“Sva—”
“Touch me,” I said. “I trustyou.No one else. Not like this.”
He sighed, breath escaping the tight shape of his mouth. His boot snuck between my heels and kicked my legs apart.“As my Queen commands it.”
I caught the edge of the altar. His hand grazed my thigh, then slid around my back, the dress moved with its intrusion.
“What if someonediscoversus?”I worried.
“In this weather?”he asked.
He traveled my neck, dotting a string of sweet, careful kisses to it. I could’vemeltedinto the sensation, into hismouthas it caressed my skin.
“Oo, oof. God, Mr. Evergreen. Are yousurewe-?”
“The door is barred, sweet Princess,” he said. “We’re perfectly alone; we’re perfectly safe.”
I shuttered. My body tensed, then relaxed, then tensed again as he began to gather my skirt together between us.
“I’mscared,”I whispered.
Evergreen paused, meeting my eyes. “Do you want me tostop?”
When I shook my head, the linen cascaded down around his wrist; his hand lost beneath. Still, he stopped before tracing the outer parts of my leg, studying my response.
“May I touch you?” he asked.
I nodded.
Cyrusinchedtoward the inner, sensitive, and previously undiscovered territory.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
“Y-Yes,” I said, faintly.
“Shall I show youwhythe bedpost works?” he asked. His hand passedover the front of my undergarments, and when I gasped, hesnickered, doing it again.
“Y-yes,” I begged, joining his amusement with animpishgiggle I’d never heard from myself. “I want it, sir. I want to know.”
“It’s the pressure,” he said. “Here.”His finger stopped, directly at the uppermost center of my sex, and though the idea of having him touch me there was excitement of its own, I didn’tactuallyfeel anything ground-breaking in the act. That is, until he pressed.
Mr. Evergreen’s palm followed the tips of his fingers andhard.Itrubbed across me, ebbing, then pulling back again in long,intentionalstrokes. One pass after the other, I was at his mercy.
My breathing changed. It took on a new rhythm and I could feel his eyes fixate on every part of me.
Cyrus moved faster; he moved deeper, rougher. He moved forward, bracing his other arm to the table, and pinning me between the wood and himself and I leaned back, no longer in charge of how I would react.
Behind us, the stained glass portrait—God himself emerging from clouds in red, yellow, green andeverycolor I’d ever imagined, and Isweara few I hadn’t—rained above my eyes and chest, in direct competition with every glimmer of candlelight.
Itwaspressure that I felt, rising from where the two of us intersected, and as he parted his mouth to pull his soft lips across the tops of my heaving breasts, I so very quietly said his name,“Cyrus,”in a near-staccatoed gasp.
Thensharp, aftersharp, aftersharpbreath ofdesperation, I cried, “Cyrus! I-I feel-!”
He swallowed my noise with a kiss,passionate, like it was the first andonlykiss we could ever have, and I?—
I saw light.
Acrashof lightning, to be specific, simultaneous to the powerful, almostmetallicoutrage ineveryend of my person, even the roof of my mouth, butespeciallywhere he had anchored, burst through everything. The pleasure consumed me like a wave, broke over me, and through me, and it left me shaking on his shore. I fell forward into his arms. Panting, reeling, unable to speak.
