Page 102 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

Felicity had opened the door. “Oh, there you are! Yes, here he is, the little charmer.” A pause, then a chuckle. “No, Griffin was none too pleased, as we had guessed, but he is Grumpy’s favorite, as we also guessed.” Another cheerful twitter, which sounded forced. “No need to send a maid, I am certain my husband can help me change out of these wet things. Yes, thank you. I will be down to visit the beastie later.”

When she shut the door, sans cat, she seemed…lesser, somehow. Was the strain of all these lies getting to her?

Griffin’s hand delved into the pocket of his trousers, and closed around the sack he’d been practicing with. The thought of causing her sadness was…unacceptable. “Come here,” he commanded, unable to keep the gruffness from his tone.

When she stopped in front of him, her expression curious, his eyes were drawn yet again to the sheerness of her blouse. He liked that—despite being a lady—she’d never been one to put on airs or flounce about in fancy gowns. Perhaps it was because she was a decade older than the debutantes making their curtseys, and had time to realize she was more comfortable in simple blouses and skirts.

Or perhaps she’d always been the practical sort. His fingers rose to her buttons.

“What are you doing?” she breathed.

He ignored her, concentrating on his work. But his gaze was drawn to the hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse beat rapidly. Was that fear? Or excitement?

“Griffin?” Her hand rose to cover his. “What are you doing?”

“I’m undressing my wife,” he growled. “Ye’ll catch yer death in this wet shirt.”

“I…It is the middle of summer.”

“Aye, and the Highlands are cold.” He reached the bottom of the buttons and pushed opened the two sides of the blouse. Beneath it, her corset beckoned, her chemise underneath. “Shouldnae have allowed a wet pussy to make ye so uncomfortable.”

She whimpered.

Griffin smiled, his fingers already working on her corset hooks.

As the corset fell away, he allowed the backs of his knuckles to brush along the valley between her breasts. They were covered by the chemise, aye, but the linen was already thin, and now it was wet.

Under his gaze, her nipples slowly hardened, and his grin grew.

“Griffin?” Felicity’s whisper sounded hoarse.

Christ, he wanted her. His cock throbbed against the front of his trousers, urging him to bend his head, to take her tit in his mouth. To lick, to worship.

To show her he could make her happy, now and tomorrow and next year and forever.

Forever? Fook me.

He forced his gaze—and his touch—upward. “Ye’re going to miss Grumpy when we leave.” It wasn’t really a question, just all he could think of to say. His fingers were on her jaw, then her cheek, then her brow, brushing a curl back. He couldn’t seem to stop touching her. “I’m sorry.”

“I…” Her hands rose to his chest, her fingers curling around the lapels of his waistcoat. “I will. I do.”

Was she still talking about the cat?

Griffin stared into her eyes, which flittered across his countenance as if looking for purchase. Was it his imagination, or was there desperation there?

His scarred knuckles dragged along her jawline. “Flick,” he whispered.

That was it. That was enough.

With another muffled whimper, she threw herself forward as she pulled him down, capturing his lips with hers. This kiss was hot and desperate, the damp linen pinned between them, and Griffin felt his lips curl under hers.

Then she was forcing him backward, and he was happy to go. When the back of his legs bumped against the edge of a chair, he sat down—hard—and pulled her after him. She ended up in his lap.

Only then did she break the kiss and pull back, panting, as she stared in confusion.

He had one hand pressed against the small of her back, and the other rose to her throat. He dragged two callused fingertips to her collarbone and loved the way she shuddered. Nay, he loved the way his body reacted to that shudder; his cock was straining against his trousers, begging for release.

Christ, this woman.

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