Page 47 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

The whisper was so faint, she wasn’t certain she was supposed to hear it. But her heart clenched nonetheless. With a little sound of sorrow, Felicity snaked her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek to his back, willing him to accept her comfort, her strength.

The sorrow he’d endured made her chest ache, and she would bargain with the very devil if she could take away some of his pain.

But she tried to keep her voice matter-of-fact. “Griffin, if Blackrose did murder your wife, then we will do everything we can to bring him to justice.”

He didn’t say anything for a long while, then his hands dropped to his sides as he heaved a sigh. “Blackrose might no’ be at Peasgoode, but if the duke is in contact with him, we cannae trust the duke, either. I cannae allow ye or the children to be in danger.”

Perhaps impulsively, she blurted out, “I trust you to keep us safe,” then sucked in a startled gasp as he turned in her arms.

Suddenly she was pressed against his front, the same way she’d been just two nights ago, in the dark of his home. The same way he’d held her downstairs in his study, when Thorne had explained their mission.

And she felt every. Single. Part of him.

His hands bracketed her cheeks, his fingertips resting under her ears, tipping her head back to stare up at his dark and angry gaze. “Flick,” he growled.

That was it. Just her name. No, not her name, the silly nickname Bull had—

And then she ceased thinking, because his lips had claimed hers, and rational thought was just impossible in the face of the new sensations coursing through her body.

Was this her first kiss? She couldn’t recall a previous one, not from old Exingham, not from anyone. If there had been another kiss, all those years ago, it would have been nothing compared to this.

With a little whimper, Felicity tightened her hold on him, desperate for him not to release her. Not to cease his sweet torture.

His lips worked over hers, his skin rough, the wiry hairs on his chin tickling her. When his tongue brushed against the seam of her lips, hers parted joyfully, eager for his lessons.

This! This was the answer to the question she hadn’t understood enough to ask!

The sensations burning through her were unfamiliar, delightful, terrifying. She pushed herself up on her toes, trying to bring herself closer to him…but the movement brushed her pelvis against the steel rod in his trousers, and the flash of pleasure nearly blinded her for a moment.

There. She needed pressure there, on the junction of her thighs…so she did it again, sliding along his body, using his hard length for her enjoyment. And when he groaned, she captured it with her lips and felt it—felt his desperation—in her own chest.

Yes yes yes please yes now harder please God yes.

Perhaps he heard her unspoken plea.

With another groan, his hands slid down her neck to her shoulders, then her arms, until he was holding her tightly against him. His tongue continued to instruct hers, and she thought she might die from pleasure.

Whimpering again, she gyrated her hips, desperate for the release of whatever this was building inside of her…

And with a gasp, Griffin pulled his lips away from hers. “Fook, Flick,” he breathed, panting, glaring down. “Where did ye learn to kiss like that?”

Still dazed, she answered with the first thing that came to her mind. “From you.”

From the rueful curve of his lips, he didn’t believe her.

Her hands dug into his sides, instinctively trying to prevent him from setting her away from him, but he managed anyhow. His motions were all business now, none of the desperate, angry man who’d kissed her mere heartbeats ago.

“Griffin?” she hazarded, uncertain how one was supposed to handle this situation.

“I’ll finish packing.” He turned away, but not before she saw the bulge in his trousers. The bulge she’d been rubbing against.

The bulge she wanted to feel again. Wanted to taste.

Wanted to taste? Good heavens, that was…that was rather disgusting, wasn’t it?

Page twenty-seven in A Harlot’s Guide. The Supplicant Swan. The participants appeared to be enjoying it, so it is no wonder the thought of tasting him makes your thighs clench and your core drip.

A dripping core? Felicity closed her eyes in mortification at her subconscious’s observation. That was new.

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