“So you can touch me,” I gasp as he strokes between my legs, “but I can’t touch you?”
A momentary pause before he continues his indulgent exploration. “Does it upset you that I focus on your pleasure?”
“No.” I grit my teeth. My core throbs fiercely. “Unless your aim is to drive me mad with desire.”
A smile ghosts across his mouth. “Wren,” he says. “That is exactly my plan.”
And as his fingers slide through my wet folds, I moan. I moan so loudly I’m sure half the camp hears, a sound that comes from deep within me, eked out from a core of truthfulness.
He plays with me at his leisure. I grind against his hand, whimpering, my mouth latching onto the side of his neck. I want him to bruise, and I want to know that mark came from me.
As he skirts the place that throbs, I lick a path up his neck and back down, detouring to the slope of his shoulder and collarbones, before returning to his mouth. We kiss with deepening urgency, and for a moment, I swear our souls touch.
He’s so focused on the kiss he doesn’t notice my fingers coasting across his taut, heated skin. Down, down, trailing his lower abdomen to the ridge that stands proud. And as my fingers dive beneath his waistband, curling around his erection, Boreas emits a sound as though all the breath is escaping his body.
Oh, he’s big. His cock tents his breeches, the shape of the broad head visible against the rough fabric. My mouth dries at the sight. It’s been so long since I’ve taken a man to bed. There are things I miss: the weight and strength of a man’s body pinning me to the mattress, the fullness once we are joined. Sex is feral, but it can be tender, with the right partner.
“I suppose,” I drawl, pressing my thumb into the slit so his hips rock toward me, “you are adequate enough in size.”
Glazed blue eyes snap to mine, narrow with disbelief. “You are not pleased?” The words are deliciously rough, base. A flush reddens his arctic skin.
I shrug. In truth, it’s not the size of the cock that matters, but what a man can do with it. Though, Boreas is probably the largest I’ve encountered.
A change overcomes him. He seems almost pleased. “Wren,” he whispers. “Why do you lie?” And he slowly slides one finger inside me, the walls of my sex stretching around the intrusion.
My fingers bite into his shoulders, and I groan, rising up onto my toes so he can sink his finger deeper, my body drawing him in as far as he can go.
He pulls out, sinks back in, but only halfway. Not deep enough, and he knows it.
A few precise tugs loosen his trousers, exposing him to my gaze. Lightly, I squeeze the thick, sparsely haired shaft. It twitches in my grip.
“Come on then,” I taunt. Challenging the Frost King to a race toward climax is utterly ridiculous, yet I work him over, dragging my hand from base to tip, lingering around the fleshy head before plunging down with his early seed slicking my hand.
Faster and faster, my hand flies. Boreas ruts against my hip, pressing my back into the bedpost, while his fingers play with my folds. His fingers plunge into my core in a hard, continuous fuck that tightens my inner walls and, gods, I feel like I’m going to explode. And when he circles the engorged nub above my entrance tauntingly with his thumb, my hand falters as pleasure spikes and sparks burst behind my eyelids.
“Don’t challenge me,” he says with a lazy smile, “if you haven’t the ability to win.”
I intend to win.
“Here’s the deal,” I croak, biting back another keen as he inserts a second finger. “Whoever holds out the longest—”
“Gets a favor of their choosing,” he finishes for me, making a low, guttural sound as I gently squeeze his balls.
It takes a moment for the haze to dispel. A favor? I could do so much with that. “All right.”
We push each other onward, spiraling higher and tighter and brighter. Boreas’ breathing roughens as his pleasure peaks, but the wave doesn’t break. It rolls over him, over me, in a continuous blanket of blossoming heat. His thick fingers feel divine inside my body. His thumb works that pouting bud, circling and circling until my feet lift from the ground, until my pelvis cramps with ecstasy.
But he is close as well. His inarticulate groans tell me he’s especially sensitive on the underside of his shaft. I drag my nails lightly down the area until he bucks in my hand with a harshly rasped, “Wren.” He pushes out the word through his clamped teeth. “You are—”
“Amazing?”
“The devil.”
I laugh breathlessly and plant a sloppy kiss on his mouth. Heat clings to my skin like an impossibly warm rain. He fucks me with his hand and I’m nearing the peak, I’m lifting higher as my body tightens—
“My lord?” Pallas calls from beyond the tent flaps.
The Frost King tears his mouth from mine, chest heaving. The fog clears from his eyes, and I touch my tender, swollen mouth in dazed wonder. We’re plastered together, one of my legs curled around the back of his thigh, his hands down my trousers. “Yes?” he replies, that burning gaze fused to mine.
