Any Duchess Will Do

“For now.” He sat in the desk chair before her, boots sprawled on either side of her dangling legs, and fixed her with a dark, commanding gaze.

The moment stretched into a thin, brittle thing. Pauline sat very still, just waiting for it to snap.

“Lift your skirts,” he said.

Whoosh.

His words were a starting pistol, and her pulse took the cue to race.

After kicking off one slipper, she toed the other one loose. Both dropped to the floor. She placed her stockinged foot on his thigh and slowly drew the lacy hem of her frock higher, revealing her leg all the way to the knee. “Like this?”

“Higher.”

She dragged her lacy hem upward, inching it along her thigh. Her garter peeked through the edge of her petticoat—a saucy wink of lavender ribbon.

“More.”

She slid her foot to his groin, cupping the growing bulge in his trousers. With slow motions, she teased him harder, rubbing her silky instep up and down the long, firm ridge. Soon, the sounds of labored breathing filled the air. Both his and hers. The smooth friction against the sensitive arch of her foot was a surprising source of pleasure.

And the way he looked at her . . . Unashamed of his rampant arousal, penetrating her with his dark, intense gaze. He had her panting and wet for him, without so much as a kiss.

“Higher,” he demanded, encircling her ankle with his strong grip. “All the way to your waist. Show me everything.”

The dark command in his voice thrilled her. She wriggled on the desk, working her skirts higher. Until cool air rushed over her exposed, aroused cleft.

“Yes,” he said, sitting forward in his chair. “That’s it.”

He caressed her calf, running his hand up and down the silky curve. His thumb pressed against the hollow of her knee, and her thighs fell apart. As if he’d found some hidden lever.

He grabbed her by the hips, jerking her to the edge of the desk. His fingers traced the dewy folds of her sex, slipping over her aroused flesh. Such sweet, sweet torture.

“Take me,” she pleaded.

He clucked his tongue. “I shall do as I please. And it pleases me to taste you.”

As he lowered his head, she squirmed away, breaking the little scene they played.

“Griff, wait. No one’s . . .” She licked her lips, nervous. “No one’s ever done that for me.”

He raised his head. His smile was slow to spread and overtly wicked. “If you hoped to dissuade me, that was the wrong thing to say.”

He framed her hips in his hands and pulled her forward again, pressing his mouth to her core.

And as promised, he kissed her. There.

So shocking. So indescribably arousing.

She jolted in his arms, but his grip on her body was like iron. He was not going to let her escape this erotic embrace. So she reclined, limp, on the mahogany surface, surrendering to the inescapable bliss. She spread her arms wide, covering the full span of the desk. All the papers and correspondence were gone. At this moment she was his work. And he was attending to her thoroughly. Single-mindedly.

Masterfully.

His tongue explored her most feminine, intimate places with confidence and zeal. She relaxed her thighs, spreading herself for his kiss, trusting that he knew what he was doing.

And he did. Oh, he was good at this. A true champion. She had no basis for comparison, but she’d wager the entirety of her thousand pounds on the fact. If there were an order of knighthood awarded for proficiency in pleasuring women, he would have achieved the top rank.

He licked up and down her slit, savoring her as if she were most delicious course in a royal banquet. When he lavished attention on that tight, swollen bundle of nerves at the crest of her sex, she couldn’t help but moan. Then he parted her folds with his thumbs, using his tongue to delve inside her sheath. He moved his tongue in and out, in shallow thrusts that mimicked intercourse.

“Griff.” She writhed on the desk.

He didn’t pause to reply, but answered her by sliding one hand to her breast, squeezing and kneading her through the fabric.

She clutched at his head, shoving impatiently through layers of petticoats to weave her fingers into the lush, dark waves of his hair and grip tight. She held him fast to her, grinding against his hot, wet, talented mouth.

“Yes,” she panted. “Please, don’t stop.”

He wouldn’t stop. He showed no signs of flagging in the least. His every lick and thrust pushed her higher. She began to whimper, wordlessly begging him for release. He moved his head back and forth, nuzzling her pearl.

“Oh. Oh.”

She arched straight off the desktop, rocketing through an intense, soaring climax. He pressed the heel of his hand to her mouth, giving her that something she needed to bite and moan and cry out against.

Eventually the tremors of bliss subsided, and he let his hand slip to cup her breast again. For several moments she stared mutely up at the ceiling while he fondled her breasts and dropped lazy kisses along her thighs.

There were no words she could utter. None.

“Did you enjoy that?”

“Yes,” she managed. There were no words, save that one. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Do you believe that I worship every inch of this lithe, delectable body? Do you understand that I would take a saber to the kidneys before letting you come to harm?”

She nodded, breathless.

“Good.” His expression darkened. “Because now I’m going to teach you a lesson.”

He lifted her to her feet, spun her about, and then moved her toward the desk until she bent at the waist. Her breath rushed out as her breasts met the unyielding surface of the desktop.

Behind her, Griff pushed up her skirts with brisk motions, gathering all the heavy fabric of gown and petticoats and shoving it above her hips.

His hand cupped her backside, and his knee nudged her thighs apart.

“This is what happens to serving girls who forget themselves with a duke. They get a firm reminder.”

At the playful sternness in his voice, Pauline felt the slope of her inner thighs erupt into gooseflesh. Her nipples hardened against the cool, polished wood.

“Impertinent minx.”

His palm spanked lightly against her bottom, and she let out a breath that was part startled laugh and part sensual excitement. There was no pain, only a stinging pleasure.

“Saucy temptress.”

Another delicious smack.

She knew he wouldn’t hurt her—this was a fantasy for him. If she could play at being a seductress, he was welcome to play his role, too. She liked that he would be playful. It meant he felt safe with her.

He leaned over her, pinning her to the desk with his body weight. His breath was hot against her neck. “You are a very naughty girl.”

As he whispered to her in a rough, needy voice, his hand worked between her legs, rubbing her aroused, sensitized sex.

“You like this,” he said. “You like to imagine that you drive me out of my mind with wanting. Until my cock does all the thinking, and I forget myself completely.”

“I . . .” Her voice failed her as his fingertip brushed over her pearl.

“Answer me,” he demanded. He slipped a finger inside her.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” He thrust his finger deep.

She moaned. “Yes, your grace.”

“Know this,” he said. “I do not forget my place. And you will not forget it, either.”

Oh, how she hoped his rightful place was deep, deep inside her. She wanted him so badly, she would have said anything he pleased. Called him by any name he liked.

He slid his finger almost entirely out of her slickness before pushing back in. “Who am I?”

“A duke,” she managed.

“And what do you want of me?” He withdrew his fingers, leaving her empty and aching for more.

“I . . .” She writhed on the desk. “I want you to tup me.”

At her use of such crude language, she felt his cock jump against her thigh. Despite all his chastisement, she knew her words excited him. This language was who she was, after all. Common. Low-born.

“Manners.” He gave her bottom another teasing smack. “Remember whom you are addressing.”

“Please, your grace.” By now she was desperate for him. She made her voice as sultry and enticing as she could. “Tup your humble servant, I beg of you.”

“That’s better.”

He lifted her hips and slid into her in one smooth, thick stroke. Her moan of satisfaction echoed his.

She was wet and ready from his earlier efforts. He didn’t need to proceed slowly, so he wasted no time setting a brisk pace. Driving deep, and deeper still.

Pauline gripped the edges of the desktop to keep from being tupped straight off the desk. The heat and fullness of him thrilled her. He was reaching unexplored places inside her, showing her new, dark facets of herself. The pleasure consumed her.

“Harder,” she gasped. “Harder, if it please your grace.”

He growled. “Oh, it pleases me.”

He lifted her by the waist until her toes left the carpet, holding her off the ground as he pumped his hips harder, faster. She bit the soft flesh of her forearm to keep from crying out. He had her weightless, utterly at his mercy as he rode her at whatever angle and pace he desired. He was using her for his pleasure, and using her well.

Then he lowered her feet to the floor and bent forward, looming over her on the desk. His hands covered hers where she clutched the edges of the desktop. She felt a drop of his perspiration splash against her exposed shoulder.

“Who am I?” His voice was so close—and so guttural. Her intimate places pulsed in response.

“A duke.”

“Which duke?”

“The eighth Duke of Halford . . . your grace.”

Her whole body throbbed for release. His cock was so long and solid inside her. Why had he stopped? She rolled her hips, trying to entice him back into a rhythm.

He held firm, motionless. “The courtesy titles. Recite them, too.”

Oh, God. “I don’t recall.”

“I recall. I never forget who I am. Not even when I’m this deep inside you and so desperate to come I could explode.” His hips flexed. “Do you understand?”

He began to move again. This time his pace was slow but relentless. He drove into her with such force, a dry sob wrenched from her throat with his every thrust.

“Griff,” she pleaded.

This “lesson” of his was both arousing and devastating. When they were together, alone, she did want him to forget the thirty-three rungs between them on the ladder of English society. But he couldn’t. And she couldn’t. The truth would never go away.

“I’m the Duke of Halford,” he said, plunging deep.

She shut her eyes, trying not to cry. It was all too much—the emotion, the pleasure. The hopelessness.

“I’m the Marquess of Westmore.”

Thrust.

“I’m also the Earl of Ridingham. Viscount Newthorpe. Lord Hartford-on-Trent.”

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

“And I am your slave, Pauline.”

Oh, mercy.

She sobbed in earnest that time. She couldn’t help it.

He stopped, the full length of him buried deep inside her. Filling her, lifting her, shaping her to his desire. When they parted, she would ache with emptiness for him, always.

His voice was edged with need. “Do you hear me? Do you believe it now? There could be a thousand ranks between us, and I would not give one damn. Every blue-blooded vein in this body pounds with desire for you.”

He slid an arm beneath her torso, lifting her as he drew himself tall. Her back fell against his chest. He held her up with that strong, powerful arm, and his other hand burrowed under bunched petticoats until his fingertips grazed her pearl. A shiver of ecstasy had her trembling on her toes.

“Look up at me,” he rasped. “Kiss me.”