His heart beat faster with the knowledge of what he was about to do. What he would share with her this night. It was the final piece of himself, a piece he was willing to entrust to a woman for the first time. Because Violet was different. She was his wife, his duchess, his love.
“Enter,” he called.
The door opened, and there she was. She too wore a dressing gown belted at the waist, this one a deep shade of plum.
Of course it was.
With a hesitant smile, she crossed the threshold, entering his territory for the first time since they had wed. It felt good, so damned good, to have her here. To be standing here with her. He had that rare sensation, a warmth blossoming in his chest, a buoyant feeling of everything right in the world, wonderment that his life could be as good as it was now, in this moment.
“Vi,” he greeted her, even as his feet were moving, eating up the distance between them.
“Darling,” she said, her cheeks flushing adorably.
It would seem he was not the only one affected by this being the first night within their own home as husband and wife. They had spent a horrid evening at the inn, dealing with inquiries into Swift’s death, staying up most of the night, only to spend the next day journeying to London, and then transferring Violet’s belongings from Lark House.
He opened his arms to her, and then she was in them, sudden and swift, her warm, soft body connecting with his. She tipped her head back. Damn, but she was beautiful. And wonderful. And his. All his.
He kissed her, slow and hungry, open-mouthed. She tasted sweet, like dessert. Her tongue tangled with his. His cock twitched. He was hard for her instantly, ready, wanting, needing. He did not think he could ever have her enough.
She broke the kiss, dragging her mouth from his to kiss along his jaw, down his neck. Her fingers found the knot on the belt of his robe, plucking at it, loosening it. She kissed the exposed swath of his chest, scars and all.
His fingers sank into her hair, reveling in the texture. It was so soft and luxurious, silken and curled. Exquisite.
She tugged at the knot on his robe, then stilled, glancing up at him. “Griffin?”
He knew what she asked, the greater question. And as much as he hated this part of himself, he knew it would go a long way toward healing to reveal his scars to her. He swallowed, clenched his jaw, and nodded.
“I have already warned you I am a beast.”
“Many things, but never a beast,” she murmured. Her eyes never left his as she finished untying the knot on his belt.
His dressing gown went slack, parting. Her hands slid beneath it, gliding over his chest in a hot, seductive caress. Her touch moved to his shoulders, the dressing gown following. With one swift motion, it dropped to the floor.
He tensed as her verdant gaze swept over him. Over all the raised lines and puckers, the burns and lash scores. An ugly constellation of the past marred his flesh, and he knew it.
“Oh, my love,” she said, her voice and her touch reverent as she kissed him, as she trailed a seeking touch over every inch of his scarred body.
There was no pity, thank God. Only veneration, as if she could somehow sense how much each of those marks had cost him. As if she would take the pain from him with the benediction of her skin upon his, her lips soothing and seeking.
“It was a long time ago,” he muttered.
“Your body is beautiful,” she told him fiercely, her small hands traveling down his abdomen, over his bruised ribs, over his muscles, over the places where half a dozen Frenchmen had unleashed their anger and fear upon him.
“It is hideous and I know it,” he said, ending on a groan when she sank to her knees before him.
She kissed her way to his hip bone, to a particularly hideous scar he wore there. “Is this from Paris also?” Her mouth moved over him in velvet strokes, soothing away any memory of pain that lingered.
“It is from a different mission,” he said, recalling the anarchist’s blade which had pierced his flesh there.
“Such bravery,” she said, glancing up at him with eyes that had gone dark with desire. “Bravery deserves to be rewarded.”
She could have no notion of what he wanted from her when she was upon her knees. His cock went completely rigid, hard and thick and full, rising for her attention. But she was an innocent. There was no way she would—
His ability to think fled him as Violet kissed the tip of his cock.
“Fuck, Vi.” The curse burst forth. His hands were still in her hair, fingers sifting through those glorious dark strands.
She blinked up at him, an innocent seductress. “You do not like it? I am sorry. I merely wanted to make you feel the way you make me feel. I thought… Is it different for a man?”
