Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(70)

Her head rose and fell as he took a slow, deep breath. His hand found hers and clasped it. “Pauline? Please believe I say this in all sincerity. I am honored.”

Her breath rushed out in a relieved sigh. She didn’t know what she’d been hoping to hear—but what he’d said was even better. There was a ring of newness in those words: I am honored. Somehow, she doubted he’d spoken them to a woman before. Not in bed, at least.

She turned in his embrace, skimming a possessive touch over his chest. He groaned in encouragement. She loved that she could be free to touch him now, explore him everywhere.

Her fingers found the red, not-quite-healed slash on his biceps, and she traced it. “Are you in pain?”

“No, not . . . not there.”

His words had the deep resonance of a confession. She treasured those two syllables of raw honesty.

“Is it this?” she asked, touching the small bruise on his cheek from where she’d punched him yesterday.

“No.”

“Somewhere else, then.” She dropped her hand to his bare chest, covering his thudding heart. “Somewhere deep inside. You’re hurting.”

He nodded. “Like the devil.”

Her curiosity was intense, but she resisted the urge to press him for explanations or details. He’d trusted her with this much. Perhaps he would trust her with more, in time.

“Can I kiss it better?” She gave him a playful smile.

“I don’t think so.” He thoughtfully brushed a lock of hair from her face. The glint in his eyes went from wounded to wicked. “But I could be persuaded to lie very still while you exhaust yourself in the attempt.”

Chapter Nineteen

In another hour’s time they’d exhausted each other.

Griff stroked her hair, forcing himself to relax and surrender to the simple pleasure of being kissed. Her lips touched his chest, his shoulders, his neck, his belly. She was as thorough as she was sweet, covering every inch of him with tender brushes of her lips. She didn’t manage to heal all his deepest, darkest wounds with her attentions—but she made his mind go blank, which was almost as good.

And when her tongue traced a path from his navel downward, he reached a breaking point.

“I need you again.” He took her by the waist and lifted her above him, trapping his hard, aching c**k at the apex of her cleft. “Take it in your hand. Guide me in.”

If she felt any trepidation at his bold request, she didn’t show it.

A rosy flush bloomed over her chest as she reached between them. She held him in place as he moved her slowly down, lowering her heat to envelop his full length.

She fit him like a well-made glove, hugging him tight as he guided her up and down, teaching her how to ride him.

Clever girl that she was, she caught the spirit and rhythm of it soon enough. Her palms braced flat against his chest, pinning him to the bed. Her thighs flexed as she dragged herself up and down. Those pert, delicious br**sts bounced and swayed. If he’d ever beheld a more erotic view, he couldn’t recall it.

“Simms.”

She moaned, lost in pleasure.

“Simms,” he said again.

Her eyes opened, drowsy and heavy-lidded as she looked down at him.

“How long has it been since you last made love?”

She bit her lip. “Twenty minutes?”

“Right. Same for me. Give or take thirty seconds.”

Laughing, she braced her hands on his chest. “Why do you ask?”

“Because the first time was shockingly good.” He guided her up and down again. “But this . . . this is extraordinary. Even better. I’m trying to understand. It can’t merely be the long drought, can it?”

“Do you always talk this much while making love?”

He shook his head. “No. That’s different, too. Everything is different with you.”

Tighter, sleeker, hotter, wetter, sweeter. Not dreamlike or perfect, just more real. And so damn good, he feared hurting them both in that mad, frantic race to the end.

He struggled to a sitting position. It wasn’t enough to watch. He wanted to feel her br**sts’ softness and heat caressing his bare chest. Cushioning the mad beat of his heart.

He wanted to kiss her as he made love to her.

He brought her close, guiding her legs over his hips and locking her ankles at the small of his back.

With one arm wrapped tight about her waist, he guided her in a brisk rhythm. He worked the other hand between them and pressed his thumb to her pearl, working the nub in small, tight circles until she seized and shuddered in his arms.

And he didn’t stop. There would be no laziness with her, no half measures. This woman was going to get his best. He kept up the same attentions, kissing her neck and murmuring words of praise against her ear until she reached another, more devastating peak.

“Oh,” she whimpered in the aftermath, clinging to his neck. “Oh, Griff. Oh, God.”

Her words made him feel like a god. Or at least a demigod. A pagan, rutting, immortal being of pleasure.

He would have tried to bring her to a third crisis, but the clasping heat of her sex had pulled him too close to the edge. He lifted her off his cock, and she reached between them to encircle his erection with her small, delicate hand.

“Like this,” he said, demonstrating.

She followed his lead. “This?”