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‘I like this,’ Beatrice said.
She was tasting his salty skin and feeling his hands roaming across her bottom, but he peeled her off him.
‘Lie down,’ he told her, and picked her up and made her do so himself.
His bed was as big as her whole basement office, and she felt swallowed whole by dark velvet. She lifted herself up to her elbows, so she could drink in his lean body, and the flat stomach and hips that seemed too narrow for what stood erect between them.
He was muscled, yet in subtle long lines, and as he turned away to go to his dresser she saw his taut buttocks and the power of his back, all the restrained energy he held within.
‘I love your scent,’ he told her, as he rolled a condom down his length and she tried to fathom that within her.
‘I don’t wear any.’
‘You have horrible soap...’
‘Ouch.’ She winced.
‘But then it fades and I get your scent...’
‘Oh.’
‘Doctor’s soap,’ he said as he prowled towards her on the bed and knelt over her.
She felt his eyes scan the path to treasure. First, though, he bent and kissed her shoulder.
‘It’s gone now.’
He lightly kissed the same breast he had so gently teased with his fingers, and then he bent and took her nipple deep into his mouth. She failed in an attempt to sit up and just lay there, swallowing at the shock of pleasure his actions had provoked.
He sucked harder, and then released her, and then sucked harder again. He took her hand and placed it on the breast he’d ignored, as if he expected her to caress herself, but when she just lay there he pinched her nipple for her and played with both willingly.
‘Yes,’ she said, and he kissed lower and lower, down her taut stomach which was held tight in anticipation.
‘Relax,’ he told her, his hand between her legs.
She’d thought she was relaxed, and told him so.
‘Beatrice...’ He knelt up and parted her legs, and still she was not shy.
Beatrice had never thought that she might lie there and feel hot breath on her sex as a handsome prince stroked her curls, that she might laugh as he told her thathereshe tasted of doctor’s soap.
But then there was no breath left for laughing, because he’d buried his tongue inside her, his fingers caressing her thighs, so that somehow his mouth soothed her sex.
Beatrice held his head at first, but then gave in and raised her arms instead, grasping air, wishing for a bedhead or something to hold on to.
She wanted to arch her back, but he held her hips down. There was a mute protest within her, a refusal to succumb to the pressure of his mouth, and yet she was writhing beneath him.
‘Julius...’ she panted.
She didn’t know what to do with herself. Initially she’d wanted to push him away—but she’d resisted doing so, for she liked the demand of his intimate kiss, liked the intensity of it. And as she lay there it was if she was falling backwards, as if the bed beneath them no longer supported her, and she was falling back just to experience the sensation over and over again. The flood of pleasure doused the sting of shame at her own guilty allowance of it.
He moaned, and he tasted her, and she did not know how to enjoy it. She just knew that she did—far too much.
‘Julius...’ His hands were at the very tops of her thighs, his tongue insistent, and finally she gave in to the pressure that was building inside her.
But it seemed it was not enough for Julius. He held her hips and tasted deeper, silently demanded more, but she pulled back.
‘I want you now,’ Beatrice said, her voice hoarse yet her demand clear.
