Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

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 c**k 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.