Page 96 of Valour

“I don’t give a damn. More.”

It was building already, the orgasm. And she reached out for it as he sucked and kissed. She closed her eyes, praying—she, Hester Orn—praying to God he would never stop.

And then he slid a finger inside her.

“Oh, God.” She rocked her hips against his tongue, against his finger, clamping her muscles around him. The brightness in her chest seemed to grow, but no magic remained, used up out on the ice. This was something else. Something new.

“Come for me, little witch,” he purred, amused, then licked her in a slow rhythm, white heat building in her thighs. “Let go.”

He didn’t need to ask again. Hester tipped over a precipice, delicious spasms rocking her body as she sank into ecstasy.

His voice rumbled through her, “Yes, Hester.”

Who the fuck was Hester? She’d forgotten her own name.

She wrapped her hands into his hair. He was never allowed to move from between her legs.

“More,” she groaned, her legs shaking as he built her up again. She crested the wave, plummeting down the other side of it, crying out and rolling her hips until he pressed her down with a strong arm.

His laugh vibrated through her. “Good girl.”

“More.” Would it ever be enough?

“I need to be inside of you.” He surged forwards, a hand at the nape of her neck and another under her ass. He lifted her up, standing, muscles flexing, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her back hit the pole of the tent, and in one smooth, blissful thrust he was inside her.

“I’m going to take you like no one ever has. You’re mine, Orn, and I’m not letting you go.” He slid out slowly, then thrust so hard, so deep, that she cried out his name. “Hold fast.”

Her eyes locked onto his, and she thought she might drown in being wanted like this, wanted to drown in him, as he took her like no one ever had. Oh, that line had sounded so cheesy in the romance novels. And it was so fucking hot in real life.

She clung to his shoulders, the tent fabric starting to shake as he rocked his hips into her, and she cried out with every thrust. He muffled her cries with his mouth, sweeping his tongue over hers. And that bright light in her chest knotted with something in him. She could feel him at the end of a tether, at the end of an invisible rope.

The tent pole moved back an inch.

“Septimus,” she warned, gripping tighter to his shoulders. “The tent.”

And then the pole gave way completely, the fabric falling down to cover them. He laid her on the floor and carried on, his mouth on her neck, her breasts, his fingers reaching down to stroke her. “I want to feel you come around me.”

She groaned at his touch, at the way he filled her, consumed her, and she clutched at that blazing rope, that lifeline, that invisible tether growing between them. She rocked up into him, finding that sweet, sweet spot, her fingers digging into his ass as he slammed into her, and white heat rose in her legs again.

“Don’t come without me,” she gasped, as his strokes settled into a perfect rhythm, his breathing coming faster.

He groaned, twisting a hand into her hair, still working her with his other. “I won’t.”

She pulled his head down, desperate for the taste of his mouth, the press of his tongue, her climax building until she shattered around him like ice, her muscles tensing and loosening, and he didn’t stop, kept up that punishing pace until he moaned into her mouth, his movements faltering, his shoulders tensing.

He stilled, pulling his head back and staring at her. “Do you feel that?”

She knew exactly what he meant. His soul twisted around hers, like two strands of rope, forever entwined. She nodded.

“What is that?” he asked.

“I have no idea.” She paused. Looked at him aghast. “Did you just come inside me?”

“Shit. Sorry. I couldn’t stop.”

She covered her face with her hands. “It should be alright. God, that was good.”

He kissed her tenderly. “I’m sorry.”