Page 42 of This Marquess of Mine

Despite all their bickering, everything they’d been through, she trusted him with her secrets. He made her feel safe. And that unnerved her.

She could not afford to give him any more of herself than she already had. She could not allow her heart to reach for him the way it used to. The way it wanted to, even now.

“I should go,” she said, slipping her hand from his. She felt the loss acutely, the absence of his touch, the comfort she’d found there, but she knew it was unwise to linger.

She rose to her feet, clutching the ends of her shawl with one hand.

Ever the gentleman, he stood, too.

She tipped her chin up to look at him, an awkward smile curving her lips. “Thank you, Griffin,” she said. “For everything you’ve done for me tonight. I…I’ll never forget it.”

He smiled, his gray eyes glowing silver in the candlelight. “It’s ‘Griffin’ tonight, is it?”

She shrugged. “We’re friends. For tonight, at least.”

His smile widened, amusement playing across his features, but she took no offense. He did not seem to be laughing at her. Indeed, she had the distinct impression she’d pleased him.

Oh, he was a puzzle. Fascinating, perplexing. Hopelessly unsolvable.

She brushed past him and made for the door, tucking her shawl around her as cold air breezed through her nightrail. She shivered and reached for the doorknob, her fingers grazing the cool brass just as a warm hand settled on her shoulder.

She turned, a question on her tongue, but the look in Griffin’s eyes obliterated her every thought. He dipped his head and his mouth met hers, his kiss so soft, so tender, it buckled her knees.

He caught her to him, severing the kiss, his breath uneven and warm on her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was—”

“A mistake?” she chirped. “Another consolation prize, perhaps? Poor, pitiful Olivia, here’s another kiss to make her feel better.” Hurt speared her chest and sharpened her tongue. She could not take another rejection. Not tonight.

“I don’t pity you, damn it,” he growled. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. You’re remarkable. And so damned beautiful you make me forget my own—”

She rose up on tiptoe and kissed him hard, snatching the words from his silver tongue. She did not want to hear them, afraid of what they might lead to, afraid they would make her fall again, so hard and so deep she would never find her way out again.

She curled her fingers into his shirt and tugged him close, seizing control as she molded her lips to his. She swept her tongue into his mouth, heady with desire, with her own brazenness, and the low groan rumbling from Griffin’s throat.

His hands found her hips, his fingers dipping, his tongue tangling as he eased her against the door. The hard press of cold oak at her back made her shiver, even through her shawl and nightrail, the contrast stark against the heat of Griffin’s chest and thighs.

She kissed him without reserve, letting her hands wander, her eager fingers slipping beneath the open collar of his shirt to explore whatever she could reach. His skin was hot and smooth to the touch, his chest firm and strong and sprinkled with crisp hair.

She wanted his shirt gone, out of the way so she could feast her eyes and hands on him, but she wasn’t brave enough to ask for it. Not tonight. This moment was tenuous, the kiss fleeting, and she knew better than to press her luck.

Griffin eased his lips from hers, dipping his head to nuzzle her throat. “God, you smell good,” he said, his voice ragged. “You always smell so bloody good.”

His breath was warm against her skin, his tongue wet, tasting her, and her nipples pebbled, her belly clenching with need. She whimpered, shifting on her feet, trying desperately to ease the ache between her thighs, but movement only seemed to heighten it.

As if sensing her torment, Griffin eased his thigh between her legs, pressing into her core, and a moan escaped her lips, needy and frustrated. The contact was exquisite, his thigh hard as stone, the brush of her nightrail cool and deliciously rough against her wet, aching flesh.

She braced her hands on his shoulders then gave a slow, experimental roll of her hips, and it felt so good her toes curled into her slippers.

“Yes,” Griffin rasped, his hot eyes locked on her face. “Chase it, petal. Take your pleasure.”

His hands stroked up her calves, gathering her nightrail until her legs were bare, and she gasped at the first brush of his hands on her skin. His fingers flexed around her hips, his grip biting, coaxing, and a heated shiver skated along her skin.

She’d dreamed of these hands, of the warm, rough slide of his palms on her naked flesh, reverent and possessive and oh-so-desirous. Her dreams paled to the reality of his touch, and she was greedy for it now.

“You’re so bloody beautiful,” he whispered, his gaze on her face, watching her as she rode his thigh.

The words caressed, spiking her pleasure. She chased it, grinding against him, her hands gripping the hard ridge of his shoulders. She was sinfully wet, soaking her nightrail, her bud plump and throbbing, and her toes curled with every exquisite thrust.

“Give into it, petal,” he urged. “Let me make you feel good.” His voice was like sin, his hands pleasure itself as they slid like silk to the tops of her thighs.