Page 43 of A Duchess Bound
He pinched her nipple, and the jolt of pain echoed between her thighs. She went to touch him, and he drew back. Bewildered, she stared at him, feeling cold and lost. “Above your head,” he said. “This will be your last warning.”
Dorothy raised her hands over her head once again and grasped her wrists, digging her nails into her skin to brace herself. His Grace leaned over her once more and held her breasts, weighing them in his hands and coaxing her other nipple into a small, rosy peak. He kissed her neck, his lips lingering like a promise. Dorothy tilted her head in silent invitation. She had no thought other than the burning desire building within her.
“Please,” she murmured.
He chuckled against her neck. “Some other time, I will have you say that to me on your knees.”
His Grace kissed her again, harder.
“Please, touch me.”
He squeezed her breasts, and she whined. She ached so badly that it seemed impossible for her to bear it any longer. Dorothy was on the precipice of falling to pieces, her mind working fast but lost in a daze of pleasure. It was as though she were a ship caught in the midst of a terrible tempest and struggling to find land.
“Iamtouching you,” he said. “Didn’t you notice?”
“No!” she exclaimed, bucking her hips. “Touch methere. You know where I mean!”
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and brushed his nose against hers. The duke’s hands left her breast and instead grasped her hips. “How do you know aboutthere? What are you, my lady? Are you already ruined? Are you a wild spinster?”
Heat rushed to her face. She shook her head, but His Grace did not touch her where she wanted him to. Instead, he merely held her in place. His face was infuriatingly smug. “I am waiting for an answer. Why do you know?”
“It is your fault!” she exclaimed, panting for breath.
She wanted to touch him! Her fingers curled hard into her wrists as she fought the urge to seize him and drag him down to her.
“How is it my fault?” His Grace asked. “I do not recall explaining anything about worldly pleasure to you. I will show you nothing more until you explain yourself.”
All her fight was gone. Dorothy’s desire to maintain a scrap of dignity had long fled, buried by her desire to experience pleasure. “I—I might have…” she trailed off. “I might have touched myself. Because of you.”
His grin grew wider, and he looked so insufferably smug that Dorothy had to resist the urge to leap from the table and strike him.
“I hate you,” she said instead. “You know what you are doing to me.”
He shook his head. “That does not sound like the words of a woman who wants me to touch her, much less one who has agreed to submit to me.”
“You—”
“Tell me about it,” he said. “How did you touch yourself?”
She gulped. “I hitched up my skirts.”
“Lift your hips.”
Dorothy did, and he took great handfuls of her skirts, heaving them up past her waist. Cool air drifted over her legs and between her thighs. He would be able to see her maidenhood. And he would see what she now felt, which was a growing wetness between her thighs. She trembled, feeling wonderfully and terribly exposed to his gaze.
“Oh, look how ready you are for me,” he said. “You poor girl! You look as though you have been suffering terribly.”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“What did you do after pulling up your skirts?”
“I touched my thighs.”
“Like this?”
With agonizing slowness, he drew a single finger down the inside of her thigh. A high-pitched moan tore from her throat.
“So loud,” he said. “Careful, my lady. You might draw the attention of some passing servant.”
