Chapter 12 #9
Cradling her in his arms, his mouth on the hollow below her ear, he said, “Fill you with honey, love.”
His hair brushed her parted lips, cool and smooth as satin, as he pulled away slightly. Holding her that way, finding her mouth again, he whispered, “Merry, lift your arms. Put your hands on my shoulders. We don’t need this shirt, do we? Let me take it… Better… and better.”
In the warm space that separated their bodies, her unrestrained breasts made scant contact with the fabric of his shirt.
The slightest of her movements made her skin rub against him, the soft press of fiber washing her with emotions so tantalizing that a shudder passed through her like a current.
He felt it; and his mouth at the base of her throat stopped its fluid quest to murmur a reassurance while one of his hands left its courtship of her hip, paused tenderly on the lustrous bare skin on the side of her body, and then gently covered her breast. Moaning and frightened, she tried to pull away, but with strong, gracious fingers he held her in his embrace, feeding pleasure to her shrinking flesh until resistance gave way to bewildered rapture.
Devon’s lips moved lower, making a discovery.
“Sugar…” he said. “Everywhere, you’re incredibly sweet. What were you trying to do, turn into a marzipan?”
She tried to answer him, but her tongue was thick in her throat. “Dev—Let me go.” It was a very faint whisper.
“Hush, little flower. Bloom under me. Bloom for me, Merry. How did you ever grow to be so sweet? Would you like me to lick you clean? I know where I’d like to begin.…”
His words made her arms cling to him as she found herself straining weakly toward his seeking mouth as it found her breast. Fever spread through her, delicious and fruity: sweet cherry juice, apple wine, rosehips, and honey.
She could see nothing through her swirling vision, feel nothing but his warm hands and closeness and the clean delight of his touch.
He lifted her hair in one hand, letting it fall in a tangled mass over her shoulders, and caressed the back of her neck.
Moving his hands down to cup her shoulders, he brought his mouth to hers once again.
“Some for you,” he whispered, and she tasted the transferred nectar of her own sugar, a sensuous offering from his lips. Somehow her hands had begun to stroke the firm, supple muscles on his back and shoulders; and his pulse beats ran like surf under the unsure motion of her innocent fingers.
“Magic,” he said, his voice a husky erotic whisper. “Sleight of hand. See how easy it is? You have it, too, little flower… you have it too. No, Merry. Don’t stop. Here. Let me help you. Like this. Yes. Slowly. Merry. Merry. Kiss me.”
Carried beyond herself, she touched him with her lips, moving whisper soft, uncaring whether it was his mouth she kissed, or his hair, his cheek, the smooth line of his brow.
Pressing forward against his hands and body, whimpering distractedly, she whispered, “Please. Go away… I want to go home. I think I’m going to be sick. I feel faint. Let me go.”
“You have strange love talk, Merry-gold. Marigold, that’s another.”
“Another what?”
“Merry name. Merry-go-round, marigold, God rest ye Merry… How good you taste, love,” he said, his lips to her throat.
Her hand sloppily found his cheek and lay there, a tremulous supplicant. “Devon, I can’t. What words can I say that will… cause you not to force me?”
His face came hazily into focus before her, the soft eyes shining. He kissed her once on her lips and then drew back, looking down at her.
“Do you know…” he said, gazing at the soot marks transferred from her discarded shirt and spread by his fingertips over her flushing skin. “Do you know that we look like coupling leopards? Do you really want me to let you go? I don’t know if I can. Why do you want to stop?”
She couldn’t answer him, only shook her head as though the blood pounding hard in her brain had driven away all the good reasons for chastity.
Given her physical response, another man might have laughed at her use of the word force and dismissed her protests as a routine and harmless hypocrisy.
Devon knew better. He was an artist at making people do as he wanted, and if ruthless seduction could wring acquiescence from her unwilling body—what of it?
He could have taken the girl in screaming resistance, and there was not a soul on the Joke who would have stopped him.
Poor blue-eyed creature, she was his for the taking.
And it was hardly the bit of whimsy he would have cared to cultivate in his character that now, when he wanted her most, was the moment he least wanted to take her against her will.
All her fragility and sweetness were flowing into him, and whatever his more familiar inclinations were demanding, there was kindness there as well.
The part of him that desired her was the part that also didn’t want to force her.
Whatever she wanted physically, and he was sure he wasn’t mistaken about it, she wasn’t prepared emotionally, and God knew what kind of wreckage there would be in the aftermath.
Soot still powdered her foolish little nose, and he wasn’t sure why that should decide him, but somehow it did.
Holding her for a moment, stroking her shining hair, he heard with gratitude Cat’s fluent footsteps in the corridor.
“Cat?” he called.
Cat pushed open the door with the heel of his hand, walked in, and froze like a pillar, the skin stretching tight over his sharp cheekbones.
“I beg your pardon,” Devon said. “Your wench is attacking me.”
Not making any attempt to repudiate his ownership of Merry, Cat replied, none too warmly, “You wanted an audience?”
“No. I want you to pry her off me. I don’t think she knows what’s happening.” Finally, impatiently, “Take her, will you? Or you can rest assured that I will.”