Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

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 c**k 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 c**k 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 c**k 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.