I’ve been controlled by men before, of course. Told what to say and how to say it. Told who I’m allowed to sleep with and when. Told what places I’m allowed to visit, what kinds of professions I’m allowed to have, what kind of life I’m allowed to live.
But being controlled like this? In these quiet, private moments between us? It’s exactly what I’ve always wanted, even if I never had a name for it.
His tongue curls inside me, the tip fluttering along a spot just inside my entrance that makes me groan like a beast in heat. It’s loud, even with my napkin gag.
Voices slither into the church, closer than before. Footsteps. Laughter. Cups clacking together.
Lachlan’s tongue glides out of me and the emptiness is like being plunged into freezing water. “Charlotte,” he commands quietly, wrapping a hand around my jaw to force me to look at him. “Hey. You have to be quiet, sweetheart. If you can’t manage it, I’m going to stop.”
Don’t stop.Don’tstop,I shout frantically through thediamrhán.I’ll do better. I can be quiet.
I am only mildly ashamed of my desperation.
Good. A raspy whisper in my head.Because you’re so fucking delicious, I’m not sure I could stop even if Torvil walked in here.
Lachlan’s fangs glint in the moonlight, sharp and white against his swollen russet lips, and then he’s on me again.
I tip my head back in ecstasy as he licks from base to apex, a long, slow glide before flicking his tongue over my clit. He does this several more times, enough that I’m a complete mess. My thighs quiver violently, rattling the old altar.
Lachlan wraps his arms around them from underneath, flattening his palms against my lower abdomen and pulling theskin taut. I am more exposed than I’ve ever been but somehow less vulnerable. And I feeleverything. He works my swollen clit with just enough pressure for just long enough that I think I’m about to …
He pulls away. Starts again and, oh god, I’m right on the verge of …
He pulls away. Starts again, and …bloody hell, if he would just stay right there for a second longer, I know I could …
P-please, I stutter.
Please what?he asks, the picture of innocence as he tunes me up like his favorite instrument.Please stop teasing? Please end my misery? Please make me come in your mouth?
Whatever I manage back, even through thediamrhán, isn’t more than gibberish because he pumps two fingers inside me as he drags his lip ring up and down my clit.
Back bowing, I come in a series of sparkling explosions that radiate out from the base of my spine. Lachlan groans against my cunt, as if my orgasm is happening to him, too. I’m probably screaming into thediamrhán. I’m definitely whining through my gag. He slaps a hand over my mouth.
Once my ears stop ringing, I note muted conversation outside. Did they hear anything? Do they know their future queen is spread upon an altar with her bodyguard’s head between her legs?
And why does the thought of being caught like this make me even hotter?
Lachlan’s hand is still covering the entire lower half of my face, his forehead pressed against my inner thigh, his shoulders heaving. As if he needs just as much time to come down from this high as I do. And he didn’t even climax.
Was it like this with his clients? Was he this affected? I want to ask, but part of me doesn’t want to know. Let me live in the delusion that I am special for a little while longer.
That’s all we have left anyway.
He presses a soft kiss to my hip, then helps me down. He unties the napkin, and I circle my jaw, my mouth a bit sore. He kisses the corners, then holds up my panties, trousers, and cloak.
I redress as he grabs the box with the Bannrhorn fragment and leads me out of the church.
We return to Tír na Lune well past midnight. The next morning, I hand over the fragment to Duke Áine.
Just in time for the Harvest Ball, where I’ll gain my second betrothal.
Chapter
Thirty-Three
The hill beyond the castle in Tír na Lune has been transformed into a flaming shrine to the fae sun god Lugh. His namesake holiday honors the bounty of the land, a celebration of the first harvest and a recognition of the coming scarcity, when the light will give way to darkness.
Four bonfires crackle at the corners of the party grounds, and there’s an arrangement of wide, flat stones—a makeshift dance floor—ringed in thick candles. On one end, a wooden platform has been erected, and a small band of musicians deliver lively tunes on pipes, strings, and drums. At the other stands an arch woven from sunflowers and zinnias beneath which sit bushels of tomatoes, green squash, stalks of corn, and, to my utter delight, several baskets of shining maroon cherries.
