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Was so embarrassed.
She knew—knew—she was wet there, her curls moist, and she couldn’t possibly be pretty. Why would he want to do such a thing? Stare at her so long without moving? She looked wildly at all the candles lit around the room. Would he put them out if she asked?
“Say my name.” His voice, even lower, even more gravelly than usual, interrupted her frantic thoughts.
“G-Godric.”
It was as if his name on her lips put spur to him. He lowered his head so fast she hadn’t the time to react, to try to pull him back, and once he’d found his goal …
She didn’t want to.
She’d never felt such a wicked thing. He was licking her. Licking into her folds, lapping at that hard pebble at the apex of her slit, tonguing his way in deeper, circling and probing. She caught her breath and then couldn’t exhale, her body shivering, her soul quaking. How was she supposed to endure this? How was she supposed to survive it? There were sounds—moist, intimate sounds. The sound of him pleasuring her in an act that felt like a primitive branding. How did he know? Where had he learned such monstrous, awful, excruciatingly wonderful things?
He opened his mouth, placed it over her clitoris, and sucked, and then she completely lost her mind.
It went flying out the window as she arched under him and moaned, low and embarrassingly loud—well, it would’ve been embarrassing if she’d still had her mind, which she did not. Because he was doing something so deliciously sinful that she was actually pushing against him with her hips, whining under her breath, wanting more. And he just kept doing it. Sucking and licking and—oh!—thrusting a finger inside of her until she exploded. She felt the combustion, the tremors, the roaring in her ears, and then the wonderful, languorous warmth. It snuck through her limbs, turning her muscles to pudding, her bones to ginger biscuits, utterly weak and sweet and open.
Megs giggled. Perhaps she had lost her mind.
She opened her eyes to see Godric sitting up beside her, watching her, his lips curved gently and his gray eyes almost warm.
“Godric,” she whispered, and held out her hand to him.
He took her hand, spreading her fingers and kissing each one.
She caught her breath, her eyes blurring. He touched her as if he cherished her. As if what they were doing here was more than a simple physical act. He was standing beside the bed now, stripping off his breeches and stockings and pulling his shirt over his head. She watched him and saw that his pendant was a small key around his neck on a silver chain. Then she was distracted by the sight of his bare chest, and here in the light from all the candles she could see the scars: a twisted white line along his rib cage, a raised welt on one shoulder and an indent on his left forearm as if a chunk of his flesh had been ripped away sometime in the past. And yet, despite the scars—maybe even because of them—she found him beautiful. His chest was wide, the curves of his upper arms and shoulders well delineated. He had a diamond of body hair centered between his dark nipples, and his belly was taut and lean. His waist tapered gracefully into his hips, and—
oom within shone with candlelight and Megs blinked and looked at Godric.
He watched her with eyes from which he’d dropped the shutters. The intent that blazed from within was daunting. She nearly took a step back.
He still held her hand.
“I made a promise to you,” he said. “And I will keep it—but not as we did before.”
She suddenly knew he was talking of their lovemaking the previous night.
“I … I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I didn’t mean to give you the impression that I was pretending you were Roger. I wasn’t. It’s just that what we did seemed like a betrayal of him. I didn’t want to lose him any more.”
Her lips parted, but nothing more emerged because it had finally dawned on her whom she’d actually been betraying.
“Don’t you think I might’ve felt the same way about Clara?” he asked low. “Don’t you think I had to sacrifice something to give you what you wanted?”
She bowed her head, for she felt ashamed. “I’m sorry, Godric.”
He cupped her face in his hands and lifted it so she could see his clear gray eyes. “It no longer matters. What matters is how I—we—intend to go forth. Starting with this.”
He lowered his mouth toward her, slowly, so that she could see what he would do. Her eyes widened before she let them fall, surrendering.
It was the least she could do to make amends.
His kiss wasn’t like the gentle embraces of before. This was a seal, a promise of purpose, a pact of understanding. His thumb pressed against her chin, opening her for him, letting him lick inside, claiming her. Her doubts rushed to the surface, making her stiffen, but he wouldn’t let her pull away. He held her and bit down on her lower lip, waiting until she stilled again.
She opened her eyes and saw that he watched her, assessing her even as he let go of her lip, laving it slowly with his hot tongue. She snapped her eyes shut again. This was too close, too personal.
He’d paused at the corner of her mouth, licking it almost pensively, until she yielded with a shudder, parting her lips wider, inviting him in. He made a low, pleased rumble at the back of his throat, and then he was inside her again and she caught his tongue, suckling in atonement. His hands drifted to splay over her neck, arching her head back so that she was entirely open, entirely vulnerable to him, her mouth a sacrifice.
His hands slid from her neck, down her bodice to her waist, and then he was lifting her, walking with her across the room, his mouth on hers, his tongue between her lips. He set her down by the bed and only then lifted his head. While her chest felt tight—her lungs laboring to draw breath—only the dampness of his mouth, the heaviness of his eyelids gave any indication of what they did.
