Page 37 of Ella’s Desire

She looked so innocent sitting on a tree branch like a songbird, her hair falling loose over her shoulders, her mouth parted in amazement. And his engorged cock cradled against her dainty palm.

“You,” he groaned. “The way you are holding it.”

She cast an anxious glance at her hands. “Will it keep growing?”

Bronson grunted. It was hard to talk, hard to think, while she held him like that. A drop of moisture pearled on the tip. She touched it with a curious finger and spread it over the spongy head.

Sweat prickled on Bronson’s brow and his hands practically scraped off the bark behind him. Her fingers stroked down him, petting him, her touch so light it nearly drove him mad.

“Your skin is so smooth here,” she murmured. “And it’s so hard beneath.”

Bronson gave a tight nod.

Her fingertips danced over him without offering him any pressure. A blush stained her cheeks. “Tell me what to do. To bring you pleasure like you did for me.”

The idea of explaining it took him aback. He’d never had to offer such details before. The ladies at court played at being innocent but were skilled as whores in the shadows. Yet having to tell Ella what to do appealed to him far more than he would have anticipated.

“Wrap your hand around it.” His voice cracked as he gave the instruction.

She held him as he directed. He cleared his throat. “And squeeze gently.”

The pressure of her hand increased. Such exquisite pressure. He leaned his head back against the tree trunk.

“That’s it?” she asked.

“Move,” he said raggedly. “Your hand. Move it. Up. And down.”

The grip of her palm slid over him and a groan tore from his chest. Ella needed no further instruction as she worked her slender fingers over him, silky and hot and so, so perfect.

His bollocks went tight. He was close. Her rhythm remained too slow, too light. “Harder,” he panted. “Faster.”

He released the trunk in a moment of mindlessness and closed his hand over hers to show her what to do. Except as he was drawn in all directions by pleasure, he had forgotten he was up a tree.

The simple movement upset his balance and his left side dipped too low. His feet kicked out but found no purchase, and that was when he went tumbling out of the tree and onto the unforgiving ground.

He landed on his shoulder and heard a distinctive pop followed by brilliant stars of pain. His mind reeled, having gone from such pleasure to such agony, and in so short a time.

Ella dropped down beside him. “Bronson,” she gasped. “Let me go get Isla.”

“Cover me,” he ground out.

Ella had already started to run off but stopped and turned back around. She knelt at his side, shooed away the dogs, and tied the flap of his trews with shaking fingers. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “The tree was a bad idea.”

“Help me up,” he said tightly. “I can walk.”

She carefully tugged on his good arm until he was standing. He whistled for the dogs who came trotting toward him, both brown with mud, their pink tongues long and lolling.

Fortunately, the servants were able to see to them, as well as find Moppet, while Ella showed him to a small stone room within the keep. An old woman with withered skin and bright amber-colored eyes sat at a desk filled with various jars, a pile of herbs on a metal plate in front of her.

“Is this yer Lord Calville?” She smiled, revealing brilliantly white teeth.

“Aye, Isla.” Ella guided Bronson to a seat by the fire. “He fell out of a tree.”

“A tree?” Isla threw her head back and gave a cackling laugh. “What was the lad doing up in a tree?”

He was grateful the agony of his shoulder had eroded any sign of arousal, lest she know exactly what they had been doing in that damn tree.

Isla pushed herself up from her desk. “I’ll look him over but will need to take off his shirt to do so.” She jerked her chin toward the door. “Off with ye, my lady. All the better to preserve yer innocent eyes.”