Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(68)

“There,” he said, tossing the last bit of clothing aside.

He stretched out beside her, and she suddenly felt abashed. He was so perfect, everywhere. The ideal form of a man. And she wasn’t the ideal form of woman. Not at all.

For the first time, she felt truly unequal to him.

His gaze swept her body first, but his caress soon followed suit. He cupped her breast in his hand. She began to hope, foolishly, that he might say he liked what he saw. She didn’t need to hear “Beautiful” or “Lovely” or “Perfect.” Something like his terse “Good” earlier that evening would do.

When his thumb found her hardened nipple, he did something much better. He gave a low growl of satisfaction, deep in his throat. The sound was so primal and unambiguous. So utterly male. It called to everything feminine in her, and the response that welled from deep inside was a faint, sighing moan of relief.

“Just as arousing as I remember,” he muttered. “More. You wouldn’t believe how hard you made me that first night. Every night since.”

A self-conscious laugh escaped her. “I’m built like a fourteen-year-old boy.”

“Bollocks. I’ve been a fourteen-year-old boy. I tell you, my br**sts were nowhere near this enticing.” He traced her areola, then the curve beneath her breast.

She writhed, undone by the intense sensations. “So you’re one of those men who actually likes his women small-breasted?”

Her well-endowed friends had always consoled her with the promise that such men existed, but she’d yet to meet with one in the flesh. She’d grown to think of them as mythical beasts, in the same class as pixies and dragons.

“I never understood that way of thinking.” As he spoke, he kissed her br**sts and swept bold touches over her belly and down her thighs. “It’s like those old men who come to the club for dinner every night and always take the same meal, sitting at the same table. What good is life if a man can’t appreciate variety?” He drew one nipple into his mouth, circling the taut peak with his tongue.

A sigh of pleasure eased from her throat. Beyond that, she didn’t know how to respond. She supposed a duke would have ample access to “variety,” if he wished it. After she returned to Spindle Cove, perhaps he’d find a buxom, fair-haired beauty for contrast.

As if he could sense her unease, his demeanor changed. “You’re an intensely attractive woman. You do know that, don’t you?” To her silence, he replied, “You’d believe me if you could see yourself.”

“I have seen myself. That’s the snag, you see.”

He shook his head. “No, no. Not in a mirror. I know how mirrors work. They’re all in league with the cosmetics trade. They tell a woman lies. Drawing her gaze from one imagined flaw to another, until all she sees is a constellation of imperfections. If you could get outside yourself, borrow my eyes for just an instant . . . There’s only beauty.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “I swear it on the seven Dukes of Halford before me.”

Several moments passed before she could speak. “Well. I’ve seen their portraits. I’ll concede that I’m prettier than they were.”

He chuckled. “Thank God for that.”

He wedged his hips between her thighs, spreading her wide. The hard curve of his erection pulsed hot and urgent against her core.

“Let it be now,” he said, burying his face in her neck. “Next time, I’ll go slowly. Kiss you everywhere, touch you for hours. But I can’t be patient any longer. I need . . . God, I need you. I need you.”

“Yes.” She kissed him, tilting her hips in invitation. She needed him, too. So desperately.

He positioned himself at her entrance and thrust.

When their bodies joined, she cried out—but not in pain. Despite the hurried foreplay, she was ready for him. She’d been ready for days, and waiting on this sensation for years. The size and heat of him were formidable, but she welcomed both feelings. The fullness. The searing pleasure.

At last, she was with Griff. Beneath him, around him, holding him, kissing him, stroking his hair and shoulders.

At last, this was how a man made love—not a fumbling youth, but a proper man. One who understood not only what he wanted, but what she wanted as well. He loved her in a smooth, powerful rhythm, delving a little deeper with every stroke. Just when she thought there couldn’t be more of him to take, he proved her wrong.

At last, his pelvis met hers. He was fully buried inside her. She was stretched to her limits. The tension burned like the sweetest fire.

He lowered his body to hers, and her br**sts flattened beneath his chest. Their heartbeats sparred, punching back and forth like pugilists. He began a slow, steady roll of his hips. His firmness slid in and out of her in cautious increments, teasing whorls of pleasure from her center and spreading bliss throughout her body.

He stared into her eyes, looking strangely bewildered. “This is . . . This is good, Simms. I’m no stranger to pleasure, but this is . . . good.”

“You did say it’s been a long time for you.”

He nodded. “Months and months. And you?”

“Oh, ages. Years.”

He paused mid-stroke. “I suppose that must be it.”

He bent to kiss her, moaning against her lips as he eased forward. She clutched at his shoulders and back, trying to urge him faster. Deeper. Wilder. She felt sure he wasn’t the sort of man to make sweet, careful love.