Chapter 12 Biological Urges #3
Aurienne had been with more women than men; she found the former to be, by and large, better lovers. Would he be any good? It took three or four wide, circular rubs at her for Mordaunt to answer her question. He knew what he was doing.
Competence pleased her. She rewarded him with firmer strokes. Along the inside of her wrist trickled a smear of pre-come. She brought fingers to the tip of his cock and squeezed it, and, with a slippery hand, resumed her up and downs against his shaft.
He sent two fingers into her, one or two knuckles deep.
A few slow pumps in and out and he had loaded them with wetness, and then they were on either side of her clit, in a rhythm matching her strokes.
Aurienne was almost distracted into releasing him.
Mordaunt moved closer to her; the sheets rose and fell; the scent of sex filled the room.
She slipped a palm against his balls, cupped them, made him gasp, and resumed her stroking. He responded with a few involuntary thrusts.
In a strangled whisper he said, “You first.” It was an act of willpower: there was pre-come dripping down his cock, and some desperate upward twitches when she pulled her hand away.
He said, “I am going to devour you.”
And then he did.
His mouth was all over her, at her neck, at her breasts, hotly tonguing a nipple.
She arched up as he gave the other the same attention and drew a long shudder out of her.
He moved to his real objective: shoved a pillow under her hips, bit gentle bites down her stomach until he reached the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
He inhaled as he went, drunken, addicted, and licked up the trail of her arousal to its source.
Aurienne dug her fingers into the mattress; his breath caressed her, then his lips did.
This wouldn’t take long. She hadn’t had an orgasm in weeks; she had stopped masturbating because every time she did, she ended up seeing him.
Seeing him doing exactly what he was doing now.
He kissed and licked her until she was swollen, until she squirmed under him. His fingers bit into her thighs. The signet ring pressed into her flesh. The blood-warm hardness of the ring trailed inward.
“That,” said Aurienne. “Yes.”
Mordaunt looked up at her with eyes entirely black, clouded with want and lust and a latent possessiveness. His other hand pushed up from behind and brought her towards his mouth; she was about to be devoured.
He ran the ring over the hood of her clit. Arousal trickled out of her. He brushed the ring against her again lightly, left and right and left and right, until she bucked under him.
She ached. She wanted to be filled. He slid two fingers into her.
Her wetness seeped around his knuckles. He muttered, “Fuck,” pulled his fingers out, licked them.
Then his mouth was on her again. He worked her over in tight circles.
Ten more seconds of that and she would come. She pushed herself against his tongue.
He continued his perfect, tiny circles. She grew taut. Her hands found his hair. Her thighs squeezed at his head. His fingers inside her thrust in and out.
She went over the edge with a gasp. The orgasm was intense, violent, drawn out in long, cresting shudders of pleasure.
Mordaunt did not wait for her to work through the aftershocks.
Panting, he lifted himself over her. She locked her shaking legs around him.
His cock found her entrance and nudged in.
He had done the work to ensure minimal friction, but she was swollen now, and he had to edge himself into her in delicious, slow pushes against the last pulses of her orgasm.
He swore into her shoulder as he worked his way in.
He snatched her hands and held them above her head, crushing the Fyren and Haelan tācn into each other.
He thrust into her slowly. He gasped broken syllables into her ear, curses or pleas to the gods.
His chest, muscled, sweaty, pressed hers; skin touched skin in ways it never had before.
He filled her and stretched her; she had hardly recovered from the first orgasm and felt another building.
She met him in his rhythm and matched him as he, breathing hard, sped up.
His arms shook. His bite sank into the juncture between her neck and shoulder.
They came together in this sinful communion, this intercourse between life and death.
He breathed a muffled groan into her shoulder as he came.
Heat spurted into her in pulses that pushed her over the edge.
She arched against him, saw white, saw red, and finished with a fractured gasp.
He collapsed on top of her. They shuddered into each other with pleasure.
Then came a silence, a ringing silence of shattered rules and breached loyalties, of divinity sought and humanity found.
The world ceased its whirl, the heavens and underearth stilled, old feuds paused, the flag of truce trembled.
Above it all hung the solemn moon, bright with the light of a dead sun.
Their hands were still clasped, damp with sweat and trembling; the Fyren tācn in league with life, the Haelan tācn bonded with death.
“Frīa, forgive me.”
“Hel, take me.”
Somewhere, goddesses laughed.