He was right of course, but when I nodded, it had nothing to do with wanting to avoid pain and everything to do with the intensity in his expression. From the look of him, nothing had ever mattered more.
I peeled the blood-soaked silk down, leaving me naked from the waist up. My nipples pebbled under the hunger of his gaze, but he quickly shifted his attention to my wound. He retrieved abowl of clean water and a cloth, then wiped the blood away from the cut that was almost perfectly in the center of my chest, over my breastbone. “This will sting,” he said with quiet urgency as he held the needle over a flame. Then he lifted a bottle of whisky to pour it over the cut. I clenched my fists against the burning pain.
He looked at my hands and said, “You can hold on to me if it helps. This part will hurt.”
I smirked, thinking he was confusing me for a Saxon lady and not a warrior who’d been stitching up wounds since childhood…but then I caught the embers of lust still burning in his blue eyes.
He was close enough that he could’ve taken my nipple in his mouth, close enough that I reached out and snatched his balls in my grip over his pants. “I think I will hold on to you. You’d better make sure it doesn’t hurt, or I might have to…squeeze.”
He let out a breath when I gripped his balls harder, but the look in his eyes was a mixture of determination and desire. His cock was already hard.
With a steady hand, he held up the needle and started to stitch the two sides of the cut together with quick, precise movements. It didn’t hurt that bad, but when he next pushed the needle through, I winced and squeezed him a little tighter, eliciting a matching wince from him.
Still, his hand was steady, his gaze perfectly focused, as he completed another stitch. And his cock was rock-hard.
“I think it needs one more stitch,” I said, when he moved to tie off the thread.
He nodded solemnly, placing one more flawless stitch at the end of the row, his neck straining with tension as I squeezed even harder, but his touch was light. The look he gave me was of complete submission, an utter willingness to endure whatever I deemed necessary.
It was the most erotically charged moment of my life, akin to holding a life in my hands, but like he was offering it up to me willingly, as though it had belonged to me all along.
He held up the whisky bottle again to warn me of his intentions, but I only laughed and adjusted my grip. “Ready when you are.”
We inhaled deeply at the same time, both bracing for the pain, but it was his breath that crashed out of him when I gripped him like a vise. I barely felt the burn over the raging desire that had taken hold once more.
I tugged his pants down in one swift move before dropping to my knees and taking his cock in my mouth. I didn’t release my hold on his balls, so his guttural groan was equal parts pleasure and pain. He offered me his pain willingly, but I wanted to take his pleasure by force, to bend his basest instincts to my will.
I took him in my throat, choking on his girth with each stroke, but reveling in the power I had over him. He closed his eyes and tilted his head up to the ceiling. The muscles in his neck and shoulders strained like he was containing a mighty roar, clinging to that last tendril of control.
I took it from him.
When his hips began to buck, I released his balls and sunk my teeth into his cock, tearing the roar from his throat. He bellowed to the ceiling, erupting with pleasure in my mouth.
I relaxed my jaw, swallowing his seed greedily as I coaxed every last tremor of pleasure out of him.
He panted silently for long moments with his eyes closed. Without opening them, he said, “Did you kill me? I think I might be dead.” His gravelly voice sounded as though he’d been screaming for hours and not seconds.
I stood and took him by the jaw to plant a tender kiss on his swollen bottom lip. His eyes flew open, and the look of awe sent an unfamiliar thrill down my spine.
He led me over to the tub, gently removing the tattered pieces of my clothes until I stood naked in the warm water. When he poured from a jug, warmth cascaded over my naked skin to wash away all the blood and grime from the day.
With a cloth, he gently cleaned me, stroking over my breasts and down my stomach until he parted my thighs with a gentle nudge and washed so tenderly, I dug my nails into his shoulders.
He helped me step from the tub, then lowered to his knees in front of me, just as he’d done when he stripped my wedding dress off.
His expression smoldered as he parted me with his thumbs and gazed upon my nakedness. “Am I restricted to my hands once more…or will my queen permit me a taste?”
I’d never wanted to be anyone’s queen, had never coveted my father’s throne. But the reverence he showed me felt somehow essential, like I’d only been living a partial life without his worship.
In answer, I threaded my fingers into his dark hair and pressed him to my core. He devoured me with his tongue, using his hands and mouth as he groaned like he’d never tasted anything more delicious.
Ignoring the sting of my wound, I cupped my breasts, and he increased his pace, tipping me into mindless pleasure. I was just as loud as he had been, shamelessly moaning my release to the gods.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, looking up at me like I was a Valkyrie descended from the halls of Valhalla.
“And you’re dangerous,” I said, recognizing just how much trouble I was in. He was a complication I couldn’t afford.
“Only to your enemies,” he said, nuzzling his face against my thigh. “I serve at the pleasure of my queen.”
