Page 31 of Duke of Seduction

His hands itched inside his gloves, yearning to slap the beautifully curved cheeks of her backside once again. She had loved the sting of a heavier hand and her reaction had driven his body into chaos. He had broken his promise to himself not to explode in his trousers, and had an urge to make up for his transgression.

Helena’s body and curious spirit was, by definition, a revelation, but it was also her emotional pain that called him. Just as he had not wanted to be a duke, she did not want to proceed with her impending marriage. She was being thrust into the position without a choice, just as he had been.

Morgan yanked on the sweaty black bandit mask that covered his face from his hairline to his nose, wanting nothing more than to rip it off. Duncan had insisted he do more to hide his true identity, and since he held Morgan’s secret in the palm of his hands, he had acceded to his request.

“Step away with me, brother,” Duncan urged over the roar of the crowd behind the curtain. “Any more bruises and our brothers will surely catch on that you have been up to something.”

Morgan’s brow furrowed. He had already promised another fight to the organizer. To go back on the deal would create an uncomfortable rift; one he might not be able to mend. But he could not have the others asking him questions. Duncan knowing was more than enough.

Duncan was altogether too insightful for his own good. He had seen the minuscule crack in Morgan’s persona and had used every excuse possible to join him in work matters, have tea or whiskey during one of his unexpected visits, and attend his secret boxing matches.

Duncan would never ask him what was wrong, and Morgan appreciated him for that. However, Duncan would continue to give him knowing looks; he would continue invading his space until that minuscule crack widened into a crevice, at which point Morgan would confess.

Being around Ambrose had become a burden. He knew he had no one to blame but himself for feeding the fire that would no doubt destroy their friendship, but he had become addicted to and obsessed with Helena. Her willingness. Her obedience. Shewantedto behis.He had seen it in her eyes, and her yearning equaled his own.

His second orgasm had been explosive. He had released it from within hissoulas Helena undulated in his lap, her beautiful, reddened cheeks bouncing on his lap as she worked her wet petals against the side of his throbbing rod. It was better and more transcendent than any other release he had ever experienced.

However, the brief euphoria had ended shortly after he had sent her home in his carriage. As he watched her leave, he felt his earlier bliss transform into an active addiction. Now heneededher. Again. And again. And again.

And she neededhim.

“Clawhammer, what say you?” The announcer asked, swinging through the curtain with an enraged expression. “You beatin’ another arse or not?”

Duncan leveled Morgan with an intense stare, and his silence carried a deadly warning.

“Not,” Morgan spat out, meeting Duncan’s stare with equal intensity. “Take back my winnings as compensation. I am out.”

Neither Duncan nor Morgan saw the surprised expression on the man’s face, nor did they hear his pleasant goodbyes, obviously pleased that he could simply pocket the money for himself.

“Good lad,” Duncan acknowledged.

Morgan broke his gaze the moment they were alone and went to see Boris to retrieve his clothes.

“You are a right bastard, sometimes, you know that?” Morgan huffed, shrugging on his shirt.

“I have been called far worse by people far more important,” Duncan quipped back with a shrug.

“Nowthatwas a witty retort,” a deep voice called out.

Morgan’s equally witty retort died on his tongue as he heard the aristocratic accent filter down from the staircase. There were times when Morgan or Duncan would spot a familiar face in the fighting pit, but it was an unwritten rule that they never spoke to one another and never acknowledged each other’s presence.

A handsome blue-eyed man in his mid-twenties wearing a black suit, top hat, and opera cape came into view. Morgan noticed tufts of blonde hair poking out from under the man’s hat and saw the steely shimmer of his eyes, but the man was only vaguely familiar to him.

“Apologies, I know this is not the way things usually go, Lord Grandhill, but I just wanted to offer you my congratulations on your success. It was quite a good night for my pocketbook,” the man stated, holding out a friendly hand.

Morgan and Duncan remained silent and neither of them accepted the stranger’s hand.

“That is…appreciated,” Morgan eventually said as the man drew his hand away.

“You know my name but I am afraid I do not know yours, Lord…?”

“Luke Ayles, Viscount of Ashfield,” said the man, introducing himself with a slight bow of his head.

“Ah, yes,” Duncan spoke up. “That is why we do not recognize you. You inherited your title from a relative a few years ago, am I correct?”

There was trace of resentment behind the man’s pleasant smile as he looked from Morgan to Duncan.

“You are correct, Lord Baxter,” he conceded with a tilt of his head. “I have spent much of my time acclimating to my new title, but now that I am better settled, I am on a mission to find some likeminded gentlemen with whom I can spend my time.”

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