“Pherson…” She sighed happily as his lips claimed hers, and when she lowered her arms—her curls cascading around her shoulders—‘twas to find he’d somehow already unlaced her bodice.
In one swift move, he had both her breasts out, his mouth on first one nipple then the next. The faint scraping of his teeth against that sensitive spot drove her wild. Gasping, she realized her pelvis was gyrating against his, trying to capture that elusive pressure her body demanded.
Dimly, she felt him pull her gown down her arms, and her chemise followed. His hands, his mouth, left fiery trails of need everywhere they touched her skin, and soon the only thing holding her—and her clothing—upright was the place where their hips pressed together.
Then he stepped back, and her gown fell around her feet. She swayed, and he chuckled.
“Careful, lass,” he murmured, closing his deliciously rough hands on her hips.
Blinking, she reached for him, wanting only to pull him back to her.
But he surprised her when, instead, he lifted her. She let out a little squeal before her arse landed on the table, and she transferred her hold to the wood to keep herself steady.
“Pherson?” she murmured, realizing he was still fully clothed.
He silenced her with a hard, fast kiss, and one of her hands twined through his braids as he trailed his lips down her throat once more, past her breasts....
He spread her knees with his palms and dropped to one knee before the table.
She felt a bit like a queen, with a courtier paying her homage. “Wha—“ she managed, before his lips grazed against the inside of one thigh and her fingers tightened in his hair with a gasp.
“Pherson!”
They’d practiced The Supplicant Swan a few times in the last weeks as his arm healed, and she loved the heady feeling of power she got with his hand wrapped in her hair, guiding her mouth on his cock. She loved the feeling of his hot seed flowing down her throat, loved the way she could make him feel like a king.
But this…?
Wynda moaned as his tongue slid through her folds, his fingers teasing mercilessly.
She was no stranger to his touch, not anymore, but… She gasped as his mouth found her hidden bud, and instinctively spread her thighs wider for him.
One of his fingers slid into her, then a second—then a third. St. Tiffani protect me! She felt her pleasure mounting.
She gasped his name again, tugging at his hair, wanting him to be inside her when she found her release, but he merely tilted his head back to look up at her.
His mouth moved lower, his tongue sliding through her folds again as his fingers moved within her. And she likely would’ve been able to withstand such torture…if he hadn’t smiled.
Kneeling between her legs, he looked up at her, met her eyes, and smiled.
It was that feeling of power, that feeling of awe, which sent her over the edge.
“Pherson!” she cried as she tightened her knees around him once more, her inner walls pulsing against his fingers. He had the utter audacity to hum in approval against her core, and the vibrations sent her even further.
When she was once again able to think semi-coherently, she plastered her fiercest glare on her face and turned it on him, about to give him an earful for not allowing her to orgasm around his cock…only to have her breath completely stolen from her lungs once more.
His eyes were closed, his cheek resting against her inner thigh—mainly because she’d clamped her legs around him to hold him in place—and the stubble on his jaw was tickling her sensitive skin. But that’s not what held her attention.
As she’d found her pleasure, he’d reached down and flipped his kilt out of the way. With the fingers which had been inside her, he was now stroking himself, spreading her arousal across his throbbing cock.
His stormy gray eyes opened and met hers, and she was reaching for him before she knew what she was doing. From this position, ‘twas easy to pull him upright, to settle him between her legs, to press her bare feet—when had her slippers fallen off?—against the backs of his calves.
She opened herself for him, even as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding him in place.
“Wife,” he growled. “Mine.”
“Aye. Yers. And ye’re mine, Pherson.”
When he slid into her, they both sighed.