“It’s all right, lass,” Griff said, his very dryness soothing. “I can hear ‘no’ even without the knife.”
Emma flushed. “It’s just—” I’m afraid. Of him, of herself. “I won’t be used again.”
He remained by the door, watching her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Then use me. Let me give you comfort.”
His deep voice resonated in the pit of her stomach. But she had felt these lovely little rushes and flutters before, in the early days of Paul’s courtship, and her feelings had betrayed her. The reality had been messy and violent, over quickly and best forgotten. Anything less comforting would be hard to imagine.
“Comfort?” The question should have been scornful. Instead, she sounded uncertain. Even, God help her, intrigued.
Griff nodded. “Comfort, aye. And pleasure.”
She thought of what had been done to her on the cloakroom floor and shuddered. “How could there be pleasure in that?”
His dark eyes lit with…laughter? “Let me show you.”
Emma licked her lips nervously. She had risked and lost everything—her position, her family, her hope of marriage, her self-respect—without feeling even a fleeting pleasure in return, without once experiencing the intimacy she longed for. She had nothing left to lose. Did she dare take one more chance at finding…What? Comfort and pleasure in the arms of a stranger?
“It’s a risk,” she said.
A terrible risk for any woman, but particularly an unmarried one. That fear, piled on top of all her other fears, had haunted her in the boardinghouse. What if Paul got her with child? For days afterwards, she had watched for her courses and prayed. Her prayers had been answered a week ago. But what if—
“I will not do anything you don’t want me to,” Griff said. “Let me take care of you.”
Oh. Longing stabbed her.
He was a careful man, thoughtful, thorough. He had already fed and clothed her, protected her, and held her while she cried. And now…Could he really care for her that way, too? Could he care for her at all?
He watched her, patient. Waiting.
Emma trembled. She desired him. Or rather, she desired what he could give her: a memory to blot out that other memory, the closeness she yearned for and had not found with Paul. Had never felt with another human being.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Why?”
“Because I know you.” His rough voice ran over her nerves like sandpaper, smoothing, soothing. “Because in one day I have seen the spirit and the spine and the heart of you. You showed courage on the ship and kindness to young Iestyn. Let me show you some tenderness in return.”
The brilliance in his eyes pierced her heart. Her chest ached. She had refused the security Paul had offered with its strings and conditions. She might have resisted comfort. But tenderness…
She trembled. When had anyone touched her in tenderness?
Griff stalked across the room toward her, all male strength and animal grace, and panic rose like a bubble in her throat.
“I have seen the spirit and the spine of you…”
She swallowed hard and held her ground. She was already ruined. Was it so wrong to wish for something else, to grasp at something more, before she went back to exile and indentured servitude? Griff at least would be gentle. She was sure of it.
He stopped in front of her, close enough for her to feel his heat.
She faced him, thrumming with anxiety and desire, her nerves stretched and humming like cello strings.
If he did not touch her soon, she would scream.
She bit her lip, an inappropriate bubble of laughter rising in her throat. Of course, if he did touch her, she might scream. That would stop him.
She did not want him to stop.
He raised his hand, his eyes dark and intent. This close she could see they were not black, not all black. A ring of deep, warm brown circled the wide pupils.
Emma braced, her heart hammering in hope and dread.
His thumb, warm and callused, rested on her mouth and rubbed lazily back and forth, freeing her lower lip from the grip of her teeth. She tasted him, his salt, his skin, there at the entrance of her mouth, and her stockinged feet curled against the cold stone floor. He cupped her jaw. She inhaled sharply in anticipation of his kiss.
And then his hand slid further, under her hair, against her neck, and his fingers dug into the tight muscles of her nape.
She almost moaned in relief.
He massaged tiny circles along the cords of her neck, the line of her shoulders, his thumbs pressing, his fingers stroking, his touch firm. Seductive. Under her bodice, her nipples beaded. But he did not touch her breasts, only tugged her, turned her, so that her back was to him. Heat flowed into her, his heat, moving through his fingers, loosening her stiff muscles. It blanketed her brain, smothering thought. There was nothing overtly sexual about his touch, and yet inside she was melting, desire pooling in her belly as she yielded to his hands. Her head dropped forward in surrender. She could feel him behind her, his breath warm on her cheek, the solid slab of his chest and abdomen, the blunt ridge of his erection against her buttocks. Lovely little thrills ran like fire under her skin. Her knees sagged.
He gripped her hands and raised them, flattening her palms against the tall wooden bedpost, holding them there until she clung. Combing his fingers through her hair, he gathered it up, letting the strands fall over her shoulder. His hands skimmed down her arms.
He moved on her, his chest supporting her back, his knee between her thighs. And all the time his strong hands worked their magic, rubbing, kneading, leaving her aching and limp as string.
Gently, so gently, he closed his teeth on her neck. She shuddered in reaction. She felt the warm nip of his mouth, the cool kiss of air on the back of her neck and between her shoulder blades. Fabric sagged. Her dress. He was unbuttoning her dress.
Emma gasped and would have turned to face him, but he only pressed closer against her back, holding her in place with the weight of his body. She felt his rod, the promise and the threat of it, hard against her bottom, but his hands wouldn’t leave her alone long enough to worry about what came next. They flowed over her, gliding, sliding, commanding her attention. Her response.
He reached through the open back of her dress, his hands skimming along her ribs, stroking over her shift to find and cup her breasts. His thumbs rubbed her nipples. His leg nudged, thrust, lifted, until she rode its muscled length like a pony. She squirmed, trying to find her balance or her breath, and his hands and voice soothed her.
“Easy now, lass. Be easy. I’ve got you.”
She sucked in her breath. The air was close and thick with the smell of the fire, the musk of his skin, the scent of her own desire.
She flushed, relieved she could not see his face. She did not remember this embarrassing wetness from before. Only blood.
His hands stroked down and glided up, dragging her shift and her petticoat with them until the material bunched against the bedpost and spilled over his arms. Emma closed her eyes, overwhelmed by her own recklessness. Abruptly, all sensation sharpened and intensified. Her focus narrowed to his hands as they moved over her, learning her shape, discovering her secret places.
“I know you.” And, oh, he did. Better, it seemed, than she knew herself. There was something reassuring—and terrifying—about his intimate knowledge of her body and its reactions.
His long fingers trailed along her thigh, traced between her legs, brushing just the ends of the curls there until she quivered. She squeezed her eyes tighter, squeezed her legs tighter, embarrassed at what he would find.
“So wet.” A growl of masculine satisfaction. “So sweet.”
Heat flooded her face, her breasts. He expected the dampness, then. Expected and approved. Another layer of doubt dissolved, burned away.
Griff eased the angle of his thigh, letting her down gently, freeing her, freeing himself to touch and explore. Emma moaned and moved instinctively, rolling her hips into his hand,
feeling his touch everywhere, wanting his touch. Everywhere.
She gripped the bedpost as he pressed and probed, teased and stroked her wet, sensitive flesh. His arms were hard as ropes around her, his breath hot in her ear as he worked her with his fingers, around and around, in and out.
The fire crackled and popped. Behind her closed lids, red sparks rose and danced in the heat. Her nerves smoldered. Veins of heat shot through her. She was shivering, shaking, falling apart, and yet he held her, safe and close.
Sensation surged and crested in a dark flood inside her.
“Take it, lass,” he murmured. “Take what you need.”
Emma panted. Resting her forehead against the smooth, hard bedpost, she let his hands drive her, let her body take her where he wanted her to go, into the sizzle and the warm dark.
She burned in his arms like liquid gold, the scent of her rising to his head like wine or the mist on the rocks at night. Griff breathed her in, her response rolling over him like the ocean, primal, powerful.
Satisfying.
Her smooth cheeks were flushed, her soft lips slightly parted. She was warm and damp and delicate all over, her skin as pink and polished as the heart of a shell. He wanted her naked, wanted to suck her pretty breasts and nuzzle the richness of her sex, kiss every freckle, lap her like cream.
Later.
Right now he wanted inside.
Her body still quaked with the tiny aftershocks of her release. He wanted to push inside her and savor her trembling, wanted to stroke her with his cock until she cried out and came again.
Griff reached for his breech flap.
And saw, beneath the dark fan of her lashes, the silver track of tears shining like the beach in moonlight.
His chest froze. “Lass…Did I hurt you?”
She drew a shuddering breath. “No.”
Her pale fingers uncurled from the bedpost. Lowering her arm, she dragged the heel of her palm across her eyes.
His heart sundered. Catching her wrist, he replaced her hand with his lips, soothing her tender skin with his kiss. Tasting salt.
A choked sound escaped her throat. She turned to him, curled into him, in a trusting, nestling move that ripped him apart.
He gathered her close, cursing himself, smoothing a shaking hand down the long, silken fall of her hair. “Was it so bad, then?”
Her head moved against his chest. She lifted her face, her blue eyes lambent, glowing, setting his heart on fire with relief and…something else. Something he had no words for or experience of.
“It was that good,” she said.
“There’s more,” he promised hoarsely. “Better.”
Beneath his hand, her small shoulders stiffened. Straightened. “Yes.”
He’d never heard a braver assent.
Or a more discouraging one.
For all her passionate nature, he knew she had not enjoyed her previous experience of sex. Horrible, she called it. He should have taken her when he had the chance, before she had a chance to remember, before he looked in her face and saw her tears, before he gazed in her eyes and found them blue and shining with promise like the sea at dawn.
“Lass—” Longing and frustration roiled inside him. He had claimed to know her. But at this moment, he barely recognized himself. “What do you want of me?”
“Oh.” A rosy blush swept from the freckles on her collarbone to the roots of her hair. “You will think me foolish. Selfish.”
He thought her adorable.
“Inexperienced,” he said. “And ill-used. Tell me what you want.”
“Would you—” Another blush, deeper than before. Anticipation licked along his veins and tightened his groin. Her eyes met his, defiant. Beseeching. “Would you hold me?”
He almost groaned. Human females.
“I am holding you,” he pointed out.
“Yes.” Her gaze skittered over the rumpled bed, the smooth silks tangled with the sleek, dark fur of his pelt. “Never mind.”
Comprehension forced its way into his lust-fogged brain. “In bed, you mean.”
She swallowed; nodded. “I know it’s not fair. You must think—You must expect—”
“I did not ask for anything but your honesty, lass.”
And if her honesty resulted in a miserable night for him, he reflected wryly, he was well-served for his lies.
She bit her lip. “You don’t mind? Won’t it be hard?”
“Hard as a rock and stiff as a mast,” he assured her, grinning when her eyes rounded. He trailed his knuckle along the curve of her jaw, coaxing her head up, inviting her smile. “It’s not such a terrible fate, to sleep with you in my arms.”
She smiled tremulously. He felt almost rewarded for his sacrifice.
But he knew, in his heart and in his stones, he would get no sleep tonight.
Emma dreamed.
In her dreams, she walked the track that led to her father’s farm, while the sea pounded the cliffs below. If she did not watch her footing, she would fall. But her gaze kept drifting, drawn by the waves and the promise of something just beyond the horizon, a vision broader and brighter than the rutted track and her everyday existence of boots and butter and eggs.
The water shimmered like a sheet of beaten silver. A sleek black shape broke the shining surface. She caught her breath in wonder. A seal. She turned her head to watch its sinuous glide. Distracted, she tripped, tumbled, toppled down and down from the cliffs into the cold, hard sea.
The shock knocked the air from her lungs and jarred her to the bone. Panic seized her. She could not breathe. Water pulled at her skirts and sucked at her boots. Her petticoats clung, trapping her like a fish in a net.
The seal reared up beside her, regarding her with dark, clear eyes. “It was your petticoats that nearly drowned you,” it said.
She was drowning. The realization struck her like a knife. Emma struggled, weeping, fighting the constriction of her lungs, the tangle of fabric around her legs.
And the seal bore her up, supporting her with its thickset, powerful body, speaking to her with Griff’s voice, Griff’s words. “Easy now, lass. Be easy. I’ve got you.”
Gasping, she opened her eyes.
The room was dark. The fire had died to sullen red embers. The bedcovers tangled around her legs.
Griff lay beside her, behind her, his chest warm and solid against her back, his arm heavy about her waist. Her heart hammered.
“It was only a dream,” he rumbled. “Easy, lass. I’ve got you.”
Only a dream.
Tension escaped her on a sigh. She subsided against her pillow.
Not a pillow. Griff’s muscled arm supported her head. His rod, hard and ready, lodged against her backside. Emma sucked in another breath, a different kind of tension seizing her muscles. She shivered in longing and trepidation.
He stroked back her hair with his free hand, tucking a strand behind her ear. “It’s all right. Sleep.”
She relaxed, but she could not sleep. Visions of her dream lingered like the mist over the ocean, fogging her thoughts, but her body, primed by his touch, was alert. Aware. Her senses hummed. Her nerves tingled. Griff cocooned her in warmth, surrounding her with his undemanding strength. Only the nudge of his erection against her bottom issued its own demand, a silent declaration of intent. She curled into him, settling more firmly against that intriguing ridge, and felt his breathing change. His arm flexed beneath her cheek, but he did not move, did not reach or grab. Emboldened, she shifted, brushing against his hot satin length, feeling him just…there.
“I will not do anything you don’t want me to.”
His assurance freed her to discover, to feel, without expectation of pain or shame. She wiggled experimentally. Her toes explored the top of his foot, stroked his hairy leg to the knee.
“Lass.” His voice shook with laughter and desperation. “You do not know what you are inviting.”
Her heart pounded. She knew enough to experience a moment’s panic. But he did not r
oll to crush her, covering her body with his own, his weight pressing her legs, her stomach, until she could not breathe. He lay still on his side, his body heavy with sleep and smelling of musk. His big frame curled protectively around her own—naked, warm, animal, relaxed.
Not so relaxed. His arm was dense with muscle. His member was hard and thick. She was seized with a terrible lassitude and an even more terrible longing. Curiosity and need rose and trickled within her. She felt suspended in time like an insect in amber, caught in the dark and honeyed now. There was no tomorrow. Only this man, this moment, this one opportunity to have and hold. Inside, she was loose and liquid, tight and aching. She pressed against him, shameless in the faceless dark, and the arm at her waist slid down, his fingers skimming over her quivering stomach, parting her thighs. With a moan, she turned her face into his hard biceps and opened for him, let him pet and stroke her as he had before, her body eager for more touches.
The blunt head of his penis nudged the curves of her buttocks, rubbing, seeking entrance from behind as his fingers soothed and readied her from the front, dipping into her moisture, spreading it through her slick folds. Emma stiffened. He should not…She must not…But her body moved blindly of its own volition, wriggling against him, wanting, seeking…He bent her forward over his arm, tilting her hips for his penetration, and slipped into her a little way, his smooth, thick head filling her, stretching her, making her gasp and want.
For, oh, she wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted more. Her need pulsed inside her. She tightened around him. With a grunt, he entered her in one smooth, hard thrust.
Yesss. Her inner muscles contracted.
No pain, she thought, dazed and relieved. Only this aching sense of completion. Of satisfaction. Of wonder that he could do this thing with such care and patience, and she could receive him with such pleasure.
He began to move, and she stopped thinking at all, completely taken up, taken over by the sweet friction, the slow, deep thrust and slide of him pumping in and out of her body, moving within her. She was filled with him, wrapped in him, as his rhythm quickened. Her breathing shortened. He nuzzled the curve of her neck, and she reached back, desperate to hold him, her nails digging into his smooth, taut flanks. He bit her softly—her ear, the side of her neck—gripping her hips, imprinting himself on her flesh, holding her hard and tight. She quaked and contracted around him. Her release spilled from her in an overwhelming flood, catching him up like a wave, dragging him with her.
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