His long silence pierced her confidence. Until she heard him groan tellingly. He stroked her ample hips and waist, sending delicate tendrils of delight stealing around her heart. Reaching from behind her, he filled his hands with her breasts. He nuzzled her hair, then her ear. “Oh, Rosalind,” he said hoarsely. “You shouldn’t wear corsets, darling. You shouldn’t hide all this goddamned beauty in such a nasty contraption.”
She swung around to face him, hardly believing what he said, but she couldn’t mistake the blaze of need in his eyes or the worshipful way he stroked her body. Then he was kissing it…her shoulders, the upper swells of her breasts, the nipples.
He knelt on one knee and pressed a kiss beneath her breast at the top of a long indentation one of her stays had scored on her skin. It was the first of several following the line down her belly. “To mar this…” He kissed her again. “Too sweet flesh…” Another hot, delicious kiss. “Is a grievous…” A series of sizzling kisses. “Sin…”
By the time he’d reached the bottom and pressed a kiss into her thatch of hair, she could hardly contain the tears choking her throat. She’d never thought a man might actually
like
her body this way. To have it be the man she loved so desperately…
With a moan half of pleasure, half of love, she clutched his head to her.
I love you. No matter what you feel for me, I love you
.
For a moment they were locked that way, her stroking his thick raven hair, him nuzzling her thigh. Then he gazed up at her, his face marked with a griffin’s predatory desire. “I want you, darling.” He drew her down on the blanket. “I want you now.”
Before she could even think, she was on her back with him kneeling between her spread thighs and fumbling with the buttons of his drawers.
“Wait!” she cried.
He froze, his eyes glowing with fervent need. “No, Rosalind, don’t stop me…I can’t bear it—”
“I won’t stop you.” Despite the blush rising in her cheeks, she sat up and reached for his buttons. “I just want to…Last time you wouldn’t let me…take it out and touch it. Let me do it this time.”
He sucked in a sharp breath as her fingers brushed his drawers. “Curious, are you?” he rasped.
“How could I not be?” Unable to meet his gaze, she shifted to kneeling before him, then began unbuttoning. “You teased me about the blasted thing often enough.”
But now she understood why he’d spoken of it like a creature apart from himself. The second the buttons were undone, it sprang free of the stockingette, a wild beast escaping a cage.
Griff wrangled the drawers off, then knelt once more in front of her. “There,” he whispered hoarsely. “Now you know what’s been filling my pockets.”
She stared at the instrument between them in undisguised fascination. How strange to see it so proud and impudent, springing up between his legs like a cocky lad.
Cocky. Dear God. Another blush heated her cheeks at the memory of that day in his bedchamber and what he’d called it. “So that’s where it came from.”
“What?”
“The word
cocky
. I never realized…”
He chuckled, then caught her hand and closed it around the thick, rigid flesh. “Yes, my inquisitive virgin. That’s where
cocky
comes from. Men have nearly a hundred terms for their privates. Even your precious Shakespeare uses several.”
“Does he?” She smoothed her fingers over Griff’s privates, delighting in how it pulsed in her hand.
His eyes slid shut and a dark flush rose in his face. “You’ll find…the plays have a whole new…meaning once you know of such things.”
She stroked his intriguing shaft until he groaned. “Oh? For example?”
He frowned, obviously having difficulty thinking. “Remember Petruchio and Katherina? He talks about having…his tongue in her tail? And being a…‘combless cock’ if she…will be his ‘hen’?”
She released him abruptly. “What! That’s what that means? I never dreamed—”
With a growl, he grabbed her hand and guided it back to him. When she wrapped her fingers tightly about him, he shuddered. “Shakespeare isn’t…the
least…respectable, my sweet. You chose your…favorite author well.”
She sniffed. “Are you saying I’m not respectable, sir?”
He glanced down at her fingers and raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t dare. Not when you’ve…got my cock in your hand.”
Regarding the warm length of him thoughtfully, she tugged at it.
“By God, Rosalind, you’ll kill me yet,” he protested as he thrust into her fist.
“I don’t like that word, ‘cock.’ I like ‘St. Peter’ better.”
His eyes flamed at her. “Damnation, where did you hear that term?”
“From Mr. Knighton,” she said unthinkingly.
“What?” He shoved her hand away and forced her back onto the blanket, hovering over her as he pinned her hands on either side of her head. “Why in God’s name did he speak of a St. Peter to
you
?”
This was a strange position indeed, strange and titillating. Her every sense tingled with the awareness of him kneeling between her legs, the tip of his “St. Peter” bobbing against her triangle of hair. His body was poised above her so close she could see the vivid blue irises of his eyes, glowing down at her with a mix of jealousy and desire.
She swallowed. “He and I were talking about you—the parts of you. And how your…um…St. Peter part wants me.”
He relaxed only a fraction. “That’s not the only part of me wanting you, but I’ll admit it’s the most demanding one right now. Is that what all that nonsense about the three parts was?”
Licking her suddenly dry lips, she nodded.
He frowned, as if trying to remember what they’d said. A smile suddenly lit his face. “Which of your
parts did you say you should ‘keep firmly in check around me’?”
“Do you have to ask?” she retorted tartly.
His gaze seared heat down her body. “No, I don’t suppose I do. Though it seems you’ve failed in that respect.”
“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” She was surprisingly cheerful about it. She’d known it would be hopeless if he ever got her alone again. She hadn’t a whit of self-control around Griff.
Besides, now that she knew she loved him, it seemed pointless not to share this with him. Especially since he was going to tell her his secrets and marry her anyway.
Shifting his weight so he could brace himself off her with one elbow, he reached down and fondled her in a very naughty manner, plunging his finger so deliciously deep that it wrung a gasp from her. “When Knighton left, what did he whisper in your ear?”
“It’s a secret,” she taunted him. Griff hadn’t told her all of his yet, so she ought to be able to keep a few of her own until he did.
“Is it?” He thumbed her little nub enough to tantalize her, no more. Half-consciously, she tilted her hips up against his hand, then groaned when his fingers danced away. “Tell me, Rosalind,” he whispered devilishly, stroking oh-too-lightly over her damp skin. “Or I’ll tease you until you do.”
“You’re an awful man,” she said, pouting.
“So I’ve been told many times.” He dipped his finger inside her again, leaving her aching for more, so much more. “Rosalind?”
“Oh, all right! He said I should make
you
keep your St. Peter firmly in check until you told me the truth.”
For a moment, he froze, a black look crossing his face. Then it was gone, replaced by sheer raw
desire. “Too late for that,” he whispered raggedly. “Because I’m about to put my St. Peter inside you, my sweet. And you’re going to let me, aren’t you?”
She barely had a chance to register the words or nod in response before he was kissing her again, rich, ardent kisses meant to distract her from what he was doing between her legs. As if that would work, she thought. She could hardly ignore the rigid staff sliding up inside her, filling her with exquisite pressure.
After all his teasing, it was almost too much. She felt anchored to him, joined to him so intimately they were one entity. She liked the feeling…until he kept moving farther in. She began to wonder how he could put so much of his St. Peter inside her.
She tore her lips from his. “Griff, surely you…it won’t fit.”
Obviously he’d reached the same conclusion, for he looked strained and by no means comfortable. Then he shocked her by saying, “Yes, it will, my sweet. Give it a chance.” With a growl, he pressed farther into her. “God, you’re so tight and…and warm. It feels so good to be…inside you at last.”
“It doesn’t feel quite so good to me,” she muttered, for he was stretching her beyond endurance.
“I know, darling, I know.” He thrust a little, then groaned as if he’d reached his limit. “And now I’m going to hurt you, I’m afraid.”
“H-Hurt me?” she squeaked. “How badly?”
His jaw tightened. “Not too badly, I hope. I must pierce your maidenhead.”
That sounded ominous.
“But it’ll be better once it’s done, I promise,” he added. Bending his head, he sucked at her breast, making pleasure shoot through her veins. When her eyes slid shut and she tossed her head back, he murmured, “Forgive me,” and thrust hard.
Something tore inside her, and she moaned at the sharp spasm of pain. But it was over quickly without hurting nearly as much as the words “pierce your maidenhead” had led her to expect. Still, it planted him so deeply, she couldn’t even move without being utterly aware of his flesh filling her up.
She opened her eyes to gaze up into his taut features. “Can’t we go back…to kissing? This is not…quite as pleasant.” She wriggled her hips a bit, and he cursed.
“It will be even less pleasant if you keep that up,” he warned. When she cast him a hurt look, he softened his tone. “You need to adjust to having me inside you. And I need to adjust to being inside you. Otherwise, I’ll never do this right.” He caressed one breast with his mouth, then kissed a path to the other. “Relax, darling. Try to relax.”
Was he mad? How could she “relax” with him plunged so deeply inside her?
Then he started pressing tender kisses to her chin and her cheeks, teasing her lips with his tongue, nibbling on them with his teeth. With a melting sigh, she opened her mouth and let him slide his tongue inside.
As he fed on her mouth with growing ardor, he released one of her hands to fondle her where they were joined. A delicious thrill darted along her limbs. The more he fondled and kissed her, the more she felt herself opening up, softening…relaxing.
Then he moved inside her again, withdrawing his St. Peter a little, pressing it back, mimicking the velvet caresses of his tongue in her mouth. Her breath dried up in her throat. Dear God…this felt…carnal. Oh, yes, assuredly carnal.
She wiggled her hips. How interesting. She could make it even better just by undulating a little beneath him.
“Damnation, Rosalind,” he tore his mouth from her to growl. “Yes…yes like that…yes…oh, sweet Christ, you’re…priceless…”
So was he. With the sun setting behind his head, she could hardly bear to stare into his beautiful face with its stark, devouring look, a golden griffin swooping down to plunder her.
Her
griffin. There was something so…intense about being plundered. He was inescapable, thundering into her. His musky scent mingled with the smell of grass and spilled wine, his feverish breaths kissed her face, and his sweat-slick body surrounded her and was inside her, too, igniting wildfire in her loins, making her ache for the unknown, for him, for the two of them together.
His hands had freed hers and were firmly planted on either side of her as he thrust into her, building the excitement, driving her mad again. She gripped his shoulders and arched her body into him, mad with the need he provoked so rampantly inside her.
At last she understood—why lovers trysted. Why women risked all for their men. Why people spoke of the two becoming one. It was for this enthralling dance, this fiery union.
The union meant to be between a man and woman who loved each other. Tears leaked from her eyes. She couldn’t stop them.
Then she felt his lips brushing her tears away. “Don’t weep, my sweet,” he said in a voice of aching tenderness. “I don’t want…to hurt you. I…can withdraw—”
“No!” She dragged his head down to hers. “No. Just kiss me, Griff.” Though his body thundered inside her, he kissed her with a gentleness that melted her heart.
I love you
, she thought as he drove into her.
I love you, Griff
.
“You’re mine now, Rosalind,” he growled with
the fierceness of a griffin hoarding his treasure. He pounded into her as if to impress his claim upon her. “Mine forever.”
With those words, the flood inundated her, waves of hot pleasure that made her cry out and writhe beneath him, digging her fingernails into his shoulders, straining up against his lean body. She was still drowning in the ecstasy when he plunged to the very heart of her and found his own release, crying out her name.
Then he collapsed on top of her. She hugged him fiercely to her as tears poured down her cheeks.
Mine
, she thought, as greedy as he to lay claim to her dark lover. He wanted her for his own. He hadn’t spoken of love, but he wanted her for his own, and surely that meant something?
They lay there in perfect stillness as their breathing slowed, and their blood resumed a more natural rhythm. The sky above them was a miracle of shot silk in plum and rose and gold, the sun’s own final ecstasy before it found its bed in the horizon. All lay still in the woods around them, as if even the birds hushed themselves before both miracles…the one in the sky and the one on the ground.
With a sigh, Griff nuzzled her neck, then pushed himself off her to fall limp on the blanket at her side. Then he tugged her into his embrace, so she lay half-sprawled across him, her head resting against his chest. Feeling shy with him now and terribly exposed lying naked in the woods, she couldn’t bring herself to look into his face.
Yet she so wanted to know if he’d had the same heart-wrenching reaction to their lovemaking. She drew circles on his belly with her finger. “Griff?”
“Mmm?”
Oh, how did one ask such a thing? “Nothing.”
He tipped her chin up so he could see her face,
then frowned. Brushing his thumb along the corners of each eye, he wiped away the remnants of her tears. “Why did you cry, darling? Did I hurt you?”