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Though Elina wished to, they could not go directly to her tent. The songs and the wine and the feasts celebrated Midsummer Day, but also celebrated her marriage and welcomed her king consort. She could not deny her people the opportunity to do both—especially as there were so few here to celebrate with.
Had she the energy, she might have danced. Had she not feared puking, she would have feasted. But she could sing and sip a little wine, and so she did until her voice was raw and her limbs were loose and warm. With her hand bound to Warrick’s, she could not leave his side—nor did she wish to. Quite frequently, he would kiss the breath from her, and she spent nearly the entire afternoon sitting on his lap and nestled back against his chest.
It was nearing sunset when he abruptly lifted her into his arms and carried her toward the tent, accompanied by the cheers and whistles of her entire retinue.
And so it was time.
Arousal flowed through her veins like warmed honey, sweet and thick. Each of his kisses struck her anew. It was her husband kissing her now. It was her husband setting Elina on her feet with his free hand searching her hair for pins, so that her curls tumbled down her back. It was her husband sliding the gold silk from her shoulders and pressing kisses to her throat.
And it was her king who braced his forearm under her bottom, lifting her and carrying her to the bed. Her king who followed her down, groaning when she opened her thighs so that he could settle into the warmest, wettest part of her.
How could his mouth please her so much more now that they had wed? Was it the vow they’d spoken?—because each kiss and lick seemed to bring her near to the edge of dying.
And he devoured her. With their bound hands clasped on her belly, her knees hooked over his shoulders. His mouth made her body writhe and her hips roll, as if all of the energy she’d saved not dancing at the celebration had been reserved so that she might dance to the rhythm of his tongue over that spot, whirling her tighter and tighter—until he lifted his head and she felt unfamiliar pressure at her entrance. Her approaching orgasm fled. Warrick grunted softly against her flesh before huffing a short laugh. But before she could wonder what amused him, his hand between her legs shifted position and a finger was sliding within, pressing and rubbing. Then his tongue found that spot again.
Oh gods. She gripped the sheet, then his head, then her breast. Warrick was inside her—and licking her, and she could only writhe, and cry his name, and grip his beribboned hand, and live and live and live. The honey in her blood seemed to surge downward to drench his finger and his tongue, and the roll of her hips became a tense coiling within. Then the coil snapped, and she screamed from between clenched teeth, her inner muscles clamping down upon his finger as if to keep him locked inside.
Yet she could not. Withdrawing his hand, Warrick murmured her name and kissed her belly. Her legs slid bonelessly from his shoulders as he rose up between her thighs, his fist gripping his long jutting shaft. He slicked the broad crown of it through her honeyed wetness, riding the thick length up over that too-sensitive bit of flesh. Elina gasped his name, and tilted her hips toward him, and he did it again.
“Elina.” He spoke more words, his voice deep. Guttural. He sucked in a breath between his clenched teeth and thrust upward again, tunneling through her swollen folds.
But not inside her.
Elina squirmed, and twisted, and tried to make him go where she wanted, where she was aching and hollow. Yet he only braced his elbow beside her shoulder and leaned into each drive of his hips, the hot column of flesh relentlessly slipping and sliding over the bud that he’d licked.
“Warrick!” She sobbed his name, her thighs clasping tight to his sides. His hand gripped her ass and angled her up higher, fingers digging into her soft flesh, a rasping groan tearing from his throat with every hard thrust. His head dropped, his mouth near her ear as he growled her name, then growled something more, fierce and rough and demanding. And the coil within burst again, in endless waves that must have caught Warrick in their wake, for he snapped his hips forward hard, and again. He groaned deep and pumped his pulsing shaft through her sodden cleft, his big body tense and shaking.
Then he slowed, kissing her, deep and wet before throwing his head back to heave giant breaths—still rocking between her legs, though his flesh was softening now and his seed was smeared over her belly.
