Page 65 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

Now all that stood between his touch and her skin was the chemise.

And from the small movements she was making, and the tiny moans in between her gasps, she was more than ready.

But he was determined to go slow, to teach her.

That was what she’d asked for, hadn’t she?

So Griffin lifted his hands to her coiffure. Jesus Christ, he’d wanted this from the moment he’d first seen her. Wanted to run his fingers through her red curls. Wanted to feel them draped across his skin.

He plucked the pins from her hair one by one, and because he knew the cost of such things, placed them all safely in his trouser pocket before pulling down her braid and unwrapping it. Each movement was slow and deliberate, defiance of what he wanted to be doing.

But when he dug his fingers into her scalp, a sort of a massage which claimed her as his, she moaned and dropped her head back onto his shoulder.

Seeing those red curls cascading across her skin made Griffin mad with need. With a growl, he reached around her again, flattening one palm against her stomach and pulling her flush against him, as his other hand worked the ties of her chemise. It’d be easier to pull the damn thing over her head, but not when he had her like this—

Then they were loose, and the thing drooped down—held up only by their bodies pressing against one another—and her tits were free.

With her tipped back against him, he was able to peer down over her shoulder, able to watch his hands rise and cup her glorious mounds.

They were pale against his skin, and the scars on the backs of his hands stood out even more. But her nipples—the same delicious shade as her lips—puckered at his touch, and he groaned as he hefted each breast.

They were larger than he’d expected, the weight fitting better in his hold than he’d guessed. He hadn’t thought his cock could get any harder.

He’d been wrong.

“Griffin,” Felicity whimpered, and his knees buckled.

When he pulled away from her, her chemise pooled around her ankles. He turned her about to face him, even as he sank to one knee in front of her.

She was almost nude, and he wasted no time in untying her bloomers and allowing them to drop as well.

Then his mouth found her stomach, his lips tracing a line from her navel to the spot between her breasts, while his hands…his hands went everywhere.

Griffin felt her shudder as his calluses scraped her arse, then slid up her sides to cup her tits once more. His mouth found one nipple, and she gasped his name again.

He was worshipping her. Worshipping her with his hands and his mouth, there was no other word for it.

Felicity’s stockings were still gartered neatly above her knees, but he couldn’t seem to drag his attention away from her tits to do a damned thing about them. Instead she stood in a pile of her discarded clothing, and her hands dropped to his shoulders.

A benediction.

Each touch of hers—even through his clothing—was a brand. Heat, desire—it was almost painful. He ached to feel her fingers on his skin.

He needed her.

Aye, and he would have her.

With a mighty effort, Griffin forced himself to sit back on his heels, to tip his head back, to meet her gaze. Her eyes were hazy with desire, and he resisted the urge to grin proudly. He’d done that!

He’d do much more.

So he lifted his hands to the buttons of his shirt, and began to undo them. When she recognized his actions, her nostrils flared with excitement, and her tongue darted across her lower lip.

As if she could already taste him, the way he’d tasted her.

Soon.

“Get on the bed,” Griffin growled.

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