Chapter 14 #4
“We don’t have to leave right now, do we?” I ask. “The Barrow-Man can’t come out of the woods tonight. He can’t get to us yet. Not here.”
Beresford glances toward the curtained windows, his body tense with apprehension. He’s afraid of his former captor. Of course he is. The wight imprisoned him, tortured him, nearly killed him.
“We’ll be safe tonight.” Judging by his tone, he’s trying to convince himself more than me.
I wave him back imperiously, and he gets to his feet, stepping back to give me plenty of room as I rise from the couch.
I don’t miss the way his eyes skate along my body, lingering on my bare legs.
He drifts toward me slowly, like he’s being pulled against his will, like he’s caught in the undertow of my beauty.
Despite his earlier vow that he would never hurt me, my breath quickens as he looms over me. He’s twice my size. He could overpower me easily.
“You’re not sleeping with me in our bed,” I burst out breathlessly. “You can sleep in a guest room.”
“That’s completely fair,” he murmurs. His palm cups the underside of my breast, and I tremble at the heated contact.
My tongue traces my lips. “I said we’re not sleeping together.”
His whole hand encompasses my breast, squeezing it lightly through the thin material of my nightdress. “I know.”
All it took was that first brush of his palm, and my pussy grew warm and swollen, pulsing and aching to be touched. I struggle not to lean into the heat of his hand.
“You have to go,” I whisper. “Go find another room to sleep in. It’s too soon. I can’t share a bed with a shape-shifter, a matagot, or whatever you call yourself.”
“Beresford,” he says, cupping my breasts with both hands. “Your husband. That’s what I call myself.”
“And that’s what I’ll call you too, but I need time.”
“Do you?” he purrs. “Then why haven’t you stepped away? Why are your nipples hard under my palms?” He moves one hand beneath the lacy edge of my nightgown and places it over my bare pussy. I gasp as his two central fingers sweep through my slit.
When he holds up his hand, those fingers are gleaming wet. “Are you sure you want me to sleep apart from you tonight, wife?”
My cunt is quivering for him, dripping for him. I can’t think of a better way to fall asleep than with his cock inside me.
But I drew a line, and he isn’t respecting it. If we’re going to move forward from this—if he’s going to understand how serious his deception was—I have to be firm both with him and with myself.
Firm… oh gods, he’s grabbing my hand and placing it over his crotch. I can feel the rock-hard pillar of his cock beneath his pants.
I want him. But I also need to put him in his place.
“You can’t sleep with me,” I repeat. “But you can get on your knees and prove that you’re sorry for deceiving me.”
His eyes turn incandescent with delight.
When I sit down on the low game table and part my legs, he kneels immediately and pushes me open wider.
His lips graze the sensitive skin of my left thigh.
My fingers splay against the table, rigid with anticipation as his lips move closer, kiss by soft kiss, toward the place where I need him.
I love the titillating brush of his beard against the hollows of my thighs and the sensitive skin of my pussy.
He grasps my hips, pulling me toward his face, tilting my pelvis upward as his mouth sinks fully into my cunt. It’s as if I’m a chalice brimming with the most exquisite liquor, and he’s intent on sipping and savoring me down to the last drop.
When I’m with him like this, reality froths into glistening bubbles and swirls away, like soapy water draining from a bath.
I float in a world of sensation and pleasure, of languorous licks and little sucking kisses.
My head falls back, my hair pooling on the table, and my knees arch higher, my toes curling tight.
Nothing bad or dangerous exists. There is only the man who loves me, in the form he has chosen, swearing his allegiance to my cunt with fervent lashes of his tongue. My breath surges faster, heavier, and I whimper as he brings me up to the peak with delicate swirls and deep licks.
I don’t care where he learned his technique. I don’t care what he is. I only care that he worships me, that he adores me, that I’ve been the focus of his attention since I pulled him from that other realm where he was suffering so horribly.
He is the only person who has offered a reason or a purpose for my ability. With him, it transforms from something unpredictable and traumatic into something good, something beautiful.
“Come for me, wife,” he mumbles against my pussy, and his tongue dances with frenetic energy across my clit, whipping me into a gasping frenzy until I come like a burst of bright sun through clouds, like glittering rain, like a gust of wind shaking a forest. I tremble against him, and he holds me, soothes me, caresses me with his tongue until I’m fully satisfied.
I push him gently back, and then I rise from the game table on quaking legs. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Part of me hates to leave him there, sitting on the floor, hard and aching for me. But I gave him all that I’m willing or able to give, for now. I need privacy, and he needs to respect the boundary I’m setting.
I cross the hall into our huge bedroom, and I lock the door behind me.
I know he has the key. He could enter at any time.
But I trust him not to.