Page 91 of The Sun He Buried

His mouth reaches my stomach.

Oh. “You said next time.”

He lifts his head. “You remember.”

“I had reason.”

His mouth brushes my inner thigh.

My hands close in the blanket.

“Quiet,” I remind him.

“That part’s yours.”

Terrible man.

His mouth settles between my legs.

I bite the blanket.

He starts slow. His hands close around my thighs while his tongue finds the place his fingers learned in Sólvik.

I make a sound into the wool.

The bed remains silent.

The wall probably doesn’t.

He does it again, firmer, and my hips lift from the mattress.

“There.”

He stays there.

Baldr remembers everything that helps another person and far too many things that embarrass me.

One finger slides inside me, then another when I open for him. He curls them and watches my face from between my thighs.

I put the blanket over my mouth.

His eyes laugh.

I kick his shoulder.

That makes him laugh too, and the vibration goes through me.

Oh.

I grab his hair with both hands and hold him there. He has the nerve to look pleased before his mouth gets serious again.

My toes curl into the blanket. His fingers keep the rhythm. His tongue presses exactly where I need it.

I come with my knees tight around his head and one heel digging into his back.

The blanket saves Asta from most of it.

Probably.