by Emma Chase
When we get to her bedroom, she spins in a circle in the center of the room. “That was amazing!” Lenora’s hair fans out behind her. “Wasn’t it amazing?”
“Amazing,” I murmur, not taking my eyes off her.
“I am curious about one thing,” she says.
“What’s that?”
“Earlier you said you’d thought of my concerns about an emergency, that you had taken care of it. What did you do?”
“Ah.” I nod. “I gave your sister an envelope with our location inside and instructions for it to be opened in case of a catastrophe.”
Lenny gapes at me. “You trusted Miriam with that?”
“Your sister isn’t as clueless as she puts on. She’s actually smart enough to make everyone believe she’s clueless, so no one ever expects anything of her.”
“Hmm . . . interesting theory.”
“I’m an interesting man.”
Something in the words or the way I say them catches Lenora’s attention. She moves toward me in slow, deliberate steps—reaches up, feeling the stubble of my jaw, and then she kisses me. It’s the first time she’s taken control, initiated a kiss. I move my mouth with hers, letting her lead, willing to follow wherever she wants to go.
She rocks back to her heels, looking up at me, her voice soft and quick, as if she wants to get the words out before she changes her mind. “Can I tell you something, Edward?”
I nip at her chin. “Anything. There is no wrong between us, Lenora.”
She nods and swallows a breath.
“All the dancing, and beer, has made me feel very . . . brave. And I’ve been imagining . . . thinking . . . I want to see you. All of you. Beneath your clothes. I want to look at the man I’m going to marry. Will you show him to me?”
There’s so much to her, my chest clenches with it. So many secret sides and layers to strip away and discover. Parts I think she’s just discovering about herself—parts we can spend our lives discovering together.
Without hesitation, I grip the back of my shirt and pull it over my head, dropping it purposely to the floor. I feel her eyes on me—as hot and heavy as a caress. Her gaze trails over the muscles of my arms, my shoulders, down the center of my chest. Her eyes drop lower, tracing every ridge of my stomach and down the path of hair that leads lower still.
My hands work the buckle of my trousers. And still she watches. I push them down—I’m not exactly the shy type—stepping out of them, and her pretty eyes flare wide as my hard, thick cock bobs against my stomach, reaching for her. Wanting her.
Lenora stares, all innocent curiosity that makes me throb. Her voice is breathy.
“Does it always look like that?”
“Around you? Always.”
Her eyes skim down my legs all the way to my toes . . . then slowly drag back up again. Seeing everything, missing nothing.
“My experience is limited,” she breathes out, “but I can’t fathom God making another man as perfectly formed as you.”
Pure, primal male pride pulses through my veins. And I want to have her—conquer her—claim her and keep her.
Holding my eyes, Lenora takes a step back and reaches for the buttons on her blouse.
“You don’t have to.” The words scrape up my throat. “I want you to . . . fuck, you have no idea how much I want you to . . . but only if you truly want to. There’s no rush—we have all the time in the world.”
Her eyes are clear with challenge, bold with bravery . . . but the tips of her ears are glowing hot pink, and I know this isn’t easy for her.
Still, she lifts her chin and opens her blouse, skimming it down her arms to the floor. She reaches behind her back, and in a moment, the satin brassiere falls away—and my breath catches at the sight of her pale, high, perfect breasts and dark pink nipples that were made to be sucked.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I say nothing that might disturb her or give her pause. Because now that it’s begun, I’m desperate to drink in all of her.
The skirt goes next—she slides it past the swell of her hips, down her petite, shapely legs—leaving her only in delicate lace garters, opaque white stockings and satin knickers.
Without a sound, Lenora dips her head, unhooks her garters and rolls the stockings down each leg. Then she slips her knickers off too. And I eat her up, devour every inch of her, with my greedy eyes.
She stands before me, bare and breathtakingly beautiful. Like something from a dream, a fantasy—full breasts, a tiny, trim waist and a beckoning bush of pretty dark curls between her legs.
I pull in a breath of air and slowly circle her. I don’t touch her—I don’t dare—if I do, we’ll be skipping a whole bunch of lessons tonight. Her hair flows in mahogany swirls down her back—brushing the top of the firm, perfect globes of her arse.
The things I could do to her. The things I will.
“You’re exquisite.” I press a single kiss to her temple. Then I close my eyes, breathe deep and regain my control.
I move around, standing in front of her—my voice coming back to me, strong and firm.
“I had a lesson in mind for tonight. Words—the names of things.”
Her brows furrow. “The names of things?”
I wrap my fist around my cock and stroke it meaningfully.
“The names of things.”
Her cheeks go red, but she manages to roll her silver eyes. “I’m not an idiot, Edward. I know the names of things.”
“Dr. Hatchet again?”
“Well . . . yes, mostly, but—”
“And what names did the good doctor teach you?”
“All the proper words, of course.” Her eyes slide down and I grow even harder under her gaze. “Penis, vagina, areola—”
“No.” I shake my head. “No. Those aren’t the words I want to hear from your puffy, perfect lips.”
She narrows her eyes. “Well, what do you want?”
“I want to hear you say cock.”
Lenora’s eyes flash to mine. And she frowns.
“Those are cheap words. Vulgar words.”
“They’re real words. Hot words. Sensual words real people use in the throes of passion and fucking and lust and love. If you can’t bring yourself to say it, sweetheart, you’ve got no business getting anywhere near it.”
Lenora lifts her chin and lets out a shuddery breath. And then she looks me right in the eyes—stunning in her stubbornness—and that beautiful bud of a mouth gives me exactly what I want.
“Cock.”
And it’s fucking sublime. So good I could come with three pumps of her pretty hand.
“Dick.” I say it like an order.
“Dick.” Mine twitches at the sound of his name in her lovely, lilting voice.
Her pupils are dilated and her nipples are two tight, rosy points begging for my mouth. I lick my lips and take it up a notch.
“Pussy.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of her lips.
“Pussy.”
Instinctively, my eyes drop to hers . . . and my mouth waters.
“Sweet, wet, pussy.”
It’s going to be—there’s not a doubt in my mind.
“Sweet, wet, pussy.”
I lean in closer, so our noses are just inches apart. And my voice is low and ragged now—filthy.
“Cunt.”
“I hate you.”
And I laugh. Because this, now, here . . . her . . . nothing has ever felt so good in my life.
“Say it, Lenny,” I tell her softly, almost begging. I run my fingertip across her collarbone, feeling the thrum of her pounding heart. “Say it for me and I’ll give you a kiss.”
She inhales slowly, her breasts rising—her nipples just grazing the hairs on my chest. And Christ, she looks so delectable I want to pounce on her. I want to spread her out, hook one leg over my shoulder and thrust into her, hard and fast, right here on the goddamn floor. I want to pump into her for hours, until her voice is hoarse with pleasure and her pussy is so fu
ll, I drip out of her.
And then I want to take her all over again—in every way I know how. Fuck those pouty lips, come down her throat, have her from behind, on her knees, teach her to ride me until she scours my back with her fingernails, because it just feels so . . . damn . . . good.
But I won’t do any of that. Not tonight. Because it has to be slow. It has to be right.
For her . . . it has to be perfect.
Her eyes shine with boldness now. With challenge. Because retreat is not in my Lenny’s vocabulary. She rises up on her toes, bringing her mouth so close to mine, I can taste the sweetness on her breath. Her tone is sultry, teasing—accentuating every consonant.
“Cunt.”
My eyes slide closed with bliss. “Hmmm . . . good girl.”
I open my eyes and slowly sink to my knees in front of her.
She peers down at me, tantalizingly bewildered.
“What are you doing?”
I smirk up at her. “I promised you a kiss. I’m giving it to you.”
I hold her by her hips, lean forward and envelop her pussy in a deep, open-mouthed kiss. My lips suck on her gently, and my tongue strokes slowly up and down between her folds.
“Ohh!”
She tastes sweeter than I’d even imagined. The scent of her curls here is floral too—fresh and clean—lilacs in the snow. The softest, prettiest pussy—I could stay here on my knees for her all night long.
“Edward . . .” She rises up on her toes, before settling down into my lapping, lashing mouth on a long, serrated moan. “I . . . ohhh . . .”
“Do you like it, sweets?” I ask against her hot, wet flesh.
“Yes . . .” Her breath puffs from her mouth. “Do you like it?”
I look up so she can see the truth in my eyes.
“I do . . . so much.”
She bites at her bottom lip. “Are you sure?”
I kiss her thigh, her hip. “Let me show you how much I like it.”
I guide her to the chaise longue, lay her down and spread her knees with my hands. I kiss up her pale, smooth thighs and across her tiny waist, groaning at the feel of her soft skin beneath my lips. I rest my chin on her pelvic bone and smile into her searching gray eyes.
“Can I tell you another secret, Lenny?”
“All right?”
“I’ve dreamed about these lips too.”
Then I bow my head and worship my Queen.
THIS IS NOT NORMAL. It’s some deviant thing he learned while traveling. A sin—it’s too good not be a sin. One of the big ones, I’m sure—deadly. And that makes sense, because my heart beats so hard and my breath is so short, I feel like I might die.
And I couldn’t care less.
Just the sight of Edward’s blond head between my legs makes me cry out with need. With passion. My moans fill the room in a voice that sounds nothing like me. My back bows and my hands stroke through Edward’s hair and across his smooth, taut shoulder blades—needing to feel his skin.
“Jesus . . .” I draw in a moan at the hot, slick sensation of his wet moving mouth.
Edward looks up at me with the devil in his eyes.
“Edward.”
Then he dips his head back down and takes his time—playing me like a fiddle, making long leisurely strums with his tongue and pressing humming open-mouthed kisses against my flesh. He grasps my knees, spreading my legs wider and drags his tongue up and down through my wet lips. And then he spears me with his tongue, pushes it inside in firm, thick thrusts. It’s wicked and dirty and incredible.
I lift my chin and groan loudly at the ceiling. Because it’s all so much . . . everywhere. Building, surging—yes—a brutal, beautiful onslaught.
And then his tongue is replaced by the firm press of his finger sliding in and out of me. My muscles clench hard around him without a thought, wanting to keep him there—keep him inside—because he feels so good inside.
“Fuck,” Edward groans, the hot pant of his breath fondling my thigh. “I knew it. I knew you’d be tight just like this.”
He kisses my tender skin, nipping with his teeth and scratching with his stubble. “Lenora, do you touch yourself, pleasure yourself? In the shower, the bath, the bed?”
And I don’t even care anymore—there is no modesty or shyness, no secrets. It’s as Edward said . . . there is no wrong.
“Yes.”
He reaches for my hand, kissing the tips of my fingers, sucking them into his mouth, wetting them with his tongue. “Show me how you do it. The pace . . . the rhythm . . . show me, love.”
Not following his command is not even a consideration. I slide my two fingers through my . . . pussy . . . to the juncture, spreading my lips and unashamedly rubbing my clitoris in firm, slow circles. And it’s always felt good, but never like this. This is liquid, illustrious pleasure.
Edward growls my name and he’s on me again. I feel the wet heat of his mouth on my fingers as he licks at me, feasts on me—like a famished man’s first meal. Like he wants to consume me . . . and I would let him. My fingers move faster and my hips rise. And I thrust shamelessly up into Edward’s mouth.
His hands slide under me, squeezing and kneading my arse, before lifting me up to his relentless lips. He pushes my slippery fingers aside with his chin, and his tongue—his glorious tongue—takes over, pressing flat against me, dragging back and forth over my clitoris in perfect sensual circles. Building and building, and yes . . .
My nails dig into the cushion of the chaise, grasping for something to hold. My head tilts and I scream as pure, piercing pleasure pounds through me. My vision goes white and it’s like I’m flying, soaring, swirling. The feel of Edward’s strong hands and sure mouth makes it go on, prolonging the deep sensual bliss.
Slowly, I sink back to myself, breathing in racing gasps. Edward peppers soft, gentle kisses on my pelvis and stomach, before gazing up at me. And I want to lose myself in his emerald eyes. I could. I could disappear forever into him and be insatiably happy.
I reach for him, touching his brow, his regal cheek.
And I beg. “Show me how to do that to you. To make you feel like I feel.”
He flexes his jaw and his eyes go dark.
“You’re sure?”
I nod. “I’m sure.”
He rises, standing beside the chaise, the hard shaft of his . . . cock . . . jutting out, weeping fluid at the tip. Edward slides his fingers between my legs, gathering my wetness and bringing his hand to his erection—coating it, stroking. He takes my hand and wraps it around his . . . dick. It’s warm against my palm, smooth as silk and rigid as steel.
He’s too thick, too large for my fingers to circle all the way around, but by the pleasured hiss that whistles between his clenched teeth, that doesn’t seem to matter. He moves my hand beneath his, and we’re pumping together in long, tight strokes.
“Harder.” He groans. “Grip it harder.”
When I squeeze tighter, he releases my hand—leaving me to my own devices. I bring my other hand between his legs, cupping his heavy testicles, palming the delicate skin there.
“Yes . . .” Edward grunts.
And his face . . . his face is beautiful . . . contorted in hungry, surging gratification. And I want more. More moans and grunts—I want to wring those sounds from his lungs. So without thinking, I lean forward and take the tip of him between my lips.
He shouts, smacking the cushion behind my head violently, curving his spine, leaning over me—his hips jabbing in shallow thrusts. And it’s amazing. Edward’s not even touching me and I can feel the sweet, delicious sensation between my legs throb to life. Building and building all over again.
He cups the back of my head, gently, pushing forward, feeding me more of him. I run my tongue along his length, tasting the manly tang of his skin, suckling hard to taste him more. And there’s such power in it. I was weaned on power—to keep it, wield it—but this intimate power is something new and miraculous.
Humbling and heady at the same time.
>
This giant of man, who could break me with his bare hands, stands above me, but is utterly at my mercy.
Pleading in a way that makes me moan with him.
“That’s it, sweet girl . . . take it . . . take it just like that.”
And I do. I relish in the taking of him.
Edward pulls back, suddenly, out of my mouth—he strokes himself fast above me, then with a deep, long groan his thick, hot semen pulses from him—splashing on my chest, my breasts, my nipples.
When it’s over, he grips my hair and yanks my face up, plunging his tongue between my lips with a raging, desperate force even while his chest heaves to recover his breath. After a moment, his tongue slows, gentles, and his fingers stroke my face tenderly. He goes down on his knees, kissing my forehead, my cheeks, before resting his forehead on my thigh.
“Christ almighty . . .”
I run my fingers through his hair. But then, something occurs to me and my hand stills.
“Hmph.”
Edward rubs my knee soothingly. “What is it?”
I frown deeply.
“Dr. Hatchet definitely left some parts out.”
And Edward laughs—a joyful, masculine rumble right from his chest.
“God, you fucking delight me, Lenora. Nothing on earth will ever delight me as much as you.”
PREPARING FOR A ROYAL WEDDING is like preparing for war—everything must be coordinated, staged, executed to perfection. The palace may have a staff of hundreds, but just as there are orders that can only be given by a general, there are responsibilities that can only be performed by the bride and groom. Dignitaries to entertain, luncheons and brunches to attend, invitations that must be personalized, proclamations that must be planned, dress-fitting appointments that must be kept, and thousands of thank-you notes that must be signed by hand.
I despise thank-you notes. If I could, I would ban them from the damn country, just to save myself the trouble. One can dream . . .
The next two weeks go by in a blur of duty-filled days. Edward and I see each other, of course, but it feels like we share more longing glances across rooms than actual time together.
