Page 47 of The Untamed Duke
The rough timber of his voice was shocking. The willingness seeping into her bones even more so. Where her stomach pressed his thighs, Grace felt heat and hardness. Her upper body hung off the edge of Nicholas’s knees, her breasts swelling against the too-tiny bodice and threatening to breach the boundaries. Her bottom tingled. As if in anticipation. Or denial of the situation.
She tensed. Waiting for the heavy weight of his hand to strike her backside. But, Nicholas did nothing for what seemed like forever. And, hanging there, waiting, a strange calm overcame Grace, a heady, hedonistic swirl of lust and acceptance. Would his hand striking her arse sting? Burn? Ache? Would it be excruciating? Or bearable? Would she like it? She couldn’t imagine she would. A secret, inner voice of insanity whispered otherwise. She silently screamed at it.
Shut up…shut up!
Bending close, Nicholas’s soft murmur caressed her ear when she tried lifting herself from his lap. “Do not struggle, pet. Now, will you be still for me?”
She was probably selling her soul to the very devil, but Grace slowly placed her palms on the floor as instructed. Hearing Nicholas’s sharp intake of breath was incredibly gratifying. It surprised her how much she liked it.
“The servants…”
Her whisper was strangled. How mortifying it would be should anyone find her thus. Why did she agree to this? His hand casually circled and caressed her flesh through the layers of fabric.
“Will not dare enter unless I command it.” A few more circles, then, his voice rasped, “Your gown. It’s in my way.”
“Your mother’s gown,” Grace corrected, confused at why he chuckled.
“Ah, yes. How could I forget? If you think it will dissuade me, you’ll be disappointed.”
With a quick motion, he flipped the skirts up, leaving her exposed. Thank God her flimsy undergarments had dried much quicker than the heavy wool riding habit. Face flaming hot with embarrassment, Grace wondered what her backside looked like and, Heaven help her, if he found it pleasing.
“Tsk, tsk.” Nicholas’s palm smoothed over the thin silk covering her. “I’m disappointed by this discovery; however, I’ll allow your undergarments to remain this time. Now, let’s begin.”
CRACK!
That first strike jolted Grace forward. She processed the sensation with a dazed sort of awareness. Numbness at first, then heat. Blooming and spreading. As if Nicholas struck her with a hand containing fire. Surprise was surely etched over her own features when, biting her lower lip, she looked back at him over her shoulder. His eyes were heavy-lidded, inscrutable, a tawny gold chunk of hair partially obscuring his face. The abrupt desire to brush away from his brow assailed her. Her fingers itched to trace that slight stubble on his hardened jaw, to feel the scratchy abrasion against her palm.
Greedy lust bloomed in Nicholas’s eyes, and Grace moaned at the anticipation billowing around them. They stared at one another until she lowered her head, bracing for the next swat. A tendril of hair, straying loose from the braid, hung before her eyes. She blew at it with pursed lips, the slight puff of air moving the fringe of bangs off her forehead.
“Do not tense your muscles,” he commanded in that low, husky voice that did strange things to her stomach. Grace trembled, finely wrought waves chasing each other, like riptides on the beach, each frothy curl of water pulled and pushed along by invisible undercurrents. From the tips of her fingers pressed to the hardwood floor to the soles of her stocking feet, everything within her undulated and swayed as if she were at sea.
A muffled giggle escaped her. She only wore stockings because the dowager duchess wore shoes a size larger, and her riding boots, while perfectly fine for visiting the stables, were not appropriate for her borrowed, sky blue silk gown and breakfast in this grand dining room.
“If you find this amusing,” his voice roughened, “I’m not doing a proper job of it.”
Before she could muster an explanation, he struck again. This time, a little squeak of protest slipped past Grace’s lips. Nicholas paused, hand hovering, then slowly, oh, so slowly, he smoothed away the sting. His palm, almost as large as one cheek of her bottom, was incredibly warm, the rubbing circles mesmerizing, almost hypnotic. It was rather pleasant how he ministered until she relaxed against his thighs. They were bunched beneath her stomach, the muscles hard as iron, and Grace sighed, lulled into complacency.
A strange sensation formed between her legs. An achy, needy feeling was melding into the sting. How confusing to discover her breath coming a bit faster, Nicholas’s matching it. Confined within the gown, her breasts tingled, nipples blazing. Pressing her legs together, she became aware of a growing wetness in the triangle there. She felt...hollow...and only Nicholas could fill the emptiness. For unfathomable reasons, her bottom lifted, seeking the heaviness of his palm.
What the devil is wrong with me? I should not like this...I should not! Even if it doesn’t truly hurt, I cannot allow this madness...
Deciding enough was enough, Grace gathered herself, intent on rising from his lap, and found herself pushed back into place, one hard hand spanning the entire width of her lower back.
A broad finger suddenly thrust through the small opening in her drawers. Finding her softness. Impaling her.
“Nicholas.”
His name on her lips was a wicked little moan. Hearing it, Nicholas stilled for a brief moment, then remembering his purpose, he leisurely resumed the exquisite torture. Pushing beyond the dull ache present from the night before, he explored her, one finger, then two, dipping and curling inside her, massaging a secret, sensitive bit of flesh until Grace helplessly bucked against his hand.
Melting. Burning. Wanting.
“How wet you are, little bee. Like honey dripping all over my hand.” His growl tickled her ear just before he nipped her earlobe, the sharp bite wringing a soft squeal from deep in her throat. “Will you come for me?”
“Come where?”
Grace gasped as the same tidal wave from last night rose inside her, hurtling her toward a universe where she had no cares other than this extraordinary pleasure. She felt drunk. On the cusp of exploding. Dizzy and lightheaded.
From your head hanging upside down, silly goose.
