Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(25)

As though he read her mind, an angry glint entered his eyes. “You needn’t look at me as if I’ve sullied you. I was sound asleep with no designs on your person until you woke me.”

Astrid continued to glare at him, fingers tightening on the blanket as if he would rip it from her.

“Jesus, lady,” he snarled, lying back down on the bedroll. “You really hold a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”

She watched him as he settled onto his side, his back to her, suspicion still centered tightly within her chest.

“I’m going back to sleep, Duchess,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Do whatever you like.”

She stared at the rigid line of his broad back for several moments, suddenly feeling the fool. Could he not simply be as he presented himself? Honest and considerate. He’d had plenty of opportunities to molest her. Instead he had only aided her.

Clearly, it went beyond her power to trust another soul. But was it any surprise? The most important people in her life—her mother, her father, Bertram—had failed her in some way. And when her turn had come, she had failed Portia.

Not liking the realization that she trusted so little, that she was so jaded she imagined everyone disingenuous, that she herself was not to be trusted, she settled back down. Positioning herself on her side, she tucked her cheek on her forearm, the heat from his body radiating toward her.

She held herself motionless, listening to rhythmic sounds of the night, the steady fall of his breath, deciding that she had overreacted.

“Astrid,” she whispered, a peace offering of sorts.

Moments passed and she assumed he had not heard her until he spoke. “What?”

“Astrid. My name is Astrid.” Not Duchess. An empty title that meant nothing. Had brought her nothing. That rang with mockery when he said it.

“Good night, Astrid,” he murmured at last, the rich rumble of his voice softening her name, making it sound almost pretty when she had always thought it rather harsh. Whenever her father had said her name it sounded like an epithet on his lips.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax, letting her back brush against his…and telling herself she took no pleasure in the hard length of him so near her, touching her.

That the warmth of another—a man—was not something she missed. Something she never had before.

Something she now craved.

Chapter 10
An arctic cold arrived around dawn. With a shiver and several groggy blinks, Astrid lifted her head and assessed the mist-shrouded surroundings.

She and Griffin no longer slept with their backs to each other but, in this early morning cold, sought warmth and cocooned together. Her upper body was pressed against his, breasts cushioned on the warm wall of his chest.

Cheeks flaming, she attempted to slide her leg out from between his but found it wedged tightly between rock-hard thighs.

His voice purred in her ear. “If you wanted on top, you only had to ask.”

Her gaze collided with his heavy-lidded blue stare. Heat scored her cheeks. Her hair had come loose in the night and she blew at the blond strands falling in her face.

Pressing her hands on either side of him, she pushed herself up, opening her mouth to reprimand him, well accustomed to putting gentlemen in their place.

His hand came up, seizing her by the back of her head and dragging her down to him, smothering her words with the hot press of his mouth.

His lips claimed hers, warm and soft, a tender caress that seemed at odds with such a rough man.

He angled his head, taking more, trailing the warm tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips in a quest for entrance. She gasped and he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue inside her mouth, gliding it against hers in a sinuous dance like nothing she had ever experienced.

A lick of heat twisted in her stomach, thrilling in its strangeness. Frightening.

She relaxed against him, melting into his hard length, her blood simmering, liquefying her bones.

He tasted good, so good, like the way he smelled. Of wind and woods and man. For an insensible moment, her hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, mashing her breasts into his chest.

He growled against her mouth, rolling her beneath him, settling himself between her thighs. Even with her skirts bunched between them, she felt the hard ridge of him, prodding and insistent against her belly. He shifted lower, rubbing against her groin, the very center of her—a place that throbbed with desperate intensity, a burgeoning ache that demanded satisfaction and made her squirm in need.

Her fingers clenched the warm wall of his chest, clawing and twisting the fabric of his shirt. Her hips rose, thrusting against the delicious hardness of him.

His lips lifted from hers on a hiss of air, just long enough for him to grit a single word against her mouth. “Duchess.”

His lips fell back on hers, ravenous, his tongue delving past her lips…still, that feverish utterance struck like an arrow to her heart, reminding her of who she was. Who he was. Only one day widowed and she was rolling around on the ground with a man she barely knew? Without dignity. Without pride. No better than her mother. Easy pickings for some silver-tongued devil’s misuse.

She shoved him off her, disentangling herself from the solid strength of his arms. Scrambling back, she put distance between them. Hugging her knees to her chest, she glared at him in the light of dawn.

He rolled onto his side, watching her with a lazy, seductive gaze that fired her blood…and indignation.