The words wouldn’t come. His hand was tight about her wrist; in another moment he’d pull himself away.
Peasants shouted in the fields. Flies buzzed. Life hurtled on.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Ah.” He removed his hand and she pulled open the last button.
“Yes yes yes yes yessss.”
Her last yes shaded to a gasp of surprise. She hadn’t quite expected the length and breadth of flesh suddenly freed from his breeches. Naively, she supposed, she’d pictured something more decorous, less rampant. Less thrilling. On sudden impulse, she leaned over to kiss the dark, purplish head atop the long, erect shaft—like a delicious wild mushroom, she thought, swollen after a rainstorm. She licked a salty drop of moisture from its tip, and traced a slow, adventurous finger along the sort of seam on the shaft’s underside, watching awestruck as he continued to grow and harden.
He made a throaty, incomprehensible sound, abruptly pulling away from her and sitting up.
Her boldness disappeared; she froze with embarrassment.
“Oh no,” she gasped. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Oh dear, did I do something terrible? Perhaps people don’t actually do such things with their tongues, but you looked so . . . so lovely, and I just wanted . . .”
He’d taken something out of his waistcoat pocket. It was whitish, translucent. She watched in fascination as he rolled the sheath down over his penis. Ah yes, Gilles had explained that to her. He’d made it sound quite the manly self-sacrifice too.
And it’s a sacrifice for me as well. Timidly, longingly, she touched the stretchy stuff that contained his flesh and separated him from her.
“It’s important, Marie-Laure . . .”
Though hardly foolproof, Gilles had warned her. Still, it was good of him to think of taking such precautions. She should probably thank him for it.
But there wasn’t time to thank him; there wasn’t time to say anything, because now it was she who lay on her back on the straw, and he who was rising above her, his hands lifting her skirt and parting her legs. It was happening very quickly now, the pressure of his thighs on hers, his entry into her, his mouth on her mouth, her cheeks, her neck. It was moving so fast, it was taking too long; it was lovely, it was confusing; she felt a marvelous opening and grasping somewhere inside. And then pressure, too much pressure. And too soon, only pain.
He held her tightly, licking the tears from her face.
“Oh, my dear,” he said, “I wouldn’t have planned it that way for you, but you took me rather by surprise, you know.”
“I . . . took . . . you?”
He nodded.
“I’ve never been seduced quite so expeditiously before. It was all I could do not to make a complete fool of myself.”
He sat up, smiling at her astonishment. “Such a determined mouth,” he murmured, tracing her lips with his little finger and smiling as her lips parted and the tip of her tongue became visible.
Light as thistledown, he touched the tip of his own tongue to hers.
“And yes,” he added, “people do do such things with their tongues. They do it all the time, though not nearly so charmingly as you did.”
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Copyright © 2004 by Bertrice Small
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7291-1
The Dragon Lord's Daughters Page 39
