To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(59)

His fingers trailed down the inside crease of her thigh, almost tickling. She shivered.

“These are the labia majora.” He stroked up the other side.

Then something cold and wet trickled over her inner folds. She jumped a little and smelled the lemon, sharper in the air.

She felt him press the curved, slick lemon rind to her flesh. He slid it slowly through her wet folds. “These are the labia minora. But here”—he circled the top of her cleft with the lemon and then, abruptly and shockingly, pressed down—“is a problem.”

“A problem?” she squeaked.

“Mmm.” His voice had deepened to a near growl. “This is the clitoris. It was discovered by Signor Gabriele Falloppio in 1561.”

Helen tried to contemplate his words while he continued to press the lemon so exquisitely against her. Their meaning kept slipping away.

Finally she found her voice. “You mean… you mean no one knew of its existence until 1561?”

“That is what Signor Falloppio thought, although it does seem a little, well, unlikely.” He emphasized unlikely by tapping sharply with the lemon. She gasped. “But there is a further problem besides that one. You see, another Italian anatomist, a man named Colombo, claimed to have made the discovery two years prior to Signor Falloppio.”

“I think I feel sorry for these gentlemen’s wives,” Helen muttered. She was hot, the constant pressure of the cool lemon making her anxious. Aroused. She wished he would just finish and come make love to her.

But Alistair was obviously in no hurry. “Rather you should feel sorry for the wives whose husbands do not believe in the existence of the clitoris.”

She squinted at the ceiling. “Are there men like that?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” he murmured. He finally took the lemon away from her sensitive flesh, but now she felt contrarily bereft. “Some doubt there’s such a thing at all.”

And he slid the halved lemon slowly into her.

She gasped at the sensation. The cold citrus, his warm fingers. He twisted inside her, did something, and then withdrew his fingers, leaving the lemon inside.

“There are those who doubt that a woman feels any sensation at all when stimulated here.” He drew his finger up through her folds again until he tapped once more on her clitoris. “I think they are mad, of course, but a scientist always tests his theories. Shall we see?”

See what? Helen thought, but had no time to say, because before she could speak, his mouth had replaced his finger, and she had no way of speaking after that.

All she could do was feel.

He licked carefully, delicately, through the flanges of her sex, as if he wanted to taste every drop of the spilled lemon juice. And when he reached the top, he licked around her bud, in tighter and tighter circles until she was clutching at the sheets on either side of her in trembling ecstasy and had raised her knees to press against him. He took her legs and casually slung them over his shoulders without lifting his mouth from her. Instead, he held her hips more firmly, keeping her from arching away from him. He narrowed his tongue and darted it into her channel, and when she thought she might simply disintegrate from the sensation, he moved up again. He took that sensitive bit of flesh between his lips and sucked on it, gently and persistently.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t escape his determined lovemaking. She was moaning and panting, unable to control the sounds coming from her mouth. She’d tangled her fingers in his long hair at some point, and that lifeline was the only thing holding her earthbound. She tugged anxiously, inarticulate with need, for him to stop or continue—she didn’t know which, and it did not matter.

Nothing was stopping him.

Until light exploded behind her closed eyelids, and pure, almost painful pleasure radiated out from the center he still ministered to. She gasped, feeling tears welling in her eyes.

Feeling as if she’d touched heaven.

He continued to lick softly as she quieted, and then he rose, standing by the bed, examining her almost dispassionately as he shed his clothes.

“I don’t believe I shall ever taste a lemon and not think of you,” he said conversationally. He stripped his breeches off, and his penis rose, monstrously erect before him. “Think of this.”

He prowled up her spent form, his arms on either side of her, his weight making the bed sink beneath her. He took off her wrap and chemise as easily as undressing a doll, and she only watched him, her lids lowered lazily. He shifted and tugged her until she lay on the bed properly, and then he spread her legs again, as wide as he could. He lowered himself onto her.

She flinched slightly at his touch, her flesh still sensitive.

He bent his head until his lips touched her ear. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I must be in you now. I can no more refrain than I can stop breathing. Gentle.” He said this last because the head of his penis had nudged her entrance. “Relax. Just … let me.” He pushed an inch or so inside.

She breathed rapidly. She’d never been this sensitized. She felt as if a feather’s touch would make her shudder. And what he was introducing inside of her body was no feather. He slid a little farther in. She was very wet, but she was also swollen, ripe with arousal. She turned her head and licked at his jaw.

He froze. “Don’t—”

This time she carefully tested her teeth against his skin. No matter how casual his words, he was on a razor’s edge—she could tell by how stiffly he held his body—and a wicked part of her wanted to send him over that edge. Wanted to drive him to the brink of insanity.