Page 43 of Beds and Blades

I felt, standing in the firelight with his eyes on me, genuinely, comprehensively, startlingly beautiful.

I had not known I was waiting to feel that until the moment I did.

He lifted me onto the bed and dropped to his knees between my thighs, broad shoulders forcing my legs wider. His hands slid up the soft skin of my inner thighs. Then he leaned in and dragged his tongue along my clit.

I gasped, hips jerking. The heat of his mouth was shocking. Hot, wet, and devastatingly thorough. He groaned against me, the low vibration shooting straight through my core.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he muttered, voice rough. “Soaked for me already.”

He didn’t tease for long. He ate me like a man who had been starving for exactly this moment. His tongue circled my clit with firm strokes, then flattened and licked broad and slow before sucking the swollen bud into his mouth. Two fingers slid inside me without hesitation, curling upward to stroke that perfect spot while his mouth worked me relentlessly. The wet, obscene sounds of his tongue and fingers filled the room, mixing with my broken moans and the crackle of the fire.

My hands flew to his dark hair, gripping tight as my hips rolled against his face. He growled in approval and doubled down, sucking harder, fucking me deeper with his fingers. The coil of pleasure tightened fast—too fast—until I was trembling on the edge.

He watched me writhe beneath him, dark eyes drinking in every desperate roll of my hips while his fingers continued their relentless rhythm inside me. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.

“Look at you,” he murmured.

“Skip… fuck… I’m…”

“Cum,” he ordered, voice vibrating through me. “Cum on my tongue, Meghan. Let me taste it.”

Then he leaned in and drove his tongue straight inside me.

I cried out. The hot slide of his tongue was obscene. Deep and relentless. He thrust his tongue in and out with slow, powerful strokes, and every time he pushed deep, his nose ground against my clit, sending sharp sparks of pleasure shooting through my body.

The orgasm arrived without warning and without mercy. I forgot my own name. I forgot every name. I forgot that names were a thing that existed.

He didn’t stop. He lapped and sucked through every shudder until I was boneless and gasping, my body twitching with aftershocks.

When I finally went limp, Skip rose to his feet, lips shiny with my release, eyes dark with raw need. He shoved his pants down and his cock sprang free. Thick, heavy, and even bigger than it had felt through the fabric.

It was intimidating. It was exactly what my forensic personal inventory had been pointing at.

I pushed myself up onto my elbows, still breathing hard.

Skip’s hand came to my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip.

I followed the touch forward, slid off the bed, and sank to my knees on the fur pelt spread before the hearth.

Up close, Skip was overwhelming.

I leaned in.

The first touch of my lips against him drew a sharp intake of breath from somewhere above me.

I swirled my tongue around the sensitive head, learning what produced results before committing to a methodology. He made an incoherent sound.

I committed to the methodology.

He was too long to take all the way, but I used my hands on the rest of his shaft, stroking in time with my mouth. The salty taste of him, the heavy weight on my tongue. It was intoxicating.

I took him deeper, hollowing my cheeks and sucking with a steady rhythm, using my hands on what I couldn’t take.

Skip’s groan was deep and guttural. His hand slid into my hair, not pushing, just holding as I worked him.

I pulled my mouth off his cock with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen, a thin string of saliva still connecting me to the glistening head.

My hands kept working him—slow, firm strokes along the thick, veined length—while I looked up at him.