Page 91 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

“Aye, that’s what I thought.”

There was no way she could deny it, not now.

Not ever.

She’d become addicted to Griffin Calderbank.

As he stalked toward the bed, she slowly inhaled, then straightened her legs. The coolness of the silk sheets caused her skin to pucker; or perhaps it was the predatory way he watched her. The mattress dipped as he kneeled onto it, and she had to struggle to keep from rolling toward him.

“Why are ye here, Felicity?”

His tone brooked no argument. It was a command to answer.

And yet she didn’t know how.

The destruction of her own bed was a convenient excuse, but not the real reason.

Felicity chewed on her lower lip as he loomed closer, gloriously naked. She wanted to touch him.

“Tell me,” Griffin growled. “Ye’re here because ye want more of me, aye? Ye want what I can give ye?”

Her attention was focused on his member, jutting hard and proud. Cock. She had to remember that’s what he’d called it. “I want to touch you,” she whispered.

He didn’t reply, but sat back on his heels.

Was that permission?

She decided to take it as such.

Felicity scrambled to her knees, then leaned forward to take his cock in both her hands.

It was…surprisingly heavy. And thick. And so very smooth, for something so stiff.

With Exingham, she’d been more frightened than curious, so—

No, do not think of him. This is for Griffin, for you and Griffin.

She couldn’t seem to look away from her own hands. His penis rested in her palm, while the fingertips of her other hand stroked the top with feather-light touches. Her gaze darted up to meet his. He wasn’t watching what she was doing, but rather staring impassively at the top of her head.

She decided to take that as permission as well.

Chewing on her lip once more, she turned her attention to the gift which had been given her. The gift of exploration, the gift of learning.

Her fingers couldn’t encircle his girth, but she tried, dragging her palm and the circle of her fingers up his length. When she reached the head, she found liquid beading the tip, and she sucked in a pleased breath at the evidence of his desire. Remembering page sixty-seven of A Harlot’s Guide, she dragged some of that liquid across the head of his cock, and when she stroked him again, he shuddered.

With one hand busy, she leaned forward slightly, just enough to reach down and use her other hand to cup his testicles. They were heavier, fuller than she expected.

Her entire experience with studying male anatomy in person had come from examining her infant son during the changing of his nappies. She’d been curious how men were built, having been denied the chance for questions during the actual creation of said infant.

She’d always suspect that study—and the subsequent visits to art museums and investigation of naughty books—had left something to be desired.

She’d been right.

Desired.

Her gaze flicked back up to his as she stroked him, hefting the weight of his ballocks, then tugging them down. His eyes closed on a choked groan, and she hoped she was doing something right.

Another bead of moisture gathered, and she suddenly wanted to know what it tasted like. Another hesitant check—his eyes were still closed. Perhaps if she bent forward just a little bit more, she could open her mouth like this, and her tongue could dart across his member like this, and…

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