She leaned in, sliding her tongue along the length of his arousal. And then she parted her lips, taking him in, a feminine gasp escaping her lips as she released him a moment later. And then she went back, teasing him, tormenting him, lavishing him with attention.
He gripped her hair, watching as her mouth slid up and down on his rod, watching as she took her pleasure by giving him pleasure.
She made whimpering sounds, sweet, tormented noises that told him she was delighting in this as much as he was.
“Good girl,” he growled.
Her cheeks went pink as she continued to suck him, and he felt himself reaching the end of his composure. The end of his control.
“Enough, my Freya. Or I will deny you the loss of your virginity by losing myself.”
Her lips curved into a smile, those wicked lips, swollen now with need. “So you liked it?”
“If I liked it any more, then this would be over.”
“I’ve never done it before.”
“I assumed. But not because it wasn’t good. Only because… You are mine, aren’t you? Entirely? You have never kissed another man, never touched another man. You’ve never even wanted one, have you?”
It was suddenly imperative that he know that. That he be absolutely certain that her need was for him, and for him alone.
“Yes,” she whispered. “You are the only one.”
“Good.”
Everything in life that had once been his had been taken from him. In some way, it healed him to know that she had come to him, and she was his. It was that simple.
And in two years if she went her own way, and went to another man, he would still have been her first.
And right now, she was his. It was all that mattered.
She reached behind her back, as if she were reaching for the zipper of her dress. “No,” he growled. “That’s my task to complete.”
He lifted her up, and repositioned her so that she was sitting on the edge of the bed. Then he gripped one of the straps of her dress and pushed it down, so that it fell, loosening her bodice. He did the same to the other side. The diaphanous fabric was still covering her breasts, but had exposed more of her ample cleavage.
He left her just like that, her hair a wild tangle, the image she made that of a feral, gorgeous creature.
Then he got down on his knees, and pushed up the hem of that skirt, exposing her slim ankles, her calves. Pushing the skirt upuntil he could see her thighs, until he saw the sheer panties that she had on beneath the dress. He could see the shadow of dark curls beneath the diaphanous fabric, and his body throbbed in anticipation of having her.
But no. He would not claim her like that. He would not sink himself into her without preamble no matter how badly he wanted it. He had to bring her to pleasure first. He had to give her everything. And then some.
He hooked his fingers into the sides of her underwear, and pulled them down her legs, opening her thighs so that he could see her glistening folds.
She was art, this woman. And he would worship at her altar, above any other.
How could such pagan beauty exist? Someone so strong, resilient, regal and yet hewn from the earth.
He would never have thought that a princess would appeal to him like this. He would’ve thought that he was the kind of man so lost to the civilized world that he could not want a woman like her, and yet. It was as though she had been brought forth from the forest just for him.
He leaned in, inhaling the scent of her arousal before he pressed a kiss to her inner thigh.
She gasped, and he pressed forward, licking her right where she was wet and needy for him.
She gasped, her hands going around his hair as he began to devour her.
How long had it been since he had tasted a woman? It didn’t even matter what the answer was. Because no woman had ever been her. No woman had ever appealed to him in this way.
No one had ever reached the heart of him. But she did.
