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“Homo plenumsee through the eyes of tiresome convention, which deems what they are meant to find appealing.” His Grace—Alwyn—released her hand and laid his arms on either side of her thighs to rest on the bed. His upturned face looked healthy, andoh, he was so handsome. “Their greatest fear is to run against the opinions of the pack. Or herd. They are more like cows, clustering together in fear of the unknown. You are as sleek as a gazelle, my lady, yet exhibit the ferocity”—he punctuated this with a nip on her knee—“of the females of my kind. Lionesses…and the Welsh.”
Tabitha framed his face in her hands, ran her thumbs down the creases by his mouth, evidence of a history of smiles. Her fingers sought out the tangles in his hair, and his eyes warmed, the changeable hazel edging toward amber rather than the usual green. She tilted her head down just as he rose on his knees, and their mouths met.
Kissing him was as natural as breathing, as the sun rising, as fields greening in the spring. No one’s kiss had ever inflamed her so, made her want more, to take more, to give more.
His hand cupped the outside of her thighs, his thumbs rubbing against hervastus lateralisand evoking feeling in a way quite different to when she tried to release cramping after a run. She smiled and imagined those hands helping her after her usual ten miles. He murmured inquisitively.
“When I was often impatient to run…” she began.
“You? Impatient?” He nibbled on her lower lip. “Never.”
Tabitha pinched his ear, and he shivered. That invited further investigation: she ran her thumbs around the outer edge, and his hands convulsively grasped her thighs. She smiled again. “When I was impatient, and I did not take care to warm my muscles before exertion, the pain afterward was almost beyond the help of arnica. A massage at your hands would be an excellent tonic.”
Llewellyn leaned in and kissed her, sucked on her lower lip, wandered over to nip her jaw. “Hmmm,” he murmured. He sat back on his heels and ran his hands down to her ankles, then back up to her calves, and squeezed. He tickled her knees and lay his hands back on her thighs, now under her skirts. He squeezed there; her arousal rushed in, and he grinned again, a roguish thing she found she adored.
Back up on his knees, he nuzzled at her jaw. “You say you have experienced lovemaking?” His tongue rasped underneath her ear, an invigorating sensation. Ears: so sensitive, yet she had not known. She wanted to moan like a wanton—so she did.
“I have,” she managed. “It made no sense to remain uninformed if I was to advise others regarding their, uh. Senses. No sense. Nonsense. Ahhhh…” His tongue continued on its tour of devastation, down the side of her neck to the inch of collarbone that peeked above the neckline of her dress.
“So you were merely on the hunt for knowledge.” His hands gripped her hips and slid her across the bed; he nuzzled her belly as he rucked up her skirt and petticoat. She wiggled to help the process along.
He diverted his attention to her garters and untied one, then the other, with his teeth. “Oh!” Tabitha’s head fell back. “I learned—huh, uh”—he rolled her stockings down with his nose—“that the fuss seemed unsubstantiated.”
“What poor tutors you employed,” he said and ran his tongue up the inside of her thigh.
“Alwyn.” Oh, the look on his face when she called him by his name. “It is the middle of the day.”
“I admit, it is not the common hour for lovemaking.” He nosed his way around her knee and stopped. “If you are more comfortable waiting for a more conventional time…”
Tabitha jabbed her toes in his ribs. “A statement guaranteed to ensure my participation.”
“Cariad.” He nuzzled hervastus medialis. “Have you experienced this aspect of love in the past? When the man uses his mouth?”
“Not to any great effect.” Blessed Palu: lashes, smile creases, and eye crinkles conspired to bring her to release before he’d even touched her.
“Let me make my best effort.” He lapped at her inner thigh. “You have only to say if you wish me to desist.” He lapped at the other, rubbed his cheek against the sensitive skin, and shouldered her knees farther apart.
It wasn’t the heat he gave off, the strength of his hands, the texture of his hair—it was everything, all at once: these elements taken discretely were intoxicating enough but together held her senses in suspension, in tension, in the anticipation of his mouth on her—oh.
His shoulders slid up her legs and spread them farther as she arched her back. No tentative touch from His Grace of Llewellyn, no hesitation: his tongue stroked and delved, found her clitoris without wavering, and laved it over and over like it was the sweetest thing he had ever sampled.
The duke’s hands cupped her bum and tilted her hips closer; every muscle in her body felt as though turned to water, the blood in her veins rushing to support the thunder of her heart. She reached down and sifted her fingers through his hair. When he used his lips to suck, she closed her fingers suddenly enough to evoke a growl—not a warning but encouragement. Tabitha’s hips began to rock in a fluid rhythm to match his, and if not for the ribbon in her hair, it would be as snarled as his was a few days ago.
His Grace—Alwyn—ran his hands over her ribs and expertly loosened her front-tied soft corset just enough to slip his hand beneath and cup her breasts. For the first time, Tabitha was not embarrassed by their size; they fit perfectly in his palms. Her nipples stiffened to the point of exquisite pain, and when his thumbs brushed over both, her hips came off the bed. He turned his head and smiled into her thigh.
Keeping one of her breasts in the care of a palm, he slid his other hand down to join his lips and tongue, licking and stroking until she lost all sense, all sense of time, of place, of anything but his mouth, his hands, and his complete devotion to her pleasure. She whispered his name, once, twice, as it built,le petit mort,every inch of her skin afire, every limb quivering, unlike any release she’d ever experienced. The muscles of her legs tightened around his shoulders, her heels dug into his back, both hands gripped in his hair until the final tension, and then over the precipice she went, shuddering and shivering with it. He was relentless and chased for more, one more quiver, one more gasp, until she begged, “Stop, stop,” and he did.
He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into a soothing embrace that was the perfect complement to his efforts, his hands stroking up and down her back as she came down to earth.
She sighed and wriggled, his arms tightening around her before releasing. He laid his head on her belly, and she stroked his hair and wished for this moment to carry on forever, that they may never have to leave this bed, this embrace.
“You appear to be all that is satisfied,” he murmured at her hip.
“If there is a way to be more than satisfied, I am that.” She used both hands on his scalp and he made noises the mirror of her own in the throes. “Your skull is very sensitive. I have never come across such a responsive cranium.” She pressed again at the area above his ears, and he moaned. “I would say you had a hair trigger, but that is a terrible pun.”
“My—” He tensed and paused before continuing. “There are many who like a good pun.”
“That’s not what we call it where I come from.” She encouraged him to lie beside her and whispered in his ear, “May I return the favor?”
