Page 8 of Tantalizing the Duke
“Such a willful girl,” the viscount had murmured, his palm resting warm against the curve of her bottom. “What shall we do about that, hmm?”
The first spank had startled her, a sharp sting that had melted almost immediately into a spreading warmth. The second had drawn a gasp from her lips, and by the third, she had been pushing back against his hand, seeking more.
Milly’s breath quickened at the memory, her hips shifting restlessly against the bed. That had been her introduction to the pleasures that could be found in carefully administered pain, but it had not been her last encounter with such delights.
There had been the gentleman from Vienna—she had never learned his true name, only that he traveled with diplomatic papers and had eyes that promised exquisite wickedness. He had introduced her to the leather flogger, a beautiful tool with multiple tails that kissed her skin like a dozen tiny mouths.
She remembered standing before him, naked but for her stockings, her hands braced against the wall of his rented room. The first kiss of the leather had been a whisper across her shoulder blades, a tease that had made her tremble with anticipation. Then the strokes had grown firmer, more insistent, until her skin sang with heat and her body trembled on the edge of some great precipice.
“Please,” she had begged, though for what, she hadn’t been entirely certain.
He had known, though. His hands had replaced the flogger then, soothing the sensitized skin of her back, her bottom, her thighs, before dipping between her legs to find her slick and ready. Two fingers had slipped inside her, curling forward to stroke that secret place that made stars burst behind her eyelids. His thumb had circled the sensitive bud at her center, and she had shattered, her cries muffled against her own arm as pleasure had crashed through her in waves.
Milly’s body jerked at the memory, a soft whimper escaping her lips. Her skin felt too tight, too hot, as if it might burst into flame at any moment. She kicked the sheets away, the cool air against her overheated skin doing nothing to quench the deeper fire.
There had been others, of course. The widow who had taught her the pleasure of a soft rope against skin. The baronet with clever fingers and an even more clever tongue. Men and women who had introduced her to the varied landscape of desire, who had helped her map the territories of her own body with expert guidance.
And yet…
And yet, none of those memories satisfied the particular craving that gnawed at her tonight. None of those hands, those lips, those bodies, belonged to the man who had occupied far too many of her thoughts of late.
Milly pressed her thighs together, seeking pressure, seeking relief, but finding neither. Dainsfield, with his severe expressions and controlled demeanor. Dainsfield, who had never touched her with anything but proper courtesy. Dainsfield, who looked at her sometimes with a heat that made her wonder what passions lay beneath that carefully maintained facade.
“Damn you,” she whispered into the moonlit room, not knowing if she cursed him or herself for wanting what she should not have.
Eventually, Milly surrendered to the inevitable. She pushed herself up against the headboard, her nightgown bunching around her thighs as she settled back against the pillows. If sleep would not come, perhaps release would. Her hand hesitated at the hem of her nightgown, fingers toying with the delicate lace as she closed her eyes. Tonight, she would not summon memories of former lovers. Tonight, she would give in to the fantasy that had been building for months—perhaps years. Tonight, she would imagine Dainsfield.
Her hand drifted beneath the thin fabric, fingertips skimming over the soft skin of her stomach. The touch sent a shiver coursing through her body, a ripple of anticipation that settled low in her belly. She allowed her knees to part, her nightgown rising higher as her fingers traced lazy circles downward. In her mind, it was not her hand but his—larger, stronger.
“Dainsfield,” she whispered, the name falling from her lips like a forbidden prayer.
In her fantasy, they were no longer at Sutcliffe’s ballroom with its watchful eyes and gossiping tongues. Instead, they stood in a darkened corridor of some grand house, alone save for the distant strains of a waltz. Dainsfield loomed before her, his usually stern expression transformed by a hunger that matched her own. His hand shot out suddenly, capturing her wrist in a grip that was firm but not painful.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he accused, his voice a low rumble that she felt rather than heard.
Milly’s breath quickened as she imagined his touch. Her own fingers dipped lower, finding the sensitive flesh between her thighs already slick with her desire. She circled the bundle of nerves there, gasping softly as pleasure spiraled outward from her core.
In her mind, Dainsfield’s grip tightened on her wrist as he backed her against the corridor wall. She imagined the cool plaster pressed against her back through the thin material of her ball gown, a sharp contrast to the heat emanating from the duke’s body as he stepped closer. So close that she could feel the solid wall of his chest against her bosom, the powerful muscles of his thighs pressing against her skirts.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” he challenged, his dark eyes boring into hers. “Tell me, and I’ll release you.”
But in the fantasy, as in reality, Milly wanted nothing less than to be released. She imagined herself tilting her chin up, defiant even in submission. “I have no intention of saying any such thing, Your Grace.”
Her fingers moved more purposefully now, stroking and circling as her hips rose to meet her own touch. The duke in her mind growled—a sound more animal than human—before capturing both her wrists in one large hand and pinning them above her head.
“Do you know how long I’ve watched you?” he demanded, his free hand tangling in her hair to tilt her face up to his. “How long I’ve wanted you? How many nights I’ve lain awake thinking of all the ways I would have you, if only you would let me?”
Milly’s back arched off the bed as her fantasy took a more urgent turn. She imagined Dainsfield’s body pressing her fully against the wall, his arousal evident against her belly even through the layers of their clothing. No longer the distant, proper duke, but a man consumed by the same fire that burned in her.
“Yes,” she gasped to her empty bedchamber. “Yes, I’ve wanted you too. Only you.”
The admission, even spoken to no one, sent a rush of heat through her body. She slipped two fingers inside herself, her thumb continuing its relentless circling as she imagined Dainsfield claiming her mouth with his. Not a gentle kiss, but a possessive taking—his lips firm, demanding, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to taste her completely.
In her fantasy, he tasted of brandy and something darker, something essentially male that made her whimper with need. His hand moved from her hair to her throat, not squeezing but simply resting there, a reminder of his strength and her willing surrender. Then it drifted lower, cupping her breast through her bodice, his thumb brushing roughly over the peak.
“I’ve seen the way other men look at you,” he murmured against her lips. “The way they speak to you, as if they have the right. They don’t. None of them do.”
Milly moaned, both in fantasy and reality, her fingers moving faster, deeper, as the tension within her built toward something inevitable. “They don’t.”