To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(47)

A small whimper of frustration escaped her lips.

He raised his head, his cheekbones flushed, and his eye gleaming roguishly. “Is this what you want?”

He held her gaze as he trailed his hand down over her trembling belly and into the curling hair at the juncture of her thighs.

“Alistair!” she gasped. “I don’t know if—”

“Don’t you?” he murmured, his gaze growing heavy. “Don’t you know, Helen?”

And as she watched his face, mesmerized, embarrassed, and hotly aroused, he touched her there. Her lips parted in soundless wonder. His thumb rubbed her in gentle circles. His fingers softly petted her, parting, stroking, exploring.

“Oh,” she gasped.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “Keep your eyes on me.”

He entered her with his finger, slowly, smiling when her eyes widened. He withdrew the finger and thrust again, his thumb keeping up the soft circling at her center. Her eyelids drooped. She felt hot. She was afraid she might make some awful animal sound if he continued, and at the same time she didn’t want him to stop.

“Helen,” he crooned. “Bonny Helen. Come and cover my fingers with your sweet dew.”

Her head fell back, lolling restlessly on her shoulders. It was as if she were in a dream. She was a wanton, a lovely desirable wanton, and he was a man worshipping her. She felt his hot mouth on her throat, kissing, tonguing, and it began. Little tremors that built to a shaking, pounding rush of heat and pleasure—so much pleasure that for a time she lost herself entirely.

When she opened her eyes long moments later, he was watching her, his hand still softly stroking.

“Did you like that?” he asked, his voice more tender than she’d ever heard it.

She could only nod, heat rushing to her cheeks.

“Good.” He withdrew his hand and unbuttoned the flap of his breeches. “Let’s see if we can do that again, shall we?”

She just had a glimpse of pubic hair and dark flesh—a good deal larger than she’d expected—and then he stepped between her legs. He kissed her. Gently. Lightly. But her focus was on what was going on down there. He nudged her, and she inhaled at his heat, at the broadness of—

She broke the kiss and said breathlessly, “I don’t—”

“Shh,” he murmured. He nibbled at the corner of her mouth. “It’s simple biology, really. I am made for inserting myself in you. You are made for receiving me. Thusly.”

“But—”

He thrust, the crown of his penis parting her folds, opening and stretching her. Her eyes flew wide open.

He was watching her with a demonic gleam in his eye. He smiled slightly and thrust again. She felt him invading her, entering her.

“You see?” he purred. “So simple.”

He ground his hips one more time, and the base of his penis met her mound. He was completely seated within her. She’d never felt a fullness like this. He swallowed and she knew suddenly that he was not nearly as sanguine as he pretended. His cheeks had flushed, his eye narrowed, and his mouth curved almost in a sneer.

“An interesting fact you may not know,” he said in a low, gravelly voice, “is that once the male has ventured so far, it is almost impossible… ah!” His head tilted back, his eye closing as she clenched internally. He opened his eye, his mouth now curved down in savage determination. “Impossible for him to stop.”

He withdrew fractionally and surged into her again. “He is compelled to complete the act as if”—he thrust again, this time harder, firmer—“his very life depended on it.”

She smiled and wrapped her legs about him. He braced one hand on the table beside her hip, the other on her bottom and set a demanding rhythm. The table shook and thumped and something glass toppled over the edge and shattered on the floor.

And she didn’t care. The laughter bubbled up in her throat again, and this time she let it free. She threw back her head and laughed as Sir Alistair made love to her with his strong, quick, determined body. She grinned at the ceiling in pure joy and felt his heavy cock sliding and rubbing against her, filling her full, and she’d never felt so light.

So free.

And then another wave hit, catching her by complete surprise and tossing her high, sailing on a crest of pure, exquisite pleasure. And at its peak she looked down and saw him, thrusting still faster into her, his broad shoulders bunched and tensed, his hairline gleaming with exertion. He arched back his head and shouted. And then he went still, trembling and jerking within her, his face gone curiously smooth.

She didn’t recognize the expression on his face at first, and then she realized: it was peace.

AH, GOD, IT’D been a good long while since he’d last coupled with a woman—not since before Spinner’s Falls, in fact. He’d forgotten how heady the feeling was. Actually, Alistair thought as he panted against Helen’s neck, he didn’t remember it ever having been this sweet. This glorious. He smiled, holding warm woman flesh against himself. Perhaps some things did improve with age.

She wriggled a little under him, as if the table was too hard for her soft arse. He straightened and looked at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes slumberous, and the surge of ridiculous masculine pride that went through him was probably only natural. What man wouldn’t feel pride at having pleasured such a woman?