Any Duchess Will Do

Page 24

“Griff.” Her hand went to his wrist. “I wasn’t asking for this.”
“I know.” He leaned in, tilting his head for the kiss. The anticipation of her taste set his pulse racing.
“But—”
“Simms. You asked the question. Don’t interrupt when I’m making a point.”
He hovered an inch above her lips . . . then reconsidered. A kiss wasn’t what she needed. A kiss gave her too much room to hide. She needed to see him, see herself and how beautiful, how sensual, she was.
He ran his hands over the curves of her body, tracing them through her dressing gown. Her little gasp of pleasure thrilled him.
“I think I had a dream that went like this,” she whispered. “Just last night.”
“Don’t tell me that.” The vision of her dreaming fitfully beneath white sheets . . .
“What should I tell you, then? That you’re the most attractive man I’ve ever known, and the mere scent of your cologne sets fire to my petticoats?”
“You should tell me to go to the devil.” His hands went to the ties of her dressing gown. He paused, one finger looped in the corded sash. “But would you tell me so, if that’s what you felt?”
She gave him a smile. “Don’t you know me at all?”
He yanked on the knotted sash, drawing her to him. “I just know I’m desperate to touch you, everywhere.”
Just this, he told himself. Just touching.
He would allow himself this much, and no more.
He worked the knot of the sash free and divided the edges of her robe, exposing the crisp white shift beneath it. This one was new—not nearly so frail and translucent as the one she’d worn the first night. But he found it arousing as hell anyway.
He slid his hands up and down her body, cupping her breasts through the chemise, then stroking downward to her hips and thighs. The linen softened and heated under the friction, molding to her form. He found her nipples and claimed them with his thumbs, teasing and rolling them to tight peaks. He slipped a button free, then another. Just enough so he could push the fabric aside, bend his knees, and finally—finally—suckle her the way he’d yearned to in that darkened garden.
As he kissed his way back up her neck, he sent one hand downward, arrowing straight for her sex.
He worked his fingers between her thighs, massaging the linen until he could cradle her sex in his palm. Even through the fabric, she was warm for him. Wet for him.
Dear God, he could have her so easily. Undo a few trouser buttons, push up her shift, and glide straight home. He could be in her in seconds.
“Nothing but your pleasure,” he vowed to them both, stroking her with the heel of his hand and pressing his fingertips through the linen, dampening the fabric with her body’s moisture. “You have my word. I don’t mean to take from you. Only give.”
He supposed he should have carried her to the divan or laid her down on the carpet, but he was selfish. He wanted all of her, all for himself. All of her weight in his arms, all of her heat against his body. He did not want to share her with a sofa or a carpet, or even something so slight as a chair.
Wrapping his arm tight about her middle, he bound her to him. With his other hand, he coaxed and explored her sex. Desperate for her secrets.
There were few things that gave him more satisfaction in life than bringing a woman pleasure. In so many ways, it was like solving a puzzle. Each woman had the same anatomy. But the crucial bits came in all shapes and sizes, fit together in different ways, and each responded to a unique set of strokes and caresses. The same techniques might not work from one woman to the next. The process of discovery was humbling and intoxicating.
But when he triumphed—when he found just the right touch to apply in just the right place for just as long as she needed it—ah, the sweet thrill of success. Victory was a heady drug. He loved feeling a woman come undone in his arms. Loved feeling the taut ring of her sex soften and melt for him, then grasp him tighter than a fist. He loved learning each little expression and sound that heralded her orgasm. Some women sighed, some wept, some laughed, some whimpered, some begged, some screamed. Some were wickedly grateful in the aftermath, and others grew endearingly bashful.
He didn’t know what Pauline would be like when she reached her peak. But he knew he must find out. Deep inside, he expected transcendence. Something utterly different than anything he’d experienced before.
He gathered a handful of her shift and drew the fabric upward.
“You can say no,” he murmured.
“I don’t want to.”
Thank heaven. He slid his hand beneath the linen, skimming a slow, patient touch up her thigh. When he reached her cleft, his patience left him. He had to be inside her, somehow. He parted her folds and plunged a single finger into her tight, wet heat.
She gasped. Her hands clutched at him. The delicious bite of her fingernails made him wild.
“Are you frightened?” he asked, holding still. “Do you want me to stop?”
“Yes, I’m a bit frightened.” She looked up at him and swallowed hard. “And no, I don’t want you to stop.”
He kissed her again, thrusting his tongue in rhythm with his touch. Slowly in, then out. When he felt she was ready, he added a second finger. Her intimate muscles stretched and contracted around the combined girth, gripping him tight. His cock throbbed vainly in his trousers, trapped in a painful state of arousal.
She nestled close to him, and her belly pressed against the aching ridge of his erection. It wasn’t nearly all that he desired, but the friction provided some relief.
She broke the kiss and rested her head on his shoulder, slack-jawed and breathing hard. Her hips writhed as she worked herself against his hand, grinding against him in the way that pleased her most.
He began to whisper against her ear. He knew she’d passed the point of coherence, so he said any foolish thing that came to mind. How lovely she was in the moonlight, and how proud he was of her courage. How she’d enchanted him that very first night, and he still hadn’t found his way back through the magic cabinet. How he adored her neck and her sharp green eyes. How sweetness clung to her, and how he fantasized spending blissful hours slowly lapping it up with his tongue.
“Here,” he whispered, skimming his thumb up and down her crease. “I’d taste you here. You’d be so sweet. And then . . .”
He pushed his fingers deep, driving them to the hilt. With his thumb, he worried the swollen nub at the crest of her sex.
“Griff,” she pleaded.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s right.”
She gave a few charming little hitches of breath. Like an ascending scale on the pianoforte. And then she came with one perfect sighing, shuddering moan.
A lovely sound, that moan. Her intimate muscles contracted deliciously around his fingers. But all in all, her orgasm was not quite the epic, transcendent experience he’d expected.
What stunned him breathless was his own reaction.
That was entirely new.
The surge of emotion he felt—it wasn’t just the usual triumph of bringing a woman pleasure. An unbearable font of tenderness welled in his chest. Mingled with protectiveness, fondness. The impulse to not just pleasure her, but cherish her, guard her. He pressed kiss after kiss to the crown of her head, as if he could expel this painful excess of emotion.
“It wasn’t you,” he whispered, nuzzling the delicious lobe of her ear. “Whoever he was, he was a fool. Or a boor. Or just too damned young to know what the hell he was doing. But it wasn’t you. Understand?”
She clung to his shirtfront for long moments, breathing hard. Finally, she looked up at him. “Will you take me upstairs?”
He’d never wanted anything so much. To simply take her upstairs, let his world explode, and then contend with the rubble later.
“I wouldn’t expect anything,” she rushed on. “I’m not asking for promises. I just want to know what it’s like when it’s good. And I might go my whole life without another chance. I’m not a lady with a reputation to guard. There’s no one to care.”
Damn it, he cared.
He cared, and he could no longer deny it. He’d brought her into his house, taken her under his protection. Lady or not, he wanted to treat her well.
Her hands slid up his chest, then trailed down his arms. She pressed a light kiss to his neck. “Griff, please.”
His cock throbbed in eager agreement.
Her, his stupid heart whispered. I’ll take her.
But beneath all this, his veins ran cold with a deep, dark current of fear. It was too great a risk for them both. He couldn’t take her like this when she’d never be his for the keeping. That way lay danger and months of despair.
“I can’t.” He stroked her hair. “It isn’t you. I want you more than you could possibly know, in ways you couldn’t even fathom. But I just can’t.”
He released her with abruptness—because that was the only way he could do it at all.
Chapter Fourteen
Pauline came late to breakfast. She considered skipping the meal entirely—pleading headache or fatigue—but she didn’t want to invite any questions.
She wasn’t sure how she’d even look at the duchess this morning. The woman had the perception of a hawk. She would have to mind her every move, word, and glance to avoid giving anything away.
As she neared the breakfast room, she stopped in the corridor and took a moment to compose herself.
She could hear voices from within—both the duchess’s and Griff’s.
Drat.
He wasn’t supposed to be awake this early. How was she going to manage this?
The same way he managed it, she supposed. After their encounter in the dining room the previous morning, she knew Griff would have no difficulty. He would barely acknowledge her presence, no doubt.
In fact, that was probably why he’d come to breakfast at all—because he worried that she would blurt out over toast that she’d shamelessly thrown herself at him mere hours ago. He wanted to quell any speculation.
Just pretend nothing happened, she told herself. You were not alone with him in the library. He did not gather you in the most tender, needing of embraces. He most especially did not lift your skirts and give you delicious pleasure while whispering the most tender, arousing words to ever caress your ear.
The memory was so acute, she bit her knuckle to keep her reactions in check.
When she had her resolve firmly in place, Pauline turned the corner and entered the breakfast room. She kept her eyes downcast.
“Beg pardon for my tardiness, your graces. I slept rather—”
The scrape of chair legs interrupted her. The sound froze the blood in her veins.
Oh no. Surely he hadn’t.
She looked up in horror.
He had.
The eighth Duke of Halford had come to his feet when she entered the room. Without thinking, apparently, because he couldn’t possibly have meant to do such a thing. Gentlemen rose to their feet when ladies came in. They did not rise for servants.
No man had ever stood for Pauline. Not once in her life. It was the best, most thrilling sensation. But when it came to the cause of discretion, this was complete disaster.
And then he made it worse—he inclined his handsome, dark head in a sort of bow. “Miss Simms.”
Up went the duchess’s eyebrow. “Well.”
That one syllable spoke volumes. Her grace knew everything. At least, she knew something had happened. Pauline could only pray the details remained a rough sketch in her imagination.
“Be seated, Miss Simms,” Griff said.
She shook her head. “You first, your grace.”
“Both of you, remain as you are,” the duchess said. She rose from her own chair. “I was just about to leave for the morning room, and now I’ve saved you the trouble of rising twice.”