Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(50)

The long heat of him slid inside her in one slick motion. Her breath escaped in a hiss. Her neck arched, coming off the ground.

He held himself still, the fullness of him lodged deeply inside her, pulsing in rhythm with her heart.

She dropped her head back down, rolling her neck side to side, mindless and moaning as he began to move, his rocking thrusts slow and deep, stoking her, building the fire, tormenting her, drawing out her pleasure until she thought she would die if it did not come swifter, harder.

She dug her nails into his taut buttocks, bringing him harder against her, trying to increase his tempo, but he continued his torment, easing out of her in slow drags of heated flesh.

“Griffin,” she wept, lifting her head.

“Say it,” he growled.

“What?” she gasped, senseless, mad with need.

“That you want it. You want me. That you always will.” His tongue swept the curve of her ear in a hot brush.

She moaned again. It was the height of manipulation for him to inveigle such a promise from her when she was lost with need. When she had to have him or die from wanting.

And yet she couldn’t say such a thing. Because the day would arrive when she couldn’t have him…when she had to give him up. And pretending that she didn’t want him, pretending they weren’t the same, two sides of the same coin, might be the only way to survive such a loss.

Then it dawned on her that he wasn’t the only one capable of manipulation.

She tilted her hips, taking him deeper, hugging him tighter inside her. Instead of answering, she raked her nails through his too long dark hair, gently scouring his scalp. Pulling his head down, she claimed his mouth in a deep, tongue-tangling kiss.

He groaned into her mouth, angling his head, deepening the kiss in turn. A wave of moisture rushed between her legs and she exploded in a burst of blinding heat, crying out against his mouth.

Singed by fire, the cold Scottish wood around them became a very distant, very insignificant thing, dimming altogether as wave after wave of sensation shuddered through her, sizzling through her nerves as Griffin continued his sinuous thrusts, his breath a harsh rasp in her ear until he stilled, pouring his heat into her.

The deep panting of their breaths mingled, frothy white clouds on the air, their chests rising and falling against each other in rhythmic unison. Almost as though they were one being. She chased off the fanciful thought.

And yet the awe, the euphoria lingered. Now she understood the blushes and whispers behind lace fans. Before, she had never imagined what was so scintillating about the subject of sex.

At best, her experiences had always been…unmemorable. At worst, painful and undignified, leaving her mortified long after Bertram left her bed.

But now she knew. Now she understood what made sane people behave without good sense. Perhaps she even understood what drove her mother to run away with Mr. Welles.

Astrid feathered her fingers against his chest, wondering at the warmth suffusing her…and waiting for it to wane, to depart as it must and make room for the cold.

He rolled his weight off her and tucked her close to his side. Long moments passed and she thought he slept until his rich voice murmured in her ear. “No more bad dreams now,” he ordered, pausing to release a contented sigh.

The command made her smile. As if he could simply rid her of nightmares with his simple avowal. Strangely enough, she was beginning to suspect this man could do anything.

“No?” she breathed.

“No,” he affirmed. “You have me.”

The smile slipped from her face. She had him. But she could not keep him.

Astrid swung her cloak about her shoulders and inhaled biting cold air. A soft smile curved her lips as she gathered their bedding from the ground.

The irony was not lost on her. Lady Astrid, Duchess of Derring, daughter of the late Marquess of Fremont, preferred the hard earth over a down-filled mattress and sheets of Giza cotton. And even more shocking, she preferred sleeping on the hard earth with an unrefined brute of a man. Her lips twisted with wicked pleasure. Not that they slept a great deal.

Her gaze moved along the tall ash trees surrounding their camp. A slate blue sky peeked though the treetops, making it difficult to determine the time of day. She could only guess it to be midmorning.

“Ready?” he asked, coming up beside her.

She nodded, suddenly shy. Heat burned her cheeks. Illogical, she knew.

Accepting his hand, she allowed him to lead her to her mount, the feel of his hand warm and strong.

“We should reach Edinburgh tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

She nodded, his words cooling some of the heat in her cheeks. Reaching Edinburgh meant an end to this. To them. He would deposit her and continue on to Balfurin.

He helped her mount before moving away. Her eyes followed him as he strode off, devouring the movements of his strong body as he swung himself atop his stallion. He nudged his horse with his boot heels. She followed suit, falling in beside him.

They moved only a few paces before Griffin pulled on his reins, halting their progress. A sound like distant thunder filled the air. The earth began to shake beneath them.

Griffin circled his stallion, scanning the surrounding woods.

“What is it?” Astrid asked, glanced wildly around them, dread forming a knot in the pit of her belly. Alarm hammered in her chest.

“Riders,” he answered a moment before dozens of Highlanders broke from the trees, raining upon them like an invading army.