Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(71)

She didn’t want to.

She’d never felt such a wicked thing. He was licking her. Licking into her folds, lapping at that hard pebble at the apex of her slit, tonguing his way in deeper, circling and probing. She caught her breath and then couldn’t exhale, her body shivering, her soul quaking. How was she supposed to endure this? How was she supposed to survive it? There were sounds—moist, intimate sounds. The sound of him pleasuring her in an act that felt like a primitive branding. How did he know? Where had he learned such monstrous, awful, excruciatingly wonderful things?

He opened his mouth, placed it over her clitoris, and sucked, and then she completely lost her mind.

It went flying out the window as she arched under him and moaned, low and embarrassingly loud—well, it would’ve been embarrassing if she’d still had her mind, which she did not. Because he was doing something so deliciously sinful that she was actually pushing against him with her hips, whining under her breath, wanting more. And he just kept doing it. Sucking and licking and—oh!—thrusting a finger inside of her until she exploded. She felt the combustion, the tremors, the roaring in her ears, and then the wonderful, languorous warmth. It snuck through her limbs, turning her muscles to pudding, her bones to ginger biscuits, utterly weak and sweet and open.

Megs giggled. Perhaps she had lost her mind.

She opened her eyes to see Godric sitting up beside her, watching her, his lips curved gently and his gray eyes almost warm.

“Godric,” she whispered, and held out her hand to him.

He took her hand, spreading her fingers and kissing each one.

She caught her breath, her eyes blurring. He touched her as if he cherished her. As if what they were doing here was more than a simple physical act. He was standing beside the bed now, stripping off his breeches and stockings and pulling his shirt over his head. She watched him and saw that his pendant was a small key around his neck on a silver chain. Then she was distracted by the sight of his bare chest, and here in the light from all the candles she could see the scars: a twisted white line along his rib cage, a raised welt on one shoulder and an indent on his left forearm as if a chunk of his flesh had been ripped away sometime in the past. And yet, despite the scars—maybe even because of them—she found him beautiful. His chest was wide, the curves of his upper arms and shoulders well delineated. He had a diamond of body hair centered between his dark nipples, and his belly was taut and lean. His waist tapered gracefully into his hips, and—

He lowered his smallclothes and she stared. He rose ruddy and proud, the round crown of his penis shining with liquid and his balls drawn up tight underneath. She’d never seen Roger completely nude. Never seen any other man completely nude. It was a glorious sight. She was glad, suddenly, that he was her husband. That she could be selfish in this one thing: no one else could ever see him like this. He was hers.

Even if it was only for a time.

Her eyes rose to his and she saw that he stood watching as she looked her fill at him.

She blushed. “Godric.”

And he smiled, tight, approving, and predatory in a wholly masculine way.

He placed a knee on the bed and leaned over her. “Now. Now I take you, just you and me, Megs.”

There was still a twinge of doubt in her, a fearful shiver that she was betraying Roger. But she’d hurt Godric, she knew that, and he’d never done more than offer her kindness.

So she smiled back tremulously. “Just you and me.”

He lowered himself over her, settling between her spread thighs, and she could feel the heavy, slick weight of his cock, sliding from her thigh to wedge in her cleft.

She inhaled. She’d just come, lovely and hard, and her flesh was sensitive to his heat, his weight, his intimate dominance of her. He framed her face with his hands and lowered his head toward her. The kiss was gentle, almost reverent, and tears sprang to her eyes. This wasn’t what she’d wanted, what she’d thought she’d needed. He was weaving a web of intimacy, strand by intangible strand that, knotted together, would become an unbreakable net, holding her tight until she no longer even considered escape.

Her thoughts scattered as he lifted his hips a fraction and his erection dragged through her valley.

Her breath hitched.

He was rubbing, their mingled dampness making the glide so slick, so sweet. She smiled at him in invitation and saw as he raised his head that his lips were curved as well.

“Now.”

He notched the tip of his penis in her and began to push. Inexorably, relentless in his strength. In his determination. He watched her, locking eyes as he breached her entrance, as he made a place for himself within her, as he joined their bodies together.

She was open beneath him, her body, her cunny, her mouth, her face, everything. Open, splayed wide, absolutely vulnerable.

Then he began to move.

Just a little, hardly retreating at all, as if he couldn’t bear to leave the welcoming warmth of her body. Hard little shoves that jolted her each time.

She arched her neck, her head tilted back against the pillows, her eyelids half lowered, but her gaze still locked with his. She widened her legs even more, receiving him like the offering, the promise this was.

And he seemed to know what she was doing. His expression didn’t change, but his breath caught, his eyelids lowering just a fraction as he hitched his elbows under her knees and drew her legs up even farther. He held the upper half of his body up off her now, putting pressure on that one point of contact between them as he ground and ground and ground against her.