Although it was wicked of her, that realization sent a fresh wave of desire to chase some of the lingering pain. Her inner muscles clenched on him, and it felt different. Strange and yet good.
He was still lodged deep inside her, thick and hard and hot. She sat up straight again, the movement setting her alight.
“Oh,” she said, bemused by the complex, entirely foreign combination of sensations. Pain, pleasure, fullness. He was stretching her, taking her. But the discomfort continued to ebb, and in its wake were new pangs.
Pleasant ones.
And there he was, his handsome face before her, his dark eyes locked on hers, so much tenderness in his expression.
He cupped her cheek, running the rough pad of his thumb along her skin in one swift sweep. “How is it?”
“Strange,” she admitted.
His lips quirked into a half smile. “Not precisely a testament to my ability as a lover. I’ll have to rectify that.”
“I didn’t mean insult,” she hasted to reassure him. “It is only that I’ve never?—”
“I know, spitfire,” he interrupted gently. “I know. Let me make it better for you. Will you do that?”
She wasn’t certain he could, but the softness in his voice made her want to believe him capable of anything. He might have asked her to jump from the nearest window to her doom below, and she likely would have done so in that moment.
“Yes,” she said.
Still cradling her face in one big hand, he drew her lips to his, kissing her slowly, languorously. As if they had all the time in the world to explore each other’s mouths. And how she wished they did. For this intimacy—lips pressed together, mouths opening, tongues tangling—was every bit as necessary and personal a joining as the rest. Tansy relaxed, surrendering herself to the way he made her feel, to the masterful pressure of his mouth claiming hers. He tasted rich and sweet, like whisky and man and something else that was uniquely him.
Maxim.
Not King Maximilian. Not the icy, aloof stranger she had believed him to be. But a man who shared his flask with her and told her secrets. A man who concerned himself with her welfare, with her pleasure. A man who kissed her so sweetly.
She trusted him.
She wanted him.
Wanted, more importantly, to give herself to him. It was wrong to do so, and yet it was right. So very right.
Tansy threw herself into the kiss, and the pain receded. And then his hand slid beneath her skirts again, finding the place where all her pleasure seemed so very heightened, that responsive bud. The first brush of his fingers over her had her rocking into his touch, seeking more.
She concentrated on his lips, the glide of his tongue against hers, the knowing pressure of his fingers on her where she needed him most. It didn’t take long for her to want more. For her hips to move, for her body to know what to do.
“Yes,” he murmured against her lips. “Ride me, sweetheart. Find your pleasure. Take what you want.”
Take what you want.
No one had ever given her permission to do so before. She’d spent the bulk of her life following in another’s shadow, grateful for the roof over her head, the bed in which she slept, the clothing she wore, for her honored place in society when she might have been any other orphan, relegated to the noblesse oblige of distant relatives who didn’t give a damn about her.
But here, now, in the arms of a king, she was being told for the first time not just that she could take what she wanted, but that she should.
And so, she did.
She threw caution and honor and loyalty aside, surrendering herself to the need for him. Surrendering herself to the wild, forbidden moments of passion between them.
All she could ever have.
Later, she would think about the consequences.
Later, she would worry over what her princess would think should she discover what had happened.
Later, she would agonize over her actions.
