Chapter 33 #2
He knew her most sensitive place was her glans clitoris.
She had shown him that and called it her bud, and he had touched her there with his hand many times in the last few days.
He went back to her flower, and using the most delicate of touches with his tongue, he found the hard bud near the top of the crease.
He licked there and felt the bud enlarge and harden under his tongue, and her outer and inner lips began to swell, and she became very, very still.
Despite the swelling of her flower, he did not know if her quietness and stillness were good signs. So he licked again. In the same place.
“Yes,” exhaled Arabella.
He thought he should try to copy with his tongue what she had done to herself with her finger in front of him and what he had learned to do with his own fingers.
He licked the bud lightly at first—not knowing how much pressure he should give—but she raised her hips to him.
So he licked more firmly and he let go of her hand to use both of his forearms to push her thighs down more firmly into his shoulders and her bottom into the bed so he could keep her in place.
He let himself range more freely over her flower now that he had pinned her.
He wanted her aroused, he wanted her to spend, but he also selfishly wanted to know all of her.
He moved his tongue off her bud and down her lips and then back up.
He licked the edges of her introitus and made his tongue pointed and firm and put his tongue inside her.
His cock twitched, wanting to be where his tongue was.
Then he withdrew his tongue and used only his lips to mash against her labia, coming back to her bud.
He cast his gaze up towards her face, but all he could see was the heave of her round breasts.
He wished for six hands so he could hold her breasts, pin her hips down, put his fingers inside her, all at the same time.
Make that eight so he could also cup the smooth cheeks of her buttocks and raise her flower to his lips.
But he also longed to see her face. Next time, he would put a pillow under her head so he could see her eyes and mouth, so he could have some hints as to what she was experiencing. A pillow was more achievable than the extra hands.
But although he held her tightly at her hips, her upper body was arching away, the curve of her spine separating from the bed, her nipples pointing even more skyward.
He paused for a second and pulled his head back from her flower.
Her labia, pink when he had begun kissing her thighs, were now swollen and flushed red. He wondered briefly now at how little he had known of an aroused woman’s anatomy, how secretive and hidden it all was compared to the hard cock that insistently throbbed below his waist.
Arabella’s hands were groping across the bed.
“Alasdair, Alasdair, Alasdair. Please, please.”
“’Tis good for ye, Arabella?”
But all she could do was groan and say his name and, “Please.”
So he put his mouth on her again and put all his attention on her bud, licking at it savagely and adding his grunts to hers as she tensed under his hands.
He briefly considered nipping at the little protuberance with his teeth and then thought better of it and instead gave her dozens of quick, fierce licks until she spasmed rhythmically, her thighs squeezing his shoulders, her flower contracting under his tongue, and a small gush of sweetness hit his lower lip.
He did not know what to do now—the sailors’ stories did not say whether he should continue or stop. He thought of the sensitivity of his own cock right after his own climaxes and thought he should stop.
He put his tongue back in his mouth and waited.
Her legs went slack, and one almost slipped from his shoulder, but he caught it and held it. His lips were still on her labia, and he lightly kissed her, away from her bud but on her outer lips that were still engorged.
It was so quiet.
“Arabella?”
He took the other leg off his shoulder and stood so he could see her. Her hands were over her face.
“Arabella?”
Her soft, white abdomen heaved. He lay down next to her and gently took one of her hands from her face.
She was crying. Large tears coursing down her face, her nose running, her lashes darkened and clumping with tears.
“Oh, my darling, did I hurt ye?” He gathered her to his chest. What a fool he had been. She had likely not wanted to tell him he had been too rough with her, with his tongue. He was glad now he had not bitten her bud.
“Oh, oh, oh.” She raised her face to his, her blue eyes brimming, “Oh, Alasdair, that was wonderful. Wonderfully wicked. You’re a miracle. Can I really be so lucky as to be married to you?”
Her lips came to his, and her tongue replicated in his mouth what he had done to her introitus, and a grateful wash of relief mixed with lust came over him.
But he wanted to be sure. After a minute of Arabella ravishing his mouth with her tongue and lips, he pulled away.
“Ye liked it?” He could hear his own voice had become gruff.
“I loved it almost as much as I love you, Alasdair.”
“I didnae stop too soon? I didnae want to hurt ye.”
“I don’t know. Next time, don’t stop, and we’ll see.” She suddenly had a worried look on her face. “There will be a next time, won’t there? This isn’t something people only do on their wedding night, is it?”
He grinned, and she squirmed delightedly, and he remembered he must make more of an effort to smile since his dimples gave her so much pleasure.
“I intend to kiss yer flower as often as ye let me, Mrs. Andrews.”
She whispered, “Maybe even again tonight?”
He let go of her, intending to slide down the mattress and onto his knees again, but she clutched him and smiled shyly. “No, no, not yet.”
“Yer wish is my command.”
“I want to kiss you now.”
He found her mouth with his and palmed one of her breasts, thinking this was now the time when he might slake his thirst for touching her ripeness, her nipples, the soft skin and firm flesh of her breasts as he kissed her.
But she laughed under his lips and tongue and when he broke the kiss, she said, “Yes, but no, Alasdair. I want to kiss your sex.”
His cock, which had stiffened considerably with her passionate kiss, became now throbbingly, fully hard, poking into the crevice between her lower thighs.
“I can feel you like that idea.” She put her hand on his cock and began to slither away from his face, down towards his groin, stopping briefly to lick one of his nipples and to inhale the scent of his chest.
“Uh, uh, uh,” he said and grabbed her under her armpits, lifting her back up so her face was even with his again.
“May we have a moment of discussion, please?” His voice was a little stern.
Disappointed, she released her grip on his member—oh, his shaft was so hard, but the skin was so silky smooth, and she had already imagined that skin gliding under her tongue and over her lips.
“’Tis nae something wives do,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“How do ye?”
She shook her head. “Are you asking me if I have done something like that before? Then ask me!”
“I would ne’er ask ye something like that!”
She rolled away from him. “Then you will never know the answer.”
There was a pause. She had a strong sense this might be a crucial moment in their new marriage. She waited. But she did not know how long she would be able to wait.
She did not have to wait long. After all, her husband was the not-stupid man.
She felt him shift on the mattress, and his beautiful chest pressed against her shoulders, a long, strong arm came over her arm, his abdomen formed a mold around her buttocks, and she felt his hardness poke into the back of her thighs. And the most delicious, soft whisper in her ear.
“Have ye ever done something like that before, Mrs. Andrews?”
She pushed her bottom back against him. “Since you ask, Dr. Andrews, no.”
“Then why do ye think ye should?”
“Because I want to,” she said, still facing away from him but sliding down lower on the bed so the cheeks of her bottom rubbed against his shaft.
She was rewarded with heavier breathing in her ear.
“Because I think I would like being wicked like that, and I know,” she reached behind her and found his stiffness and held it, “you would like it. This gentleman here certainly approves of the idea.” She gave a little tug on his cock, and he groaned.
“A month before I first met you, Alasdair,” she gave a squeeze and elicited another groan, “I was traveling with my sister Mary and her husband in Cornwall. You have never met them, have you?”
“Uh,” he grunted.
She moved her hand down to the base of his shaft and felt his hair there tickling the side of her hand. As she spoke, she kept her hand loosely on his member and trailed her hand up and down his shaft, over and over again.
“We were at an inn near the shore for about a week, and, one day, I went into Mary’s room.
She had said she wanted to rest after luncheon, but I had forgotten and went into the room to fetch a book she said she had finished reading.
As soon as I entered the room, I saw David, her husband, standing and facing away from me.
He was fully dressed, so I almost said something, but then I saw my sister—also dressed—on her knees in front of him, her husband’s hand resting on her head.
There was a sound of some wetness, I suppose, and something like the smacking of lips, and David was whimpering.
You will be astonished by this story when you meet the viscount, Alasdair.
It’s hard to imagine him discomposed, let alone whimpering.
I fled and thought my sister had not seen me.
But later that afternoon, she took me on a long walk along the shore, and we discussed many things.
About what men and women do together. Mary is very sensible. I think you will like her.”
He was panting. “I . . . ken . . . I will like . . . her, too.”