A smile played on his lips now, but his eyes—his eyes were burning. Not just with desire. With wonder. Almost as though he was as surprised by this as she was.
“I will.” It was the best she could do, but she didn’t want him to stop.
This time she actually cried out when he drew her into his mouth. His satisfied laughter vibrated through her.
How many times had she wondered what it would be like to lie with this man? If she were to be honest with herself, she’d wondered since the moment she caught sight of him tending to his horse.
He was touching her leisurely, as though to draw their lovemaking out like a great banquet. “Dash.” His name escaped her lips.
Already, he’d surpassed all her expectations.
His mouth moved lower, over the soft flesh of her abdomen, while one hand roamed along her leg and the other remained at her breast. The sight of his head, of his hair against her naked flesh was enough to excite her on its own. The sinewy strength of his arms, of his hands, touching her…
“Dash.” She implored again.
His mouth moved yet lower. What? What?
“Ah!” She arched her head back. Wicked, wicked man.
Wicked, wicked Ambrosia.
Hot licks followed by cool air. He was sucking, lapping her. Ambrosia clutched at his shoulders at the same time he pushed her legs wider, holding her down so he could continue his sinful depravity.
“Beautiful.” His voice rasped. She felt the word, she felt the heat, on parts of herself her own eyes had never seen. “Perfect. Pink. Rosy.” He pressed kisses there and then… “So wet.”
“Oh!” He’d slid a finger inside and moved it in such a way that had her pushing against him with her hips. She needed more. She needed…
She needed…
“Dash!” A sudden spinning sent her spiraling into the stars. A combination of pleasure so sweet, so acute, that it bordered on pain, rolled through her. He turned his finger, added more, and moved it inside of her, touching places that must have been designed by the devil himself.
It went on and on and on and yet when it was over, it wasn’t enough. She wanted him. She wanted him to cover her, to become a part of her, to be one with her.
“Princesse,” he said the word like a prayer. He moved up her body again, his lips brushing over the curve of her shoulder, up her throat, worshipful. When his mouth found hers, she tasted herself on his lips—heady, unfamiliar, and incredibly intoxicating.
And then she felt him at her entrance.
Her breath caught.
The need that had crested and broken now rose again, fiercer than before.
“Ambrosia…” he whispered her name this time.
He stilled, poised over her. When she opened her eyes, she found his already watching her—unblinking, burning.
“So precious,” he murmured. “So brave.”
And then he entered her—slowly, with aching care.
Her body opened to him, stretching around him.
“Mon cœur,” he whispered. My heart.
Ambrosia’s breath came in a stutter. She had never… never imagined feeling this. Fullness without pain. Taking but also giving. The sense that she’d just found a missing part of herself. Words deserted her, so she looked at him instead, willing him to see everything she felt—her wonder, her surrender.
He moved deeper.
And then waited.
