“I love ye, wife.”
She smacked his shoulder, even as she flexed her hips forward, her arousal slicking both of them in the most delicious way. “And I love ye, but stop blathering and get on with it!”
When he chuckled, she swore she could feel the vibrations in her core.
For a few moments, there was no sound, other than the harshness of their breathing and her occasional moans. Mayhap because she’d already found her release once, this was a slower build. But it allowed her the chance to focus on the sensations and how each movement flicked her ever closer to her next explosion.
Clearly he wanted to thrust, but she tightened her thighs around his hips, unable to stop herself; each slow plunge was delightful torture and she didn’t want it to stop.
Soon she was panting against his neck, holding him tight against her, rocking ever closer to her pleasure…and he was grunting with the effort to hold himself back.
“Wynda,” he gasped, “I need—“ He broke off with a groan, and she loosened her hold long enough to look up at him.
Apparently that was the only opening he needed. With a growl, he slid from her, and she instinctively followed, falling forward off the table and into his arms.
He didn’t hesitate, but turned her about and pushed her shoulders down. Her hands hit the table top and she felt his hands on her arse.
“I invented a new position for ye,” he murmured, as his cock slid up the cleft of her rear end. “I havenae decided what to call it yet. Put yer elbows on the table.”
How could she defy such an order? She lowered her weight to her forearms, grinning in anticipation.
Behind her, she felt him lifting his kilt out of the way—he was still mostly clothed!—as he nudged her feet apart with his.
Should she tell him this was page seventy-three in A Harlot’s Guide? ‘Twas a cross between The Auld Furry Weasel and Say Hello to Mister Walnut.
Then he slid into her from behind, and her gasp turned to a moan as he sunk to the ballocks, and she decided mayhap being pedantic wasn’t important right now.
In this position, he controlled the thrusts, and while his slow plunge had driven her wild only moments before, now his cock was pressing against all sorts of interesting and new places.
One of his palms slammed onto the table beside her head, which allowed him to lean forward, to curl his back around hers.
St. Tiffani’s fibula, this felt…remarkable. Remarkable.
Mayhap the Gray Lady knew what she was talking about.
Wynda tried to make a mental note to say some extra prayers for the debated soul of her ghostly mentor…but the sensations Pherson was currently creating in her were far more worthy of her attention.
By shifting her weight slightly, she could wrap her hand around his forearm. He grunted in approval, and she felt his muscles jump under her palm.
And then he wrapped his other arm around her waist and his fingers found her clitoris.
It was the surprise of the sensation, more than anything else, which caused her to gasp and her inner muscles to tighten around him.
He groaned in response, his pace increasing as his thumb brushed again against that pleasure spot.
And she felt the white lights burst behind her eyelids once more.
With a roar, he spilled his seed deep inside her, and the sensation made her shudder, as it always did.
Panting, he draped himself across her, his fingers still pressing against her. She felt liquid seeping from between them, so intimate and yet…somehow silly.
Laughter began to build in her chest, even as the pulses from her pleasure died and she found her breath again.
“Wife,” he growled against the skin of her back. “Are ye laughing?”
“I’m sorry,” she gasped happily, pressing herself up off the table and trying to support him. “ ‘Tis just…ye’re still wearing yer shirt!”
“Aye.” He straightened, pulling her with him. “I was told I look particularly fine.”