Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(69)

“Griff,” she pleaded.

He paused. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’m trying to be gentle.”

She pushed against him just enough that she could meet his gaze. “Just be you. I want you.”

Something feral sparked in his eyes. He rose up on his arms and dug his knees into the mattress, thrusting hard.

“Yes,” she gasped, thrilled by his strength. “Again. More.”

He gave her again. He gave her more. He gave her stroke after stroke of pounding bliss, and she was utterly laid waste.

This was raw, primal sensuality, but the emotions were what made her ache. He could be teasing and nonchalant with words. But each pummeling thrust was a confession of just how much he desired her, how desperately he wanted this—with every muscle in his body, every pulse of his blood.

Oh, and the intensity in his dark, captivating eyes . . . it turned her inside out. She was exposed, vulnerable in the face of such bald determination. He would hold nothing back in pursuit of this pleasure. He would give her everything he had.

She lifted her arms overhead and braced her hands against the headboard, pushing back at him with everything she had.

“That’s right,” he grunted, never breaking pace. “Move with me.”

Her body arced off the bed as she strained to meet his thrusts. Their joining verged on painful, but she was beyond any such cares. She couldn’t take him deep enough, couldn’t stretch tautly enough around the smooth, hard curve of his cock.

The contrasts were exquisite. The two of them rutting like beasts amid all the embroidered pillows and clouds of discarded petticoats. The helplessness of her splayed posture beneath him only added to the surge of sensual power she felt. When she wrapped her stockinged leg over his hips, sliding the silk across his bare thigh, he gave a fierce, primitive growl.

He was so animal and so elegant . . . and so powerfully arousing, she couldn’t possibly last.

With every stroke, his body rubbed hers in just the right place. Her head rolled back and her eyes squeezed shut. She felt the pleasure building, drawing tight all through her body. Release was so close.

He groaned deep in his chest, and the sound sent worry shooting through her. Perhaps release was close for him, too.

They hadn’t discussed what would happen at the end. The anxiety was enough to drag her back from the edge.

“Let go,” he said.

She opened her eyes. He was looking down at her, his face a mask of resolve. His rhythm never faltered for an instant.

“I have you. Just let go.”

And that was when she realized . . . he wouldn’t stop until she reached her peak. He just wouldn’t. He would stroke on. And on. And on for hours, if she needed it. Plowing his hardness into her over and over again, just as many times as it took to reduce her to quaking, shuddering bliss.

This man would not be denied.

“I have you.” His whispered words were hoarse. “I have you now.”

He covered her hands with his, pinning them to the bed. And she let go. Her arms went limp and her hips thrashed beneath his. Little sobs began to escape her as each thrust drove home.

Through it all, she stared into his eyes, unable to look away. Those dark eyes were her anchor.

“Come. For the love of God. Come, Pauline.”

Hearing her name from his lips . . . it undid her. Because it let her know this was for her. All this heroic, erotic effort was for her.

Her crisis broke, rocking her with waves of keenest pleasure. The climax went on and on—battering her, body and soul, with fierce, unparalleled joy.

He slid back on his haunches and took her by the waist, lifting her body with those powerful arms.

“Griff . . .” she whispered, hoping she wouldn’t need to say more.

“I know.” He grimaced with pleasure. With a growl and a desperate jerk of his hips, he withdrew and spent himself somewhere in all those folds of sheets and petticoats.

Afterward, he collapsed beside her on the bed, perspiring and working for breath. They lay that way for several minutes, staring wordlessly up at the bed’s canopy and struggling for air.

What now? she wondered. Perhaps now that his desire was slaked, he would feel regret. Perhaps whatever emotions he’d imagined he had for her were obliterated by the force of his climax.

The longer they lay there, side by side but not embracing, the more anxious she became.

She’d known this couldn’t last beyond the week. But was it already over?

Finally, with a soft groan, he put an arm about her. “Come here.” He rolled her close and pressed a tender kiss to the crown of her head.

She couldn’t help it. She wept with relief.

He pulled her tight, tucking her head to his chest and guarding her with his body. He didn’t try to stop her weeping, didn’t chide her for nonsensical tears. He just allowed her to have her feelings, and he held her all the while. As though he understood that all other men had failed her in this one simple way, and he was determined to make it right.

After some time, she laid her head on his chest. “I’d only been with one other man before you. Errol Bright, the shopkeeper’s oldest son. He said he loved me. He said a lot of things, and made a great many promises he never saw through.” Her face pinched in embarrassment. “I’m just telling you this because I don’t want you to think I’m expecting more. I don’t want promises from you, Griff. But I hope you understand that I don’t do this often, or with just any man. Even if it’s only this once, it means something to me.”