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“That’s good,” he said, squeezing the tip. He was burning to be inside of her. “Now don’t do that,” he said, noting she was tensing. “It’s not that I mind, but it will make my entry sharp. Do you want it sharp and forceful?”
“I don’t know,” she stuttered.
“I think not. Not when you’re tender. Practise will make you wiser. So, I’ll help you. I’ll rub your slit and tickle you until you give up to me.”
“Thank... you.” She quivered deliciously, a leaf in a strong breeze and he was the sturdy branch that she needed for support.
He fingered her, as he said he would, stroking the delicate parts and tickling her clitoris with the tips. Gently at first, so as not to alarm her, then with more rigorous movements until he was jerking his wrist back and forth.
“Tis hard for some men to find,” he said, breathing over her shoulder, careful not to place his weight onto her back for fear she might collapse. Her legs shook and what he wanted trickled down her thighs, indicating she was more than ready. “Some won’t even touch it. Others don’t know it exists.”
“What?” she whimpered.
“This.” He pinched the little bud between his finger and thumb and she winced softly. “Aye. You know it. Tis the clit, they say. I don’t care for proper names. But you’ll know it makes you happy when I touch it.”
Without warning, he pressed his cock into her hole and speared her. She cried out and he thrust harder, ensuring half the length of his shaft was consumed by her ample tunnel.
He kept her waist between his hands, holding her steady while he rocked back and forth. The rhythm was more like an oarsman than a ticking clock. He had the measure of her depth and she was able to take him nearly whole.
She clenched him. The minx had more understanding of her purp
ose than he anticipated. He rammed harder and she pushed back, as if he should go deeper still. Now his balls were up against her. She bent over further, leaving her hands upon the beam, her head lower. Unfortunately, her overworked arms withered and were unable to hold her body upright.
He grasped a clump of her mousy hair, knotted it around his fist, drew her head up and tilted it to one side.
“I want to see your face,” he panted. Her eyes were glazed, her mouth ajar, and her tongue loose between her lips. She was agog for it. He knew that look and what it meant. He wasn’t going to stop unless she screamed for his pity. He was known to be merciful and kindly. Sometimes even gentlemanly, which he resented. He’d been taught that lords used money to make themselves powerful, and those who weren’t greedy fought in wars and never came home to their wives.
He said he’d be quick. He was capable of spilling, the weight of his balls told him he was close, but the friction of his cock against her and the way she clenched around him kept him thrusting faster.
It was probably only minutes. He’d no clock to tell him how long he delighted in her. But for those moments he cherished her, he was in heaven and it might have been hours of pleasure. The swell of heat surged, and he whipped out his cock and nudged it between her arse cheeks.
She offered no resistance; she was weak and helpless in his arms, breathing fast and shallow. He tucked one arm under her, supporting her weight, and kept the other in her hair. He aimed his cock, using touch to find his target. When he pushed, to his relief, she surrendered with fortuitous ease. The opening was sufficient for him to enter with just the tip of his cock and the very slit that was about to spill.
He growled, a low throaty groan of pleasure. The fountain he produced was more than she could take in one go. The rest slithered down her legs.
She held her breath. He shook her, alarmed by her sudden silence, and she gasped.
“Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “I see stars. I feel... my legs.”
She was shaking from head to toe; the crippling impact of her climax had knocked from her the last threads of her strength. Withdrawing his cock from where he’d nestled it between her cheeks, he spun around, scooped her up, and carried her across the room to the truckle bed.
Sprawled across it, she lay in a state of stupor. He shook his head, somewhat delighted at her fragility even if it was working against him.
“You need stamina, lass. That was just a brief excursion. Tomorrow I’ll take you for a longer ride. Build you up. By Sunday, you’ll need your wits about you. I plan to make you wet and quivering all afternoon. The Lord says rest. I says fuck.”
With her half asleep, he undressed her, bathed her body, and fed her more hot milk and a piece of bread. She took it all without saying a word. After he completed the last tasks of the day—checking the barn door was bolted and the hens safe in the coop—he stripped off and lay next to her in the bed.
He spooned his naked body around her smaller frame. Side by side, flesh against flesh, his warmth smothering her, he sighed. He’d take her every day, twice a day if possible. She was gamely, keen, and courageous, too. For he was a strong man with a bottomless supply of energy; he needed only a few hours of rest to keep him invigorated.
He thought she was out of it.
“Will that be all for tonight, sir?”
He lifted himself up onto his elbow. In the moonlight that crept in through the window, he spied her wide-open eyes and full lips. He’d yet to kiss them. He probably shouldn’t. She was married.
But Lord Coleman would not touch her. Not like Matthew.
He lowered his lips, pressed them to hers, and exhaled. She tasted of butter and sweet almonds.
