Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(170)

“Don’t let go of the post, Justine.”

She swallowed, only able to nod in reply. When he went down on his knees behind her, his hands slipping up under her chemise, she jumped a little. He murmured something soothing under his breath, but the feel of his warm, slightly rough hands moving up the backs of her legs made her tremble. When he pushed gently on the inside of her thighs, urging her to widen her stance, she felt her sex start to soften and grow damp.


“Skin like silk and cream,” he murmured absently as he unfastened her garters.

He had her step out of her stockings, and then his hands returned to her thighs. They slid up and moved against her tender folds, his fingers gently probing and sliding through the moisture that gathered there.

“Griffin,” Justine moaned.

“Don’t let go,” he said.

The sensual order made her wriggle with excitement. She heard a low, answering growl, then she felt him lean forward and nip her bottom.

“Griffin Steele, what are you doing?” she yelped, twisting around to look down at him.

His smile looked feral and his features were pulled taut with passion. But it was the smoldering heat in his black eyes that made every nerve in her body quiver. He looked like he wanted to devour her—slowly. “Oh, my,” she whispered.

His gaze dropped to her bottom, exposed when he’d pushed up her chemise. He traced a finger along the cleft. “Have I ever told you what a gorgeous arse you have, Justine?”

“Ah . . .”

But before she could answer, he was swarming up behind her. His hands clamped around her hips, tugging her back and opening her to his touch. The pose made her feel intensely vulnerable and exceedingly naughty.

“Wouldn’t this be more comfortable on the bed?” she said, unsuccessfully holding back a nervous giggle. “Surely this—”

When he slipped his hand between her folds and then pressed a finger inside her slick channel, she gasped.

“Let’s try this instead,” he said, his breath hot on her neck.

Then his hand was gone and he was there instead, thick and heavy and hard, driving up into her. Justine let out a cry, rising straight up on her toes.

“Oh, oh!” She gripped the post for dear life.

Griffin’s entire body was plastered against hers as his fingers spread low and wide on her hips. The wool of his breeches brushed against her bottom and the backs of her legs, prickling her skin with sensation. She could feel the burning heat of his body through the linen of his shirt.

“Is it too much?” he said, his voice rough with passion.

She shook her head, too breathless for words. All she could do was push back, trying to increase the pressure, silently asking for more.

He gave it to her, slowly at first, but then with long, powerful strokes as he surged into her. Justine panted with the building pressure, trying to writhe against him but trapped between his unrelenting body and the bedpost.

“More,” she gasped. “I need more.”

He hummed in her ear. “So demanding, my termagant little wife.”

She would have scolded him if she’d had the breath for it. But when his hand slipped around to delve into her curls and find the tight knot of aching flesh, all rational thought vanished. He stroked her, rubbing the swollen bud as he drove into her. Everything in her body shivered to a fevered pitch and her back curved into an arch. Her head fell onto his shoulder and she cried out as waves of luxurious spasms contracted around the hard length buried deep inside her.

“God, Justine,” he gasped out. He surged into her one last time, holding himself high and hard as he climaxed.