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He lifted his head suddenly as if he were aware her attention had wandered, his eyebrows drawn together over stormy gray eyes. “Say my name.”
“Godric,” she whispered.
He lowered his mouth to her right breast, licking around the sensitive nipple before abruptly drawing her into his mouth.
She gasped, her hands flying instinctively to his shorn hair, grasping uselessly at the too-short locks. He suckled strongly, his tongue working against the underside of the nipple, his fingers petting her other breast. That one point of pleasure was so intense, making her mouth open soundlessly.
He moved to her other breast, laving it before sucking for many long minutes. Her legs moved restlessly, her thighs clenching.
He raised his head above her, his eyes on her breasts, red and wet now. “My name.”
“G-Godric.”
He thumbed her nipples—in reward or punishment, she wasn’t sure—as he began mouthing over her ribs and down her belly. He was heading in the same direction as he had the night before and she instinctively tensed.
He placed both hands flat against her hip bones and took the time to kiss her lower belly, just above where the springy hair began.
Then he looked at her face.
She licked her lips before parting them. “Godric.”
He watched her as his hands grasped her thighs and slowly parted them, pushing until her legs were spread wide.
Then he looked down.
Instinctively she tried to bring her legs together again, but his hands were hard and firm. Not even Roger had examined her so closely. So intimately. The rooms they had trysted in had been dim. Even when he’d kissed her there, it had been only a fleeting touch. She’d been so embarrassed …
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—
He lowered his smallclothes and she stared. He rose ruddy and proud, the round crown of his penis shining with liquid and his balls drawn up tight underneath. She’d never seen Roger completely nude. Never seen any other man completely nude. It was a glorious sight. She was glad, suddenly, that he was her husband. That she could be selfish in this one thing: no one else could ever see him like this. He was hers.
Even if it was only for a time.
