Smiling at the results of his handiwork—tongue-work?—he stood up and, ignoring the demands of his nearly painful erection, leaned over to drop a soft kiss on her mouth.
She opened her eyes, which were dilated and unfocused, and said in English, “I like you to eat pussy. Very good.”
“Mm, I’m glad,” he murmured in the same language. “Because I like eating your pussy so much, I’m about to do it again.”
“What?” She switched back to French. “Is it not my turn yet?”
With a shake of his head, he gathered her legs together and swung her up so she lay fully on the bed. “You get three to my one, remember?”
She fell back onto the pillow with an exasperated huff. “I do not believe that is possible. I am completely spent.”
“That sounds like a challenge.” Grinning, he levered himself up so he rested on his elbows and knees over the length of her body, the head of his cock brushing her thigh. “Do you have so little faith in me?”
She laughed weakly. “It is not you I doubt.”
“Well, I have enough faith for both of us,” he told her. And then he bent his head and kissed her.
She made a show of being too tired to respond, but it wasn’t a very lengthy one. Within seconds, her lips parted, and her tongue touched his, tentatively at first and then with greater hunger. After a few deep forays into each other’s mouths, she broke away to ask, “Is that how I taste? Down there?”
“Mm, I suppose so.” He hadn’t given much thought to the fact that his lips and tongue would taste of her pussy and that he would be sharing that with her. He’d simply wanted—needed—to kiss her. But he was glad he had done so before the scent and flavor of her had waned. She should know how splendid her body was, how ripe and perfect for loving.
“I…I like it,” she confessed, her cheeks pinkening. “That is a bit wicked, is it not?”
“Oh, yes,” he agreed as he began kissing his way down her throat to her collarbone. “It is exactly the right amount of wicked.”
Her back arched, chasing his mouth as he worked his way to the curve of her breast. He rested his weight on one hand so he could use the other to tease and pluck at one nipple while he sucked at the other; both pebbled swiftly and obligingly under his ministrations. With a throaty groan, she clutched at the bedcovers and tossed her head from side to side. Lifting his head, he smiled up at her. So much for her protestations that she couldn’t possibly come again. She could, and she would. He would see to it.
As he looked at her—lips parted, cheeks rosy, eyes closed—he recalled his earlier fantasy of seeing her just like this, but with her hair fanned across the pillow like a sunset against a cloudy sky. But her hair was still confined in the braids she fastened around her head each day to hide its glorious color beneath her bonnet. And suddenly, he couldn’t bear it.
“Take down your hair,” he commanded hoarsely.
She blinked, her blue eyes glazed and unfocused. “What?”
When he repeated his demand, she gave him a slightly puzzled look, but nodded and said, “I will need to sit up.”
Backing away to give her space, he watched as she pulled out the pins that held the plaits in place with slightly unsteady fingers and placed them carefully on the small table beside the bed. After the braids were free, she undid each one in turn, releasing rivulets of fire that cascaded over her shoulders and breasts and down to the middle of her back. The effect was even more stunning than he had imagined, and he reached out to run touch the silken tresses that brushed her shoulder. Softer and thicker and more sensuous than his fantasies, too. Burying his fingers in the heavy waves, he took her lips in another series increasingly carnal kisses before pressing her slowly back to the bed and shifting his body to cover hers again.
His cock throbbed with anticipation, the current position of their bodies assuring his baser instincts that at any second, he would be buried deep in her wet, welcoming pussy. Sternly, he reminded himself that this was the one thing he could never do and instead backed up until his knees rested at the foot of the bed.
“So,” he asked as he scooped up her legs from under the knees and spread her legs again, “do you think you are still too tired to come a third time?”
“I—I did not think so, but now, I do not know,” she admitted breathily.
“I think so, too.” And as much as he longed to make love to her fully and properly, being able to bring her to climax again and again was a satisfying alternative.
This time, he began with his fingers. Her pussy was slick with his saliva and her own juices, and his index finger slipped easily between her folds to her entrance. He teased the opening with the tip of his finger and dragged her wetness back up to her clitoris. She let out a low moan and spread her legs even wider to improve his access. With a grin, he removed his other arm from beneath her knee and used the fingers of that hand to spread her pussy lips wide and taut, a technique he knew would increase her sensitivity and sensation. Lowering his head, he licked her in long, luxuriating circles, gently at first and then with increasing firmness. Her thighs trembled and her breath came in short, ragged gasps, warning him of her impending orgasm.
Well, that hadn’t taken long at all. God, she was responsive. Maybe five or six times to his one wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.
But he wanted her to come around some part of him, and so he eased back the speed and pressure of his tongue against her clit.
“Unh,” she huffed in protest, “so close. Please.”
“Trust me, sweetheart. I will get you there,” he promised, then he added in English, because he needed to be explicit about his intentions. “But I want to fuck your pussy with my fingers while I do.”
The muscles in her thighs and abdomen twitched at his words. “That sounds…wicked,” she said. “Exactly the right amount of wicked.”
Recognizing his own words, he smiled up at her. “Indeed.”
Continuing to spread her folds with one hand, he pressed his index finger inside her. She gasped at the invasion, and her inner walls clamped down on him. But tight as she was—to be expected, of course—she was also wet and eager, and when he began to fuck her with his finger, she quickly caught the rhythm and move with him. Once he felt her passage stretch and ease, he added a second finger and increased the pace.
When she was panting with the need for release, he put his mouth on her again and sucked her clit. Her entire body stiffened for one long, heart-stopping moment and then the climax shook her, her inner walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers while she muttered what he suspected were French imprecations his grandmother had never taught him.
He waited until she stopped shuddering to slip his fingers free, pressing a gentle kiss on her pussy lips before crawling up her body to kiss her mouth. “Challenge met.”
She half sighed, half laughed. “You were right. I should not have doubted myself.”
He chuckled and rolled onto his back beside her, pulling her on top of him. Her hair fell around her face, shrouding them in a bronze-and-gold curtain. His cock, by now as rigid as an iron poker and nearly as hot, pressed up against her navel as if driven to seek any available hollow. “Ready to try for a fourth?” He wasn’t joking. Pleasuring her was quickly becoming his favorite pastime.
Her answer came first in the form of a light punch to his biceps. “No,” she said, her jaw set in a mutinous scowl. “It is my turn now.”
Laughing again, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed the tip of her delicately shaped nose. “I am fairly certain you mean it is my turn, as the pleasure in this case will be all mine.”
She gave him a narrow-eyed look of skepticism. “Are you saying you did not enjoy giving me pleasure?”
The corners of his lips quirked in a wry smile. She had him there. God, she was an amazing woman. He had never had a bed partner who was so clever, so quick, so responsive. No wonder he loved her. “Fair enough,” he admitted. “But the pleasure will be most directly mine.”
A fresh burst of desire flared in his loins. “Suck my cock,” he ground out.
“I can suck your cock now?”
The words, spoken in French-accented English and without a shred of the self-consciousness he would expect from a native speaker, made every last shred of blood desert his brain and head straight for his groin. Bloody hell. He was so aroused now, he might not hold out for more than a few second once she put her mouth to him. “Yes, Sabine,” he responded, still in English. Reaching down between their bodies, he grabbed his shaft and stroked himself to ease the suffering, if only minimally. “You can suck my cock. Now.”
Permission granted, she scooted down his body, and he spread his legs to accommodate her between them. Her hair settled over her breasts and shoulders like a gauzy veil as she kneeled in the space he had provided. For several seconds that seemed to him like hours, she studied his cock and balls as if she were looking at some strange creature for the first time. He supposed, in a sense, she was. He’d freed his shaft from his breeches in the carriage, but she wouldn’t have seen his testicles then.
Just before the anticipation killed him, she reached down and cupped his balls. His eyes rolled back in his head.
“How do you call these?” She continued to use English, and God help him, he’d never heard anything more erotic.
“Ballocks,” he grunted. “Or just balls.”
“You like me to touch?”
“Jesus, yes.”
“I can touch when I suck?”
Forget sucking him; she was going to end him with words alone. “Yes. And you can use your hand, too. Like this.” He demonstrated fisting his cock while she watched, obviously fascinated and stimulated by the sight.
She replaced his much-larger hand with her own and gripped him, moving up and down the shaft experimentally. Her other hand continued to fondle his balls, and he could feel a too-quick release spiraling up from them. Fuck, he was going to cream like a schoolboy with his first woman.
“If you do that for long, I’ll come before you suck me at all.”
“Really?” She arched an eyebrow, slowing her movements though not stopping them altogether.
He let out an exasperated groan of laughter. “It might be better that way. I am liable to choke you if I come in your mouth.”
She blinked her confusion. “In French, please.”
After repeating himself in French, he added, “When a man has not spent his seed for some time, there is likely to be a large quantity the first time. You might have trouble keeping up. And some women do not like the taste. If you would rather use only your hand, that will still be very good.”
Pausing, she considered. “But it would be better if I sucked you? As your mouth was better for me than just your fingers?”
Fuck it. He wasn’t going to lie to her. “Yes.”
“Then I will suck you, and I will try not to choke.”
18
Sabine was almost as aroused as she had been when Thomas had first put his mouth to her pussy. The idea of sucking his cock until he came and swallowing his seed was inexplicably erotic. Squeezing her thighs together, she leaned in and closed her mouth over him. He made a low, throaty noise as she began to move, mimicking the way he’d thrust her fingers into her. At first, she took only the head between her lips, circling it with her tongue, but she quickly realized that he was holding himself stiff to keep from trying to thrust further into her mouth. Once she made this discovery, she sucked him deeper each time, stroking his balls in time with the movements of her mouth.
His hands came down to caress her head, and then he swept up her hair and held it to one side. When she looked up, he was watching what she did with an intense, almost pained expression. He said something in English, the entirety of which she did not understand, but the gist of which was that he enjoyed being able to see his cock in her mouth. Reflexively, she began moving her own hips in the same cadence, too. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to come again, too.
As if he could read her mind, he said, “Touch yourself. Make yourself come again.”
Of all the things they’d done together so far, putting her own hand between her legs while he watched was the most disconcerting, but also the most liberating. Reaching down between her thighs, she rubbed the crest of her sex the way she would have done if she were alone. It was a little harder, keeping track of both things—sucking him and touching herself—but she soon found a rhythm. The pleasure built and built, and she felt both incredibly powerful over his body and yet utterly powerless against the demands of her own. Her efforts on her own behalf paid off quickly, and she let out a moan of relief as she came, easing her own tension and allowing her to concentrate on his again.
Every muscle in his body went rigid. “Fuuuuck,” he groaned. “Have to come, sweetheart.”
The warning prepared her for the first jerk of his cock, which was followed by a spurt of hot, thick fluid. She did nearly choke the first time, but she soon caught on to the rhythmic pulses and managed to back off so each pulse of seed hit the top of her mouth rather than the back of her throat. The flavor was bitter-salt rather than bittersweet, but not unpleasant, and she swallowed each burst as he shuddered and groaned and muttered encouragements in English. “Ah, yea. That’s the way. Take it all. God, you’re sweet.”
When he finally went lax beneath her and the pulses stopped, she withdrew with one last savoring lick, sat back on her haunches, and looked down at him. His cheekbones were ruddy, his eyes closed, and his taut features more relaxed than she had ever seen them. A small smile curved his lips.
She had done this for him. She felt like a goddess. An extremely tired goddess.
With a contented sigh, she stretched out alongside him on the bed. His arm curled around her, pulling her so that her head rested on his shoulder.
“You were right,” she said drowsily.
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “About what?”
“That was fun.” Yawning, she snuggled against him. “We should have fun again soon.”
And have fun they did. For two blissful nights.
During the day, Thomas read to her from Robinson Crusoe and took to speaking to her almost entirely in English, encouraging her to answer in the same language when she could. When she could not, either because she did not understand what he said or did not have the words to answer in English, he patiently switched to French and taught her what she needed to know. By the end of two days on the road, her English had improved by leaps and bounds.
Of course, the nights helped, too. Their play was conducted entirely in English. Although most of the words they used when they pleasured each other would be unfit for polite company, she found that structure of the language came more easily to her the more she used it. And when they were playing, they talked a lot.
Or, more accurately, Thomas talked a lot. He talked about how he planned to touch her and then about how he was touching her. He talked about how he wanted her to touch him and then about how she was touching him. And his openness encouraged her to be just as explicit in expressing her wants and needs as he was. All that talking made their lovemaking—and yes, that was the right word for what they did, even if they had not consummated the act in the traditional sense—better, hotter, more satisfying.
But then, Thomas was a garrulous man in any setting, not just in bed. This was not to say that he talked too much, but rather that he possessed an easy confidence when it came to engaging people in conversation and showed genuine interest in what others had to say. He charmed everyone they encountered in the course of their journey, from the innkeepers to their staff to the other travelers they met. No wonder he had become a diplomat. He had precisely the right disposition for the job.
Damn it. Perhaps if he not been so well-suited to diplomacy, they could have been together.
Instead, they had less than a week left. S
ix days, at most, of stolen moments that would have to last a lifetime. Because she knew there would never be another man like Thomas in her life again. No one who would ever “fit” her in quite the way he did.
She was in love with Thomas Pearce. There was no denying it. Inexperienced as she was, she knew what she felt was not mere infatuation, nor was it simply the afterglow of physical pleasure.
And it didn’t matter that she loved him now. He was right about that, too. If she gave up her goals, her dreams, her independence to have him, she would almost certainly come to resent him for it. Not in a week or a month. Not even, perhaps, for years. She would rather have a few stolen moments of joy than a lifetime of regrets.
Or at least, she was fairly sure she would.
But when he kissed her awake that third morning and then slowly, sweetly took her to paradise with his fingers and his tongue, she was a lot less certain. How could she ever regret this?
Once he was done pleasuring her, he rolled off the bed and donned his drawers and breeches. His erection strained against the fall, as easily visible as if he were still stark naked.
“I can help you with that,” she said in English, staring pointedly at the ill-concealed bulge.
With a wistful smile, he shook his head. “No time, I’m afraid. It will go away on its own by the time I’m ready to go downstairs.”
“Are we in a…” she paused, searching for the right word, “…rush today?”
“We will reach the Paris safe house tonight,” he said, grabbing his shirt from the back of the chair it hung over. His biceps bunched seductively as he pulled it on over his head. Watching him dress was almost as much fun was watching him undress. “I’d like to arrive early enough to give us time to have some clothes washed before we have to leave again.” He turned his head to sniff the underarm of his shirt and wrinkled his nose. “Mine, at least, are starting to stink.”
“I like the way you smell,” she told him earnestly. “You do not stink at all.”
A Matter of Indiscretion Page 14
