Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(65)

He silenced her with his mouth.

She moaned. In defeat. In pleasure. She wound her arms around his neck, lost at the feel of his fingers, deft and swift on the buttons at the back of her dress. She moaned…even as she loathed herself for being weak, for seizing what she had no right to take.

In moments, her gown pooled at her ankles. He plucked her off her feet and wrapped her legs around his waist. She broke her lips from his to drag kisses down his throat and neck.

An invisible band squeezed around her chest. She felt elated, exhilarated to just touch him, to love him uninhibitedly—if only in the physical sense. If only one more time.

His hands flexed on her bottom, strong fingers digging into her yielding flesh as he carried her toward the bed.

“Griffin,” she gasped against his neck.

Desperate with need, she clawed at his jacket, shoving it down past his shoulders, eager to feel his supple flesh in her hands.

He lowered her down onto the bed, coming over her in a heavy wall of muscle, settling between her thighs with a familiarity that both thrilled and alarmed her.

Putting aside the latter emotion, she ran her hands over the solid breadth of his chest with feverish hunger, letting herself surrender to the madness of wanting him, temporary as it was…as it could only ever be.

“Astrid,” he whispered, sliding a hand against her face, his callused palm rasping her cheek, his eyes glowing blue fire. With a slight shake of his head, his mouth worked, preparing to say something. Something serious from the intent, soulful way he stared at her. Something her heart told her she couldn’t allow him to say.

Moistening his lips, he said her name again, “Astrid—”

She brought her fingers to his mouth, pressing them against the silken texture of his lips, stifling his words. Words that could change everything between them. She did not know for certain, knew only the stark way he stared at her now, full of emotion—a passion that threatened to consume her in a slow burn.

Whatever he would say, she would not risk hearing it, would not risk feeding hope to her heart.

She held that gaze, enduring the hot crawl of his eyes over her. Dropping her hand from his mouth, she quickly kissed him, giving him no time to speak, tasting, drinking the essence of him—strength, virility. A man she loved. Who had called to her heart from the first moment she saw him, strong and proud in the swirling mists, ready to defend her—a perfect stranger.

Choking back a sob, she deepened their kiss, pouring all the emotion she suppressed, all the love she dared not confess.

He growled against her lips.

Desire rushed her as his hands dove for the hem of her petticoats, anxiously yanking the well-worn cambric to her hips. His fingers found the slit in her drawers, touching her briefly, playing in her wetness.

She nearly wept when his hand left her. Whimpering, she arched off the bed, reaching for him, groping to bring him back to her…only to fall back at the sudden, probing heat of him entering her, filling her, stretching her with the incredible length of him.

“Yes,” she sighed as he held himself lodged deeply inside her, agonizingly still, his member pulsing with life as his hands tangled in her skirts gathered at her hips.

She devoured the sight of him over her, taut as a bow string, muscles bunching beneath the fabric of his shirt.

“Astrid,” he cried, fingers digging into her hips, anchoring her to him.

With his head tossed back, throat muscles working, she drank him in, just as her body did, sealing the image of him in her mind, knowing she would never see anything that moved her as he did again.

Griffin watched Astrid sleep in the early hours of dawn, tempted to shake her awake…to make love to her all over again.

His fingers hovered over the dark lines of her brows, tempted to trace them. His hand stilled, deciding to let her sleep. For now. His argument for keeping her with him had fled with the arrival of Thomas Osborn. He could no longer claim fear for her safety. Osborn had owned up to killing her husband, however inadvertently. Astrid was in no danger on that account. She could travel without fear of being apprehended.

Leaning back on the pillow, he sighed, still watching her beside him. If he didn’t want her to leave, then he was going to have to tell her the truth. That he wanted her to stay. For himself.

Stomach rumbling, he stood and collected his clothes from the floor. Quietly, he slipped from the room, thinking to return with breakfast. The idea of breakfast in bed with Astrid held decided appeal. He didn’t particularly relish seeing his newfound family just yet. At least not while they still harbored delusions of him marrying Petra.

He took quick strides down the shadowed corridor, pausing when he heard a soft sound coming from one of the alcoves set in the stone walls of the corridor.

Glancing to the right, he noticed the shadowy figure of a woman huddled on a bench. Early-morning light washed through the stained mullioned panel of glass in the wall, limning her features in a myriad of colors.

“Petra?”

Her head snapped up. Swiping at her eyes, she rose hastily to her feet, sniffling suspiciously. Her eyes cast about, looking over his shoulders, searching before settling back on him. He did not miss the relieved expression that flickered over her face.

“Mr. Shaw,” she greeted.

“Expecting someone else?” he inquired.

“No,” she replied in a breathy rush. “Why would you think so?”

Without answering, he waved to the cushioned bench. “Are you well?”