“’Tis good for me. Please.”
“Let me put my mouth on you. Like I did before.”
“Aye.”
And so he got to see her rosebud again, but this time in daylight, spread wide and glistening for him in all its glory. Yes, in this sordid bed, in this sordid room, in this sordid inn. But there was nothing sordid about tasting her again, sipping from her like she was a cup of ambrosia, rubbing his cheeks against her inner thighs, running his hands up her concave abdomen to her nipples which he caressed and pinched as she moaned wordlessly and her flower became fuller and redder and wetter and he ground his own hardness into the mattress.
And then he couldn’t wait any longer. She had demanded nothing from him since he had slid down the bed between her legs. But her arousal, the smell of her, her sounds—he couldn’t hold himself back from bringing her to her climax.
But unlike in Dunmore, she held still and did not flail when the moment came. He knew she was having her release from her clenching and her quivering and the change in her breathing and her sounds and her wetness.
She spoke while his tongue was still on her. “Dinnae . . . stop.”
He continued, and in seconds, she was building to a release again. He softened his tongue now against her little nub of hardness. Playing with it. Toying with it. Sucking on it, kissing it. Then lapping at it furiously. A gush of sweet liquid and the quivering and still she did not move off his mouth. He couldn’t see her face, only her body in front of him, flat, her small breasts and nipples.
“Keep . . . going.”
She was his countess and he was her vassal and he would keep going until his lady had had her fill. Or his tongue gave out. He was rougher now, using his teeth on her, his tongue penetrating her opening, her soreness forgotten by him.
This last time, she thrashed as she had in Dunmore, ripping herself away from his mouth since he had not thought to hold her down, so still and quiescent she had been for her last two climaxes.
He waited until her thrashing stopped. But no further commands came from his liege lady. He came up beside her, his head on the pillow next to hers. He stroked her abdomen and breasts and looked again at her profile, drinking her in. She turned to him and kissed him, licking his lips and tongue, eating herself off of him.
He felt her hand on his cock. His aching, throbbing cock.
“No, Helen.”
“Ye will tell me what to do, Jack Pike, and I will heed ye.” She pushed herself off of his chest and slid down his body.
He didn’t stop her. He didn’t want to stop her.
He watched her. She held him delicately, like he himself was a flower, almost certainly remembering his words in his bedchamber in Dunmore Castle. Gentler hands.
Her fingers ran over him, exploring him. She touched the veins along the sides of his shaft. She felt the seam and the ridges around the head. Her hands went to his scrotum and cupped him there. She kissed the slit that was beaded with a drop of his own arousal and then kissed everywhere her fingers had gone.
“Ye must tell me, Jack. Tell me how to give ye relief.”
Her touches and kisses had been agonizing. They had pushed his need higher than ever, driving him to thoughts of seizing her head and savagely pushing her down on him, using her mouth without her participation.
“If I tell you what to do, Helen . . .” He did not recognize his own voice, it was so strangled. So rough with desire.
“Aye?”
“It will not be training.”
“Nae.”
He put his hand under her chin, holding her jaw, turning her head toward his, forcing her eyes off his cock. Doing his best to meet her fierce gaze with his own authority.
“It will be a lover telling a lover what he likes.”
“Aye. Tell me what ye like.”
“Hold my cock like a staff. Firmly.”
He took his hand away from her chin and she turned back to his cock and wrapped her hand around it. She crouched by his side, bent over him, and he ran his hand over her back.
Maybe there was a bit more flesh overlying her muscles than there had been in Dunmore? Maybe her stay at the castle and eating Mrs. Mac’s food had done some good?
