One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

Wanting to give him some space to recover, Amelia went to the dressing table and removed her gloves. She undid the clasp of her bracelet and laid it on a gilt tray. “Thank you for tonight,” she said quietly, watching Spencer’s reflection as he tore off his coat and cast the garment aside. “I know what a trial it must have been.”


“Do you?” Stripped down to his waistcoat and shirt, he came to stand behind her.

Their gazes locked in the mirror. His eyes were dark and intense.

Swallowing self-consciously, Amelia reached for the clasp of her earring.

“Leave them on,” he said.

Frozen in place by the brusque command, she stared at her husband’s reflection. He didn’t look pale or ill in the least. To the contrary, he radiated strength and virility. The only one perspiring or trembling was Amelia.

“Leave the pearls,” he repeated, settling his hands on her hips. “I want you looking just as you looked down there, in the hall.”

She dropped her hands, pressing them flat atop the dressing table. The posture pitched her forward on her toes.

“Yes.” The word was a husky groan. “More. Give me a nice, full view of what you’ve been showing the other men all evening.” He yanked her hips back, so that her weight canted onto her arms. The posture thrust her bosom forward, and in the mirror, the twin swells of her br**sts puffed for attention. Even she couldn’t look away.

His hands roamed possessively over the curves of her backside and hips. “Do you really know what a trial it was, Amelia? To look on from a distance while my wife danced and flirted and captivated every man in the room? Can you truly understand how that feels?”

Yes, she thought. Yes, you ridiculous man. Of course I know what it feels like, to stand by unnoticed while you hold every woman in the room in thrall. She hadn’t considered it until this moment, but was it possible she’d enjoyed tonight partly out of revenge?

The devil in her said, “Tell me. Tell me how it feels.”

His reflected gaze trapped hers. Meanwhile, his hands were doing unseen, wicked things. “Perhaps I should say it made me immensely proud. That wouldn’t be a lie. But neither would it be the whole truth.”

She felt her skirts lifting in back, tangling about her ankles and teasing the sensitive hollows of her knees. Air rushed over her exposed legs, both cooling and inflaming her.

“The truth is”—his thigh nudged her legs apart—“it also made me angry.”

His fingers brushed the sensitive slope of her inner thigh, traveling up to stroke her sex. She was ready for him, her intimate flesh already swollen and damp with excitement, and the discovery dragged a low moan from them both. The hard ridge of his arousal branded her hip.

“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.