If I Only Had a Duke

by Lenora Bell

  He reached for his whiskey glass and swallowed the rest of the liquid.

  He hadn’t even touched her yet. Except on her wrists as he tied them.

  He’d gripped the chair legs, stroked his own chest as he removed his coat, and now he was caressing his glass like it was one of his dratted widows.

  Maddening.

  And she couldn’t even touch him now because her wrists were tied with his cravat. Why did that make her body heat and her thighs clench?

  “Raise your arms over your head,” he commanded.

  Her arms drifted higher until her knotted wrists hung in the air over her head.

  “That’s nice,” he murmured approvingly. “Very nice.” He skimmed his fingertips over the tops of her breasts where they pushed against her bodice. She arched shamelessly into his touch.

  His fingers traced a path up her neck and along the inside of her upstretched arm.

  He pulled down her sleeve, exposing the inside of her arm.

  The uncoiling wasn’t only in her spine now. He’d said a woman became wet and now she knew what he’d meant.

  Warmth and heat pooled between her thighs. She shifted in her chair, clenching her thighs together in an effort to assuage the need building there.

  His thumbs traced the skin of her inner elbow. She was captured, unable to break free, but not because of the cravat tied around her wrists.

  Because she wanted more.

  He kissed the inside of her elbow and she nearly moaned aloud.

  So vulnerable, the inside of an elbow. Such an unexpected place to be kissed.

  He repeated the action on the other side, his tongue flicking over the pulse in her inner elbow. The soft touch of his lips reverberated through her entire body and set her pulse hammering and her belly humming.

  “When I touch you here”—he brushed his thumbs across the inside of her elbows—“you want me to touch you here.” His fingers skimmed lightly over the fabric covering the juncture of her thighs.

  That brief contact burned through the layers of cotton, more suggestive and devastating than an actual caress.

  Her arms ached from holding them over her head.

  “Your arms are trembling. You want to lower them,” he said. “You want to wrap them around my neck. Your lips part slightly. You take one breath, a quick one, and you fill your lungs and then exhale.”

  The man was a practiced seducer, no doubt about it.

  She shook her hair back, away from her neck, keeping her arms raised overhead.

  What would it take to make him lose control and break his own rules?

  “If I do this”—she thrust her breasts forward and bent her head back, exposing her throat—“you want to touch me.”

  His breathing quickened.

  “You want to twine your fingers into my hair.” The words flowed from some primal spring in her mind. “More than anything.”

  He moaned softly and cupped her cheek with his palm.

  Promising.

  She turned her head and brushed her lips across the inside of his palm. Her tongue darted out to taste him. Salt. Skin.

  The unfamiliar taste of a man.

  Strong arms strained as he tilted her chair until she tumbled into his arms and he caught her. Lifted her. Settled her legs to either side of him, dangling over the sides of the wooden chair.

  He wrapped her arms over his head, still tied, and took her mouth with his lips, kissing her thirstily. She tasted a hint of metallic blood and smelled the clean scent of the birch soap she’d used to wash his wounds.

  Sensation uncoiled along her spine, sliding and nudging desire to life. She was a glass jar full of captured fireflies, whirring with sensation and light, wanting to break free and fly.

  His fingers nestled into her hair, massaging her scalp and guiding her into his kiss.

  Savored, surrounded, treasured, his hands framed her face as he pulled back and kissed the edges of her mouth. The soft grazing of his teeth on her lip made her squirm with pleasure.

  This was the legendary Duke of Osborne. Not glimpsed across a crowded ballroom.

  Here.

  Kissing her hot and deep. Pleasure slithering along her spine.

  A melting sensation, like butter meeting the surface of a heated saucepan.

  A cry of pleasure torn from her throat and swallowed by his mouth.

  Heat settled in the center of her thighs, pooling into wetness.

  She moaned into his lips, straining toward him, craving more contact.

  She knew he was trying to teach her a lesson about the depraved nature of men, but Thea refused to take heed.

  She never wanted the kiss to end.

  She wanted to thread her hands through his hair, bring his lips to her breasts, but she couldn’t move her hands.

  Move your mouth lower, Dalton. Please.

  His breath tickled her flesh. She lifted her chest slightly, the tips of her breasts hard and unfamiliar feeling, tingling, begging for his attention, contracted to hard points. “Please . . .”

  Finally he cupped her breasts through her shift, lifting them to his lips.

  His skillful tongue claimed the tip of one breast through the thin cotton. Sensation shot through her whole body and she arched uncontrollably.

  “Oh, that is . . . there are no words,” she moaned.

  “Thea,” Dalton groaned, laying his head against her soft, supple breasts. “What am I going to do with you?”

  He could think of fifty utterly debauched things. None of which he could do with a virgin entrusted to his protection. He didn’t need whiskey to ease his bruised ribs. When he touched her, his body forgot all about the existence of pain.

  He could blame it on the drink, or the lingering effects of those blows in the courtyard, or he could acknowledge the truth. He wanted to touch her satin skin . . . hear her trilling laugh . . . taste the apricot and whiskey on her tongue.

  He wanted her with a longing so visceral it was a sixth sense.

  Lifting her bound wrists from around his neck, he settled her back into her own chair and dropped to his knees in front of her.

  Maybe he could have just a little taste.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped as he pushed her skirts and petticoats slowly up her white stocking-clad legs.

  Shapely legs with slender ankles.

  He knelt to unlace her red leather half boots. Slowly. Drawing out her anticipation. She watched him with half-lidded eyes, the fringe of her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks.

  She wore simple cotton drawers with a slit down the middle.

  Easy access. He liked that.

  No time to untie her drawers. He needed to taste her. Now.

  She wiggled, attempting to escape, but he held her immobile.

  She made a startled sound as his fingers slipped inside her drawers. Wet for him, slippery with wanting.

  He gently spread that honeyed wetness over the outer lips of her sex, parting her, preparing her.

  “Dalton, what are you . . . oh . . . my.” She squirmed but he stilled her with an arm around her waist. Her body quivered when he touched the tip of his tongue to her, running it softly around the hood of her sex.

  Only a hint. A promise.

  She stilled. Waiting. She wanted more. He licked her again, sliding the hood up and down, not touching the heart of her directly yet.

  He savored the smoky, sweet flavor, dipping his tongue inside to taste more, and then dragging his tongue back and forth over her core.

  Her hips moved now in small, undulating circles, unconsciously disclosing the rhythm she preferred.

  Letting go of her hips, he balled her shift up in one fist so he could see her moving above him. She was so perfect and beautiful.

  He was fully hard now, as rigid as he’d ever been. He couldn’t help thinking about lifting her off that chair in one swift movement and sliding her down onto his shaft. She was so wet and slippery it would go easily, even though she was an innocent.

  She t
asted so good.

  His cock twitched and begged for release while he pleasured her.

  Pushing his fingers inside her, where his cock wanted to go, he worshipped her with his fingers and his tongue at the same time.

  “Dalton?” There was a question, a quivering need. Inner muscles tensed around his fingers. She was very near now.

  He couldn’t answer, because his mouth was full of sweet, satisfying woman.

  He thrust his fingers deeper and sucked gently, flicking her sex with his tongue at the same time.

  She moaned, pressing against his lips, her entire body tensing and shaking.

  “I . . . oh . . .”

  Nearly there, Thea.

  He sucked and flicked harder now, quickening the pace.

  Her body tensed and jerked beneath his lips and then her head fell backward. She slumped back in the chair and he rode the lingering tremors of her orgasm with his tongue and lips, prolonging her pleasure.

  His Thea, his sensual goddess. Moaning with abandon, thighs spread.

  He untied her wrists and flipped her gown back over her legs.

  “Let that be a warning to you,” he growled. “About why it’s not wise to wager with a rake. You’ll always lose.”

  “I’m woman enough to admit when I’m wrong,” she said shakily, rubbing her fingers across her wrists.

  “What was that?” Dalton sat in the chair opposite her and crossed his arms over his chest, striving to quiet his breathing. “I didn’t quite hear you . . .”

  He loved the pink tinge he’d brought to her cheeks and the way her lower lip was plump and swollen from his kisses.

  That one small taste hadn’t been nearly enough. He wanted more.

  He sipped more whiskey, the earthy flavor flooding his mouth and mingling with the lingering sweet taste of Thea.

  “You’re definitely a rake worth your salt,” she replied.

  “And?”

  “The condition of your boots doesn’t signify.”

  “Then my job here is finished.” That was his cue to leave. So why didn’t his legs lift him out of the damn chair?

  “Truly?” Smoky blue eyes gazed at him. “Did you . . . finish?”

  Whiskey burned the wrong way down his throat and he coughed helplessly.

  “Anything the matter?” she inquired innocently.

  “That’s not a conversation we’ll have on this journey,” he choked out.

  She tilted forward and satin flesh mounded over the patterned silk of her gown. “But what happens next?”

  Chapter 14

  “Nothing happens next.” Dalton edged his chair away from her. “I go sleep in the stables.”

  “In the stables? With cracked ribs?”

  “Or I’ll sleep on the chair here, by the fire.”

  Her gaze flicked to the bed next to the window. “Or we could . . . share the bed.”

  “No more beds.” Damn it, why was he always growling when he spoke to her?

  As he’d observed earlier, she brought out the beast in him.

  “I’m curious.” She furrowed her brow. “How long does the . . . rest of it last? From the bits and pieces I’ve gleaned, it sounds like it would be a quick affair.”

  “There’d be nothing quick about it, I can assure you.”

  “Of course, since you’ve made the pursuit of pleasure your life’s sole purpose I’m sure you’ve developed a certain . . . aptitude. Or perhaps women merely flatter you? Pretend to enjoy themselves?”

  “Women never pretend their pleasure in my arms.”

  “How can you be so sure?” she asked with an arch smile.

  Ah, he understood what was happening here. This was Thea constructing a barrier of humor and carelessness, pretending this interlude meant nothing more than physical pleasure to her.

  “Believe me, Thea, if we made love, you wouldn’t be pretending anything. And it would last all night. But that’s completely beside the point because it will never happen. This will never happen again.”

  “And why not? What if I want it to happen?”

  He reached over and cupped her chin in his palm. “Because with men, pleasure blows through us like a squall across an ocean. There one moment and gone the next. But it’s different for women.”

  She moved her chin away from his hand. “Maybe I’m not like other women. Maybe I can take my pleasure and barricade my heart, just as men do.”

  “Life hasn’t taught you yet to divorce this”—he touched her forehead—“from this.” He brushed his fingers lightly across her chest, over her heart. “I sincerely hope it never does. And I’m too honorable to be the one to do it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, you’re so very honorable. Flaunting yourself in ballrooms, taunting the proper young ladies with your physical perfection. Behold my impressive musculature,” she growled, imitating his deep tones and puffing out her chest, apparently pretending to be him.

  She leapt up and thrust out her chin. “How do you like this devastating cleft in my chin?” She squared her shoulders. “Don’t my strong, wide shoulders make you tingle?”

  He reached for her skirts but she ducked away, a teasing light shining in her eyes. “Oh no, young ladies, you can look, but you can’t touch.”

  He couldn’t help chuckling. She disarmed him so completely. “Is that truly what the wallflowers were thinking?”

  “Oh yes,” she breathed. “And that’s not all we thought about.”

  Sweet Lord. Her gaze dropped and his cock leapt to attention, straining to break free.

  Rising from the chair, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, beyond caring about right and wrong. Only thinking of this . . . the soft curve of her lower lip. The even softer swell of her breasts beneath his chest.

  She nestled into his touch with a sigh that he felt as a caress along the entire length of his stiff cock. Then she did something wholly unexpected. She pushed against his chest until he flopped onto his back on the bed.

  She reared over him, tracing the hair that trailed down his stomach and disappeared into his breeches with her finger. “Do you want to know what else the wallflowers were thinking?”

  Don’t answer that. Don’t answer that.

  An incriminating moan escaped his lips.

  She stared at his groin. “We wondered about this.” Her fingers drifted to his breeches’ flap. “Wondered if you padded your breeches, or if it was all real.”

  Sweet heaven above, he’d corrupted her mind. Unleashed a wanton. And it was glorious.

  “Thea. You’re going to kill me.”

  Her finger traced the line of hair that bisected his abdomen. “I want to know where this path leads.”

  He should stop her, but it felt so damned good.

  And she’d accused him of being a tease. Couldn’t have that, now could he?

  The tables had been completely and utterly turned. He was at her mercy. A lusting fool praying she might follow words with actions.

  “Thea,” he groaned feverishly. With a quick flick of his wrist he undid a button and his cock sprang free. He gripped the root, offering himself to her. “Is this what you want to see?”

  She nodded, her eyes going wide as she stared at his cock.

  “Would you like to see me as well?” she asked, her voice soft and seductive.

  He nodded, incapable of coherent speech.

  She reached around and undid the buttons of her gown and slipped it over her head, leaving only white cotton stays over a simple white chemise.

  Because he was desperate for the sight of her firm, high breasts, he tugged the edge of her chemise down and her breasts spilled over the edge of her stays.

  “Jesus, Thea. You’re too beautiful.”

  She glanced down at her own breasts. “You think so?”

  He nodded, incoherent with need, tracing a finger along the delicate swell of her breasts over smooth skin and tight, rose-colored nipples.

  She rose over him, propping herself on her wrists. Her hair sw
ung in feathery circles over his chest. “I want to give you pleasure as well,” she whispered.

  Her hand brushed his chest and moved downward, over the tightness of his abdomen. Down . . . tentative, petal-soft brushing of fingers on the rim of his cock.

  “Show me . . . show me how to pleasure you.” Her fingers sheathed his cock.

  He groaned. She gripped him tighter. And the fever took him.

  He closed his hand over hers and guided it up and over the head of his cock and then back down the shaft.

  Of course she easily learned the way of it. His hand fell away and she continued, sliding up over the crest, lubricated now by his sweat and the drops of his seed that signaled he wouldn’t last long.

  All that pleasure chasing away the pain.

  It was the most erotic sight he’d ever seen. Thea’s lips pursed and those big, blue-gray eyes focused in concentration as she slid her fingers along his shaft.

  He moaned, showing her that she pleased him.

  Mind screaming with need now. Hands fisted into the bedclothes on either side of his hips to stop from parting the folds of her sex with his fingers and plunging his cock to the hilt.

  Wrap her legs around his back and lift her hips and rock in the cradle of her body.

  She’d be his equal in passion. And inventiveness. She’d ride him . . . match his movements and improvise ones of her own.

  Body tensing, muscles gripping, mind blanking.

  He was too ready and she was too lovely with her breasts thrust over her stays and her golden curls streaming around her shoulders as she concentrated on what she was doing.

  He reached for her neck and kissed her then, brushing his tongue against her tongue, deepening the kiss while she worked his cock with her smooth, soft fingers.

  She tasted like honey. Like the sweetest substance in the world and he could get stuck in her and drown, drunk with pleasure.

  Bruised ribs forgotten, he molded her softness against him, thrusting into her hand, lost to everything now but the driving need coursing through his veins.

  “Faster,” he gasped. And she pumped him faster. Harder.

  He buried his face in her rose-scented hair, dripping with sweat, convulsing with need.