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This woman would end him.

And he’d go happily.

“Flick,” he murmured again, his gaze on that delicious lower lip.

She swallowed. “Make love to me again, Griffin.” When his eyes darted up to meet hers, the green orbs were obscured by a sheen of tears. “Please?”

Why was she crying?

Griffin carefully removed her spectacles, knowing Felicity could see him well enough without them. Without releasing her, he folded them one-handed and placed them on the small table beside his chair. Then he lifted her by the waist, kicking her skirts out of the way and resettling her.

Now she straddled his thighs, and there were no more tears in her eyes.

“Ye dinnae need to beg, Flick,” he said gruffly, pulling her closer so the junction of her thighs sat tantalizingly close to his throbbing cockstand. “That was part of our bargain, aye?”

It was the wrong thing to say, judging from the way her expression fell a bit, and he cursed silently. Then he cursed out loud, and pulled her lips down to his once more.

Where the last kiss was hot and desperate, this was one slow and cajoling. He teased her into opening beneath his onslaught, his tongue playing and his teeth nipping until she gave a little mewl which sounded like one of her kittens and linked her hands around his neck.

Aye, that’s it.

Now that she was situated right where she should be, he was able to lift both hands to her tits, cupping them through the wet, damp linen. When his thumbs found her nipples, she whimpered again.

He squeezed, and she gasped against his mouth and arched into his touch.

So she likes things a bit rougher.

Good to know.

He rolled her erect nipples between his thumb and forefinger, then tightened his hold on the left one. She whimpered again and bit his lower lip.

And he liked things a bit rougher.

God, they were made for each other.

A chuckle built in his chest. “Good girl,” he murmured as he pulled his mouth from hers and lowered it. “Good lass.”

His lips traced her throat, her collarbone…then Griffin lifted her left breast to his mouth. As he lavished love on her nipple, he grazed his teeth across her sensitive skin and she bucked atop him.

He’d heard that once a woman nursed a child, the sensitivity of her breasts could change. He wondered if Felicity had nursed her son.

He wondered how she’d ended up in the Duke of Exingham’s bed, and why he hadn’t realized the treasure she was.

He wondered why no man had thought to teach this intriguing, adorable, caring woman the meaning of pleasure.

That just means she’s yers.

He growled possessively and switched his mouth to her other breast. She was his. He’d ensured it. They might not be married in law, but she was his.

And, he was beginning to suspect, he was hers.

Felicity’s fingers curled in his hair, holding him against her, while her other hand dropped between their bodies, frantically pulling and tugging her skirts out of the way.

His woman was desperate for his touch, was she?

Well, he could help with that.

With the material of her skirts out of the way, he reached between her legs and grasped each of her upper thighs. Her bloomers were split, thank fook, and his thumbs rested on either side of her curls.