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Cock. She sucked in. Like a rooster. Equally apt, she supposed.

“I prefer cudgel.”

“Cudgel?” The cudgel bounced of its own accord.

Her eyes widened, even as her lungs contracted.

“No.” He glanced down. “That’s not made to strike.”

She wrinkled her nose. “But you are going to stab me, aren’t you?”

“Not stab. Join.”

How could two bodies so different join? Her gaze roamed, taking in his corded thighs, his taut stomach, and his impressively broad chest. She bit her lower lip; suddenly, she felt very small.

“Don’t worry, Minx.” He leaned forward, settling in. “Our bodies were made to fit together.”

She cautiously laid a hand on his back. His muscles flexed, and she felt another involuntary clench. Joining, apparently, made her body come alive.

Initially, his weight felt odd, but being covered and protected was nice. She accustomed herself to feeling his power, until his strength became a familiar presence, and the heated cudgel pulsing against her skin, her prize.

Again, he nuzzled her neck and palmed her breast. This time, his hot breath tickled her ear. A closed bud of need inside her unfurled yet again—nectared, multilayered and ready.

She threw back her head and moaned.

“Mmm.” He hummed as if her moan had a taste and that taste was sweet. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she panted, though she was not.

A flash of pale kidskin caught her eye. She frowned down.

Had he failed to remove his under glove, even though he’d fully discarded his shirt? She stared, uncomprehending. And before she could adequately form a thought, he moved to position himself at her entrance, and she could no longer see past her breasts.

In one swift thrust, he filled her. Even hazy, unformed thought stopped.

Everything stopped. All sounds. All sights. Every feeling, every sensation except pain. She was being torn. Invaded.

“Breathe,” he ordered.

She inhaled.

“I’m going to stay still. You’ll soon grow accustomed.” He paused. “I believe.”

“You believe?” she squeaked. “Know, Simon! You should know!”

“I’ve never bedded a virgin,” he sounded slightly offended. “But considering the species’ survival depends on procreation...” He let his thought hang.

She growled. Women died in childbirth. Was this a man-cudgel murder?

“I’m sorry,” he said, kissing her eyelids, her cheeks, her brow. “I’m sorry.”

“Touch my breasts.” A perfectly reasonable request. Apologies were empty without action.

He did as she’d asked. “Better?”

Yes. She remembered to breathe. Again, the tension in her shoulders drained. Soon, the pain subsided.

She was still pinned, though. Nearly smothered. And covered in Asquith’s scent. She inhaled. A comforting scent. She became almost... content?