Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
DAPHNE
H is eyes flick to mine in the mirror, his pupils blown wide. “Why would I undo your clasps? Do you…require my aid?”
My entire body trembles with restraint. With want. “Well, you see…it’s about the pose I’m working on. For the couple on the ballroom cover.”
“Yes?” He holds my gaze so fiercely, his fingers still pressed against my spine.
“I haven’t been able to get it right.” Not a lie from these lips. I spent my morning sketching ideas for the couple’s pose but nothing felt inspired. Nothing felt sexy enough to evoke the passion in Edwina’s book. That’s when I discarded my sketches in favor of reading Monty’s book. And there my inspiration was sparked.
Now, as I watch us in the mirror, I realize this is it. This is the tenuous passion I wanted to capture. This is the tension I wanted to evoke, to express the push and pull between the characters.
For the love of the All of All, I feel so connected to my art like never before.
That paired with the need that continues to build inside my core emboldens me.
“Can you help me?” I ask.
“You want me to pose for you? Now?” His voice is soft yet heavy.
“Not a long session,” I say. “I just want to see it.”
His head moves in the slightest shake to the left, and I fear he’s going to deny me. Then a breath leaves his lungs, and with it comes the word “Yes.”
“Undo the rest of my clasps.”
He arches a brow, making no move to obey.
“The heroine’s dress should slouch off her shoulders just so.” My voice sounds so unlike my own. So breathless. So quiet.
A wicked glint fills his eyes, and his lips quirk at one corner. Finally, he fulfills my request, loosening the bottom clasps. My bodice slides down, baring an inch more of my cleavage. He drops his hands, but I reach for one, guiding it to the hem of my skirt.
“The hero’s hand should be here, lifting her hem to her thigh.”
He clutches the fabric between his fingers and lets me guide his hand up my leg, baring it almost to my hip crease and the lacy hem of my undershorts. I watch his reflection, a thrill running through me at the sight of him biting his lower lip.
“His other hand,” I say, guiding the other to my shoulder, sliding off the cap sleeve and making my bodice dip even farther on that side, “here.”
He stiffens behind me, and I feel the firmness of his erection, even through the layers of my skirt.
“Daph,” he whispers, eyelids heavy with want.
“Or maybe…” I release the hand that lifts my hem. His fingers stay curled around the folds of my skirt, arms trembling with restraint. I tug my bodice beneath the hand he lays upon my shoulder. Once. Twice. It slides down several more inches until it finally bares my breast. His eyes widen at the sight of it, at my firm nipple. Then, with slow moves, I guide his hand from my shoulder until he’s cupping me fully.
A groan escapes his lips and he pulls me tight against him, rolling his hips against my ass as his face falls to the crook of my neck. I lean into the hand that cups my breast, aching for friction. But he doesn’t move again. Instead, he goes still, save for the tremors that rack through him, the pulse of his lungs as his chest heaves against my back.
“What are we doing?” His words are hardly more than a breath on my neck.
“Chapter Eight,” I say, pressing my thighs together to sate the burning heat that continues to pool.
He lifts his lips to my ear. I watch in the mirror as he grazes his teeth against my lobe. The sight and feel combined send a violent shudder through me. “Chapter Eight isn’t a lesson. It’s supplementary information.”
“It’s information I want,” I say, rolling my backside into his straining length. “Information I’m unfamiliar with. Which makes it a lesson.”
Another groan reverberates through him. “You’re supposed to perform these lessons with a suitor.”
“I thought you said I wouldn’t be doing Chapter Eight material with a suitor this weekend. Should I, then? Should I practice on a test subject instead?”
He bares his teeth and glares at the side of my face. “No.”
“Then teach me. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that. I…want this. I want to know what it’s like to experience pleasure with a partner. I want to learn how to ask for what I want. I’m comfortable with you. I’m not afraid to try things with you. So I’m asking. Will you teach me?”
His hand tightens on my breast but he says nothing.
A ripple of apprehension dampens some of my desire. Am I coming on too strong? Am I doing that thing I do when I misread the mood of a room? Misread a person? My posture stiffens. “If you don’t want to?—”
“I want to.” He brings his face back to my neck, resting his forehead there as he gathers a few breaths. “I want to, but…”
My heart falls and I brace myself for rejection.
“We can’t kiss,” he says, and there’s remorse in his tone.
I angle my head toward him. “We can’t?”
He lifts his eyes to mine. “If we do this, we do it for the sake of sex and pleasure.”
“Isn’t kissing part of sex and pleasure?”
“It’s more intimate than that. To me at least. If we kiss, it’s real. If we don’t, it’s just…sex.”
I ponder his words. I never considered kissing to be more intimate than sex, but I think I understand what he means. One can separate sex and pleasure from emotion. I’ve done it before, especially when I was a pine marten and mated out of instinct. Every sexual encounter I’ve had with a partner in seelie form has been devoid of emotion. So I suppose he’s right. It is more intimate in a way. Furthermore, it’s more vulnerable on a practical level. When two people bring their faces so close, they put themselves at risk. I glance down at where his pulse tics at his throat. All it would take is a small movement from me and I could rip out his jugular with my teeth. I doubt that’s exactly what he meant, but it helps me understand.
“Fine,” I say. “No kissing.”
His eyes widen as if he’s surprised I’ve agreed. He tightens his grip on my breast again, then drags his hand over its outer curve, then higher, over my collarbone and up the length of my neck. “We’re only doing foreplay.”
I nod aggressively.
His lips curve into a wicked smile. His fingers glide along my jaw, then to the side of my chin. “We’re in agreement then,” he says, his lips just an inch from mine. He holds my gaze a moment longer, then tugs my chin, pulling my gaze to our reflection. “Watch carefully or this lesson will go to waste.”
He removes his fingers from my chin and brings them to his lips. I watch his every move with hungry fascination as he rolls his tongue over his fore and middle fingers, depositing saliva onto them. Then he brings those digits down to my breast, over my nipple, and rolls his slick fingers over it. I gasp, my knees buckling. I would have fallen if his other hand hadn’t caught me, now under my skirt and braced over my lower belly.
“You like that?” he asks. “Does that make up for that asshole who didn’t fucking touch you right?
“Yes.” But not enough. I arch my back, willing my bodice to slide down. Finally, my other breast crests the top.
“You want me to pay attention to the other one now? Good girl. I can read you like a book.” He licks his fingers again and plays with my other nipple, eliciting the sharpest, most delectable pleasure. I only wish it was his tongue instead of his fingers. My lashes flutter closed until he gives my nipple a little pinch. “Keep your eyes open.”
I do as he says and watch as his fingers round one curve of my breast, then the other.
“Fuck, look at you.” His eyelids are as heavy as mine. “You’re so goddamned beautiful.”
His words have my knees buckling again, but there’s so much more I want from him. I slide my hand under my skirt until it rests over his. Then, trying—and failing—not to rush, I push his hand down, guiding it beneath the waistband of my undershorts to the mound of curls there.
“You’re ready for me to touch you here?”
“Please.” The word comes out half gasp, half cry. I’ve never been more ready. More desperate.
His hand leaves my breast to join the other beneath my skirt. Then he lowers my silk undershorts, shimmying them over my hips, my thighs, until they fall to my feet. I step out of them and kick them to the side. I nearly weep with relief as he brings his hand back where I want it. Then slowly—so slowly—he slides his fingers down until they meet my sex.
A whimper escapes my throat as his digit skates over my slick center.
“Fuck, Daph,” he says with a groan. “You’re dripping wet for me.”
He slides his fingers over my folds, and my legs give out completely. This time, instead of holding me up, he helps me down to my knees, seating himself behind me, and letting me rest against him.
His palm goes still over my sex and our eyes lock in the mirror. “Do you want to watch what I do?”
I nod.
“Lift your hem.”
With trembling fingers, I drag my hem up over my thighs, tucking my voluminous skirts away to get a full look at Monty’s hand. With his other, he gently guides my knees wider. I watch as my center parts, watch as Monty’s fingers begin moving again.
“Look at that,” he says, dragging two fingers along opposite sides of my center before circling my aching clitoris. I moan and throw my head back against him but manage to keep my eyes open as I witness every tantalizingly slow movement. His other hand returns to my breast where he does the same motion to my nipple. My entire torso is bare now, my dress hardly more than a puddle of silk around my middle. I watch with rapt fascination, equally turned on by the pleasure of his touch and the arousal of witnessing it happening.
I’ve never imagined anything so erotic. So all-encompassing.
My desire builds, craving more. I arch my back and roll my sex against his hand. He obeys my silent command and slides his fingers down.
“You’re doing such a good job,” he says against my ear as his fingers tease just outside my glistening opening. “Such a good girl.”
“I’m hardly doing anything,” I manage to say, even though his praise sends a renewed jolt of pleasure through me.
“You are. The way you move speaks volumes. Every roll of your hips, every gasp. I hear you, Daph. Feel you. I know what you want now.” With that, he plunges his finger inside me. He pumps it in and out of me, then adds another.
I reach behind me, gripping the back of his neck as he lowers his lips to the side of my throat. A thrill runs through me at the thought that he might kiss me. Who would have thought I’d be so shocked by a kiss after what we’re already doing? But he doesn’t. He merely drags his mouth over my skin, then bares his teeth, as if it takes all his restraint not to kiss me. Does it even count if it’s not on the mouth?
He thrusts his fingers deeper. I rock against him as he picks up his pace, riding his palm as it rubs over my clit. My pleasure builds hotter, my release welling up like a raging tide against a dam. He lifts his eyes, mouth still pressed against my throat, and they lock on his hand in the mirror.
“God, that’s fucking art,” he says. “Do you see that? Do you see how beautiful that is?”
“Yes,” I say, but I’m looking at his face. At the want in his eyes. At the strain in his jaw, the pulse in his temples, the pleasure in the curve of his mouth. Somehow, even though I’m the one being stroked and sated, he’s enjoying this too. His cock continues to dig into my backside with every rock of my hips. “You feel so good around my fingers. Look so good grinding against my hand.”
My arm remains angled behind me, palming the back of his neck. I drag my fingers to the base of his nape and claw them into his scalp. His eyes flutter shut and he emits a low groan. That’s what does it for me. That’s what drives me over the edge. I tighten my grip on his hair as my walls pulse around his fingers. My moan barrels through me in time with my release. Monty’s hand dances with my orgasm, cresting with it, then guiding it down, down, until we both go still.
He hugs me against him with one arm as he slides his fingers out of me. I drink in his reflection as he watches me, an awed smile on his face. He heaves a sigh and falls onto his back, chest pulsing. I collapse on top of him, boneless in the wake of my pleasure. We fall into a symphony of panted breaths as we regain our composure. Once I manage to gather some semblance of strength, I push myself to sitting, my dress still pooled around my middle.
He meets my eyes, his lips still tilted in a grin. For a moment I’m not sure what to say. What if this changes things between us? What if this places a strain on our friendship? Then his smile widens, and I remind myself we’re still us. Nothing has changed.
“That was amazing,” I say to him as nonchalantly as possible. “You’re…a wizard or something.”
A laugh rumbles through him. “We live in a world where magic and fae exist, and you call me a wizard.”
“Fae and magic are real. Wizards aren’t. And you are some mystical being with how you worked my clit.”
He throws his arm over his eyes, his grin widening. “For the love of the All of All, she just called me a sex wizard,” he mutters through his laughter.
My eyes leave his face and rove over his body down to his?—
“Shit, Monty.”
He lifts his forearm from over his eyes, alarm written over his face.
I gesture at his rather obvious erection. “You’re still hard! I’m so sorry, I didn’t tend to you at all.” Should I…touch him? Straddle him? I was so fixated on my own pleasure that I didn’t spare a thought for his. I only delighted in how pleased he looked touching me. But of course he couldn’t be satisfied with that. I flutter my hands, unsure of what to do with them?—
He sits upright and catches one of my wrists, stilling me. “Daph,” he says, tone gentle, “this wasn’t about me. This was for you.”
“Yes, but…isn’t that selfish?”
He shifts my wrist until my palm is in his. With soft motions, he strokes his thumb over the back of my hand. “Lesson Number…I don’t fucking know. Sex doesn’t always have to be a transactional exchange. You don’t owe me anything for what I did just now. Sometimes one’s pleasure is found in pleasuring someone else. You deserve to enjoy an orgasm, end of story. You deserve to be spoiled with them.”
“But what about you? I don’t need fifteen steps for fantastic fellatio. I can?—”
He silences me with a finger to my lips. The finger he had inside me. I nearly melt at the realization. “Take this lesson, Daffy Dear, and stop feeling like you have to do more. Let yourself be the one to take pleasure for once.”
I give a reluctant nod, resisting the urge to pout. The truth is, I want to do more. I want to make Monty feel the way he made me feel. I want to see what kinds of expressions I can coax, what kinds of sounds. I want to know how he feels when he comes. Just as badly, I want to feel him against me. On top of me. Inside me. I want more of him.
He studies my face for a few beats more, then removes his finger from over my mouth. His eyes, however, linger and he doesn’t fully pull his hand away. Instead, he shifts it until it cradles the side of my face, then runs his thumb over my lower lip.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was about to kiss me.
But he won’t. He can’t.
Because if we kiss, it’s real. That’s what he said.
And this isn’t real.
It isn’t.
Yet, as he finally drops his hand and fixes my dress, I can’t deny that part of me wishes it were.