edge of the bed. She was happy. And afraid. And desolate. “I won’t leave yet, if that’s what you mean.”

  He looped an arm around her middle, shifting so that he was on his side and his stomach touched her lower back. She closed her eyes and pushed away the future. She’d allowed Stoke Teversault into her heart, and there he would stay. Let her savor the perfection of this moment. She turned to him, and his hand ended up on her knee. His index finger brushed over her calf.

  She touched the bridge of his strong nose, then trailed her fingertip down to his mouth. Lightly, barely touching him. Along his chin, to his shoulder. To the muscles of his chest. His belly. He was magnificent to look at. Here, his quiescent sex.

  How would such a reserved man behave now that they had obliterated the distance between them? She’d come here knowing he might shut her out after the act was done. Perhaps he would not want continued intimacy. Though, hadn’t he said a week? That they had a week together? “May I touch you?”

  Slowly, his eyes opened. Dark-lashed and dark, dark brown. Full of secrets and alive with intelligence. The coldness was gone, melted away in the heat of their joining. She would leave here brokenhearted and without a shred of regret. He curled his fingers around her lower leg.

  “I didn’t touch you much before,” she said. The beauty of him hurt her eyes, her soul, the body he had mastered. Six days. At once an eternity and nowhere near long enough. There wasn’t time for them. It wasn’t enough. Beneath her fingers, his penis stirred, and she was delighted by that.

  The sight of his lazy smile turned the pit of her stomach shivery. “Indulge your every whim.”

  “All of them?”

  “Particularly if they involve your hands and mouth and my person.”

  She covered his sex, fingers curved over his sac. “Will you show me what you like when I touch you here?” He put his hand over hers and circled her fingers around his member, stirring to enthusiastic life just now. After a few minutes, he released her hand, and she continued the motion. “Like so?”
>
  “Mm.”

  He was hard now, hard enough for him to put himself inside her, if their bodies had been arranged differently. She bent over him and whispered, “Does that feel wicked, Your Grace?”

  His eyes flicked open, fixing on her face. “You cannot doubt it, George.”

  “I think I do.” He was long, and thick, and she did so like to touch him. She looked at his sex and her hand and felt the tension in his body. “I want to worship your cock. May I?”

  He lifted his hips when she tightened her grip on him. “Please.”

  George adjusted herself until she could use her mouth on him. Desire washed over her, flooded her. The taste, the texture, the scent of him was an aphrodisiac. She concentrated on him in her mouth. She swept her fingers down along his bollocks, then followed that with a glide of her tongue.

  His put his hands to either side of her head. Pleasuring him like this aroused her even more. She wanted him at heights that wrung him out, to have him shudder with the beauty of completion. He groaned, and sat up, bringing her with him. Their eyes connected, and she went shivery again. He wasn’t locking her out. Not yet. Not this time. “I want to finish in you.”

  “My dear, ferocious, duke, my explorations are not complete.”

  His eyes brightened, and that made her heart lift. “I deny you nothing.”

  She ran a hand down his muscled thigh, then back up to his hip. From the pressure of her palm, he understood she wanted him to turn onto his stomach. She brushed her fingers along his back, from his shoulders to the dip at the bottom of his spine. “Here I thought all the magnificent animals were in your stables.”

  “A common mistake.”

  She kissed his back, working her way downward. “I’ve a confession for you.”

  “Pray continue.”

  “That day at breakfast, when it was just we two.” She followed the curve of his backside. “I hadn’t realized until then, when you were in your buckskins, what a virile specimen you are.” She whispered to him, smoothing his cheeks. “I adore the gluteus maximus. Yours in particular. Your thighs, have you any idea the state you put me in?”