Before I can even find my balance, he angles his face, parts my swollen lips, and presses his mouth to my center.
The first swipe of his tongue immobilizes me. The second pulls whimpers from my throat and vibrations from my limbs. The third . . . the third undoes me. I grip his head while he grips my thighs, and I shudder so hard that my bones liquefy and I sink onto his face like molten wax.
He suckles my throbbing clit, flicking it time and again with the tip of his tongue as I come down from whichever overworld he sent me soaring toward.So fucking sweet.
Hearing him speak steadies the chaotic beats of my heart. Here I was, worried I’d smothered him. What a shame that would’ve been, considering how gifted he is with his tongue.
His lips curve against my engorged core as he sets down the foot he hooked around his shoulder and gives that most phenomenal square centimeter on my body a final kiss.
As he leans away, he wears the laziest, smuggest, shiniest grin. “I hope I will forever be able to impress you, Behach Éan.” He tongues his lower lip that glistens with me, and makes a sound low in his throat that makes my stomach clench.
Coming on his thigh was something.
Getting lapped at by a male seemingly intent on ridding my body of moisture is something else entirely.
As he unfurls his tall, broad body as indolently as a curl of smoke, my heart pounds. I am terrified and excited—terrifyingly excited—of what is to happen next.
He snares my gaze with his as he flips a lock of hair out of his eyes. “There is no need for terror. There is no need for anything further tonight—”
I press up on my toes and squash my lips to his to shut him up, because the man has seen to my pleasure thrice, and I’ve yet to touch him. I taste myself again, this time on his mouth, but instead of wrinkling my nose, it drives me wild with want. I want to sample him. To mix our flavors and create one that will be uniquely ours.
After I’ve squirmed out of the ruins of my dress, I curl my fingers around the hem of his shirt but cannot tear it off because of the added leather breastplate. I press away to study his armor. His smile grows incandescent as I struggle and scrabble with the myriad of straps.
I shoot him a death glare that transforms his smile into that deep laugh I usually love, but I’m a woman on a mission at the moment, and that mission is to peel away all of Lorcan Ríhbiadh’s layers so that he stands bare before me.
I drop my gaze to his waistband, a devious smile tipping up my lips when I catch sight of laces. Those should be easy enough to undo.
“You deal with the top”—I drag my nails along his midriff, and his laughter sputters—“I’ll deal with the bottom.” Before rolling down his trousers, I palm the bulge straining against the leather.
Lore curses, not once, and not softly. As I knead him with one hand, I pull on the leather laces. Sadly, they don’t magically rid him of his pants. Looser now, the material fills out, his bulge swelling as though there was more cock than met the palm.
I know he’s large, for I felt him drift against my knee in the Baths, but I’m wholly unprepared for what lay in wait behind the smooth leather.
Fifty-Six
Holy Mother of Crows, what am I supposed to do withthat.
I stare at the veined bobbing beast that stares right back at me, and I feel like weeping the same way it’s doing, because I want to make Lore feel good, but I will surely expire if I put that in my mouth.
“Fallon”—my name is a rough murmur on his lips—“you do not have to—”
I roll my fingers around his impossibly long, stiff length and pump, robbing him of speech. His eyes are wide and locked on where my tanned fingers connect with his pale flesh, tipped with an almost violet head that puffs out in a way Fae cocks don’t.
Phoebus, my go-to encyclopedia on all things Crow and sex, explained to me as we steeped in the warm baths, that Crows cut a thin strip of skin off their son’s appendages at birth and feed it to the Cauldron to show their allegiance to Mórrígan. Apparently, Shabbin men observe the same rites.
I find its mushroom shape oddly alluring.
How fortunate, for this will be the last cock you will ever touch or look upon until your very last breath.
I look up at him, a smile blowing away my former anguish.My first is to be my last. How thoroughly ironic.
His eyebrows pull so taut over his eyes that they dent the skin between them. “I beg your pardon. Your first?”
“Remember your first crow? The one Phoebus dislodged from the Acolti vault?”
“Yes . . .?”
“Remember when I touched you . . .there?”
