He moved forward.
She inched back.
“Jo,” he breathed when his arm rested against hers. His fingers slid slowly up and down.
“Wh-what are you wearing?” she whispered.
“Less than you.”
“Oh.”
Silence. Her back moved of its own accord, finding his chest. Finding a scrap of cloth on his thigh. She let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t naked. Not completely.
“Are you warm enough?”
She hesitated. “Are you?”
“I could warm you further, if you’d like. You are in control. You can tell me what to stop or start. You are queen in this room, in every room. You are the one person who has full control of me, Jocasta, even though I was reluctant to yield that sort of power.” His lips brushed her ear as his arms curled around her and reminded her again how truly huge he was. “Will you keep that secret, as well as my others?”
“Always.” Jocasta snuggled into his embrace, gasping when his hands brushed her breasts.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked quickly, fear breaking the low, sleepy whisper of his voice.
“No, no. Far from it.”
Another brush. This time deliberate. “You’re so soft.”
“You’re not.” Jo let herself feel all the hard wall of muscles of his chest pressing into her back.
Girion made a nervous sound. “I’m sorry.” His hips scooted from hers.
She brought her hips back, catching his, forcing them into contact—and let out a little cry as she understood what he had meant. He was hard.
Large and hard. Huge and hard.
She let out a confused whimper of longing and worry. That would fit? Well, surely it would fit; it wasn’t as big as a baby and somehow women managed those—but it was certainly not the size of one or two fingers. It was closer to the size of one of the fat tallow candles beside the bed, and probably close to the same length.
Girion moaned when her hips pressed into his, pressing his lips to her skin. He cupped her breasts through the fabric of her thin dress, moving slowly and gently.
Jocasta thought she was going to explode from his touch. It created an odd, heavy pleasure that made her nipples ache and stand high, and made her thighs twitch as the wetness inside of her started to soak and puddle on her thighs. “Can— Can a man have satisfaction from this?” she whispered.
“I can. If it satisfies you.” Girion doubled his efforts, concentrating on her nipples, his thumb and forefingers working together, rolling and squeezing as if milking them.
“Ohh. Oh, God, I don’t know. No one has ever... I have never...” Words failed to form.
“I can feel how warm and wet you are. Let me try, my love.”
“My love,” she echoed in a whisper.
“Beloved queen. My Jocasta.”
Her hips moved restlessly, and she gasped when Girion pulled one of her legs up and over his hip. “Yes!” she cried, and waited for the feel of him forcing his way inside, of his wide manhood entering her slit.
It didn’t come. She felt rough cloth rubbing her slick folds, and she made an impatient sound, plucking it away, letting his moans wash over her when she connected with the bare skin of his erection.
“Jocasta...” a warning groan. He gripped her thigh with one hand, easily spanning all of it, fingers digging into the padding of flesh.
She felt for him, pleasure making her bold, gripping him with her full fist around him, startled by how desperate his pants became, how he buried his face in her hair. “Is that good?”
