"Be still," he said.
I tried. My body didn't cooperate. His hands were so close to where I needed them, inches away from the swollen flesh that was crying for attention. Every brush of his fingers against my thigh sent sparks straight to my clit.
"You're trembling," he observed.
"I'm aroused."
"I know." He kept working, kept cleaning, kept not touching me where I needed to be touched. "I can smell how aroused you are. I could smell it the moment you entered the Keep."
I whimpered. The sound escaped before I could stop it.
"Please."
"Please what?" His eyes met mine. Amber and ancient and patient. "Tell me what you want."
"Touch me. You know where. You know what I need."
His hands stilled on my thigh. For a long moment, he just looked at me. Then one finger, just one, trailed higher. Grazed the edge of my soaked underwear. The barest touch, lighter than breath.
My whole body clenched.
"You've been suffering," he said. "Days of need with no relief except what I gave you at the spring. And that wasn't enough, was it?"
"No." The word came out as a sob. "No, it wasn't enough."
"Do you want me to stop?"
I should have said yes and gathered whatever remained of my pride and told him to leave me alone, to let me tend my own wounds, to stop this careful dismantling of my defenses.
"No."
His fingers hooked into the waistband of my underwear and pulled.
The fabric peeled away from flesh that was swollen and wet and visibly aching. I watched his face as he looked at me, as hesaw the evidence of days of desperate need. His nostrils flared. His armor plates shifted.
"Beautiful," he said. "Swollen and ready and desperate for something your own hands can't give you."
His thumb brushed my clit.
I came.
Not a building orgasm, not a slow crest. An immediate explosion, five days of tension releasing in a single catastrophic wave. I screamed, my back arching off the surface beneath me, my whole body convulsing around a touch that had barely happened.
He didn't stop.
His thumb circled my clit while his other hand found my entrance. Two fingers pushed inside, thick and textured, filling me in a way my own fingers never could. The stretch was incredible. The sensation of finally having something inside me after days of emptiness made my whole body clench.
He curled them, found that spot that made sparks explode behind my eyes, and started stroking. In and out. Slow and deliberate. Each thrust pressing against my front wall, each withdrawal dragging against nerve endings that had been starving.
"That's one," he said. "Give me more."
I came again. Harder this time, my inner walls clamping down on his fingers so hard I thought I might break them. My hips ground against his hand, trying to take him deeper, trying to get more friction on my clit. The pleasure was blinding, overwhelming, better than anything except?—
His mouth.
He lowered his head between my thighs, and his tongue found my clit.
Textured. Rough. Creating friction that made my vision white out. He licked me with long, deliberate strokes while hisfingers kept working inside me, kept stroking that spot, kept driving me higher. His tongue was nothing like human, covered in tiny ridges that caught against my swollen flesh and created sensations I'd never imagined.
