He tried to sit up, though his body felt like lead. He needed to show her the pleasure she deserved.
Volusia put a gentle hand on his chest, guiding his body back down to the bed. “Sleep, Max.”
“But I want to—”
“I know what you want, and I want it too.” She found his hand and twined her fingers through his. “There will be time for that later. For now, sleep.”
His eyes fell shut. He wanted to protest more, but a wave of exhaustion was already pulling him under, and he finally allowed himself to succumb.
Chapter 17
Volusiafellasleepcurledup next to Max’s warm, satisfied body. Despite the lumpy mattress and itchy blankets, she could not imagine a better sleeping arrangement.
She woke several hours later. Darkness had fallen, and the bed shifted as Max eased himself out from under her. She squinted groggily at his shadowy form as he went to the tub of water, which now must be cold, and washed himself. A blush rose to her cheeks as she realized she’d accosted him earlier before he’d even had a chance to bathe. From the moment she’d intercepted him staring at her when she undressed, she’d been powerless to resist him.
She had always loved the way he looked at her, even when they were seventeen: hungry yearning tempered with something tender, almost worshipful. He had touched her like that, too. She recalled the clasp of his hand around her breast, undeniably greedy, yet with a reverent softness.
Avitus had only ever regarded her body with mild distaste. Being looked at as Max looked at her, being desired as Max desired her was intoxicating. His reaction to her touch thrilled her. She had never felt so powerful as when he was shuddering and gasping beneath her hand.
The embers of desire that had been suppressed by exhaustion now burst back into flame. Volusia sat up in bed.
At her movement, Max looked up from scrubbing his hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s all right.” She ran a hand through her hair, combing out the tangles.
His gaze lingered on her. She wondered how much of her he could see in the darkness. “Sorry if I crowded you in the bed. I meant to offer to sleep on the floor earlier,” he said as he finished washing. “That would have been the polite thing.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Surely it’s clear by now that I don’t want politeness. I want you, Max.”
He dropped the cloths he’d been using to dry himself and came to the bed. His knees sank into the mattress as he climbed toward where she sat in the middle. Her gaze traveled down his long body. Gods, she hadn’t even touched him yet and his cock was already thickening. Was it truly possible for someone to want her that much?
An answering heat swelled between her legs. She rested a hand on his strong, warm shoulder, then slid her hand up to twine her fingers in his hair.
“I’ve wanted you since I was seventeen,” he said in a rough whisper, and lowered his head to capture her mouth in a long kiss.
“Then have me.” She allowed her body to relax beneath him, stretching out on the bed. His weight covered her, solid and heavy, reassuring rather than oppressive.
“Just one thing,” she breathed when his mouth finally broke from hers. “I don’t want to risk a child.”
“Understood,” he said, “but there’s some ground to cover before that becomes relevant.” He raised himself off of her and began to move down her body, dropping kisses on her collarbone, breasts, and stomach as he went.
“Ground…to cover?” Her voice rose to a squeak as his fingers delved between her legs. She was well-acquainted with the pleasures to be found there; nearly ten years of a solitary marriage had taught her not to rely on another for her own satisfaction.
But the stroke and tease of Max’s big, capable hands was like nothing she had ever felt. He touched her as delicately as if she was made of the thinnest glass, but every movement still sparked a rush of pleasure.
He explored her with his fingers for several blissful minutes. She gave an involuntary moan of disappointment when he took his hand away—only to break off in a gasp as he replaced it with his warm mouth. She had never imagined this as something a man might do to a woman, but Max’s imagination was clearly more expansive.
Her back arched, pressing herself closer to him, needing the slide of his wet tongue, the gentle suction of his lips on her most sensitive place. He slipped his hands beneath her hips, tilting her toward him as he buried his face between her legs.
Her thighs tightened around his head. She flung a hand down to grab his hair, using the pull of her fingers to encourage him in the movements and rhythm she liked. The pleasure built, and she gasped his name. His abbreviated name was better suited than most to cry in the throes of pleasure—one syllable, easy to choke out amid ragged, frantic breaths. She said it over and over again as the flick of his tongue and clasp of his lips urged her on to greater heights.
When she finally exploded, he growled against her in satisfaction. As the tremors subsided, she collapsed back onto the bed, every muscle weak and sated. Her thighs released their grip on his head, and he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth with an appreciative grin.
“I always wondered what ambrosia tasted like,” he said. “Now I know.”
Her cheeks, still flushed, heated even more. He lay down next to her, stretching his body alongside hers, and pulled her into his arms. Little shocks of pleasure sparked where he touched her. His arousal bumped her hip, and she reached down to take hold of it.
The rhythm of his breathing stuttered. She loved this effect she had on him, able to make him quiver with the lightest touch. She rolled onto her side, facing him, and lifted her knee to rest atop his thigh, opening herself to him.
