Meeting Dylan Hale has turned my life upside down. I'm dating an actual duke who's devastatingly handsome and deliciously naughty. On the surface, I'm living the high life. But this surreal world of royalty and paparazzi is getting out of control.
Someone knows way too much about Dylan and me-about the moments when we're alone, about how his hands leave a trail of fire over my skin . . . about the complete control he has over me between the sheets. And worse, it's starting to become clear that Dylan's keeping secrets from me, too . . .
Dylan urged me through the door to his bedroom, his palm spread widely across my lower back. “In you go,” he said firmly.
I stepped into the dark room, lit only by the light coming from the bathroom door.
Dylan moved behind me, to the side, and stood me in front of a leather club chair. I waited as he poured himself a glass of water and placed it on the table next to the chair after taking a long swig.
“What? No more Scotch?” I asked, following his eyes as he circled me, coming to stand behind me.
“I want my senses about me for this. You were bloody gorgeous tonight,” he said into my ear, his fingertips stroking my arms. “So perfectly yourself. I want to reward you. I want to sink into you. I want to goddamn consume you,” he said slowly, taking his time, and I gulped in anticipation. “And no more talking,” he said softly, finally settling into the chair before me and gazing up at me. “Undress.”
I giggled a little. “So it’s going to be that kind of night.”
He tsk-ed at me, wagging his finger as he sat down. “Shh, damsel. This will be better if you follow instructions.”
My skin was singing—it felt like there were a million little weather systems moving in the air around me, all electric, all feverish. My breathing was picking up.
I walked up to him, put my hands on the armrests of the chair where he sat, leaned over, and kissed him slowly on the lips. No tongue, just firm, warm lips.
“Can you unzip me at least?” I whispered, our faces centimeters apart, the air between us warming. Our eyes met, and my little challenge added heat to this game. He was getting ready to devour me.
I stood and turned, so my back was to him, and I felt him rise behind me. He dragged the zipper slowly down my back and slid his hands into the dress. They were so warm and felt so big, like he could grab me fully around my middle. His thumbs stroked my underarms, and the subtle movements caused a ripple, a shiver of anticipation.
The dress, now loose, slumped off my shoulders, making room for his hands. He unclasped my bra, and it fell into the dress. Then he pushed the whole thing off my arms and down my body, so it hung in front of me, and my bra spilled to the floor.
“On the bed, damsel.” He smacked my ass—hard. I smiled, eager, scurried to his majestic four-poster canopy bed, and perched myself on its edge. I bit my lip between my nervous teeth and sat on my hands. My hair drifted around my shoulders. The pit in my stomach and the round ache between my legs were getting sharper, firmer, more demanding. I wanted his hands on me, all over me. He was taking this too slowly, like he was stalking his prey.
Dylan reached into his bag, parked by the base of the bed, and lifted out a long coil of velvety-looking fabric, wider than rope, softer looking. “You game for this, sweetness?” I nodded hungrily, shamelessly. “Good. Then up at the headboard. Now.”
I crawled on all fours and turned back to look at Dylan stalking me. “Thought this through, did you?”
Another crisp slap to my ass.
Right, no talking. But if that was my punishment, I might have to keep rebelling. I couldn’t stop the eager smile forming on my face, and Dylan shook his head. “Incorrigible.”
About the Author
Parker Swift grew up in Providence, Rhode Island, and then grew up again in New York, London, and Minneapolis and currently lives in Connecticut. She has spent most of her adult life examining romantic relationships in an academic lab as a professor of social psychology. Now, she's exploring the romantic lives of her fictional characters in the pages of her books. When she's not writing, she spends her time with her bearded nautical husband and being told not to sing along to pop music in the car by her two sons.
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