How to Marry a Marble Marquis(39)
“I don’t know if I’m fascinated or horrified,” she admitted with another laugh, and this time his icy tone melted with her crystal bell, the golden tone from her throat softening his sharper edges into a beautiful melody, and a giddy warmth suffused him. “Well, I suppose if I meet a gargoyle at the ball, I won’t have to worry about laying any eggs, right, my lord?”
The warm feeling faded, a cold stone turning over in his stomach. “Quite right, Miss Eastwick. And a lucky lord he would be.”
It was his second favorite place in the world to be. The first place position was occupied by the space between her breasts. Her skin there was as soft as a cloud, as fragrant as lying naked with her beneath the lilac grove, which he had done, as warm as a hearth, and as comfortable as his perch. He did not know what it was to sleep in his living form, but had to imagine the soft serenity of laying his head at her breast and breathing her in was just as peaceful.
His second place in the world was where he currently was, with his head nestled betwixt her thighs and his mouth on her cunt. She was ready to come for him, he could tell by the way her thigh trembled as he licked and sucked on her clit, sweet nectar streaming from her. He loved having her this way. That swollen little pearl would throb against his tongue as she climaxed, flooding his mouth with her sweet honey until his cheeks glistened and he was replete, like the fattest, most satisfied butterfly in the field.
They had repaired to the library after dinner, as it was sheeting rain that night. She had dropped to her knees before him, asking for a lesson on pleasuring him with her mouth, and while his head had seen warning in her request, his cock had been only too happy to oblige, perking right up the instant she’d licked a tentative stripe over his head.
It seemed bizarre to him how responsive his body was to her every clumsy, unpracticed overture. He like a firm grip, a deep suck, and a good, hard fuck. He’d cultivated the skill of being an excellent lover, but what he personally needed to be satisfied was rather straightforward . . . so why, then, did he feel his balls quivering, already eager to spill at the first tentative, shallow suction of Eleanor Eatwick’s lovely rosebud mouth? His knees were trembling with the effort of holding himself up as she bobbed inexpertly on his shaft, his wings spread, hips rocking ever-so-slightly, spine rippling with the need to fill her mouth.
“What will I need to do differently,” she gasped, drool connecting her mouth to his glistening cockhead, “with an orc or a minotaur? Will those lords be pleased with the same technique?”
It was a wonder he hadn’t lost his erection immediately. Instead, he’d hauled her up to her feet, placing her on the table and spreading her legs wide. Dropping into the chair before her, Silas ignored the question entirely as he pushed up her skirts, and focused on the way she gasped under the ministrations of his tongue. He was positive she was doing it intentionally.
She had been there for more than a week at that point, and everything was going exactly to plan. He had made love to Eleanor Eastwick nearly every day since her arrival, exactly as he had planned. Sometimes, several times a day. Her time at Basingstone was drawing to a close, which meant her time with him would be similarly ending, and every time they were together, she made a point of reminding him of the way she would be applying her lessons on someone else.
It was silly to be upset. Outrageously unfair, in fact. That was the whole point, after all, and she was meant to be looking ahead to her time at the ball, and the husband that would follow. It didn’t make sense that every mention of another lord and the way she might pleasure them was a lance to his heart, particularly when bringing her here had been his bloody idea in the first place. At least he’d managed to turn her attention away from those unnamed and unknown lords for the moment, distracting her with the talent of his tongue, and quietly mourning that it was likely one of the last times he’d do so.
When she came, it was with a tiny mewl, the lusty moan he knew she was capable of swallowed down, as she always did when they were indoors. Outdoors she was not afraid to open her throat and shower him in the glory of her beautiful voice, but in the manor she was too embarrassed at the thought of being overheard by a servant. Her fingers wrapped around the base of his horns and her hips canted against his mouth, spreading boneless across the desk when she was finished.
He could make her come again if he acted quickly enough, he had discovered. Her clit was wonderfully sensitive and receptive, and although she shied away from any further attention from his tongue, he’d learned the pressure of his cock immediately within her and his fingers circling over her hood would have her clenching and moaning again in short order. His balls were tight and he needed to spill, and then perhaps after, she would allow him to sink into that heavenly spot between her breasts.
Silas reversed their positions, bending her over the desk. She keened when he pressed into her, his cock sliding home within her snug confines. She panted he began to pump into her, pulling her hips back to him on every thrust, and shook beneath him when he pressed his fingertips to her, beginning to circle. “Oh, it’s not enough to tremble, little moth.”
The hand that was not otherwise occupied at her breast gripped her leg just above the knee, pulling it a bit higher over his hip. The adjusted angle made her head fall back and her mouth drop open, a wheeze rushing from her mouth as if her lungs were the cracked bellows of an ancient organ, and Silas relished the noise.