Chapter 51
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
ROSAMUND
Touch him.
He’s right, what’s wrong about that? I’m only touching, learning. Studying. I won’t stand before my future husband not knowing what to expect, and then let him see me slack-jawed, or worse, terrified of his body and his needs.
And I’m aware that this isn’t a common man’s body, a human man’s body.
There are differences, not least of all the heavy knot at the base of Valen’s large, long cock.
A pierced cock. A perfect body. And Gods, the wolf ears and the tail swishing behind his perfect, muscular thighs make him all the more enticing.
I frown at the direction my thoughts are heading.
Keep it dispassionate, I instruct myself. Just look, feel, understand. Given explicit permission to explore, why should I let it go to waste?
Somewhere deep inside my mind, I’m aware that rational thought has been corrupted. His beauty, his kindness, his fierceness are some kind of potion, potent wine, distorting reason. What seems rational isn’t. What seems conscious isn’t.
What it is… I can’t tell. Lust. Obsession. Enchantment.
So many tales talk about the danger of the fae kind, about their magic and how it can draw you and mislead you.
They got it wrong. It’s not magic. It’s just Valen. His body, his face, his voice, his faint smirk. His strength. His gentleness as he carries me in his arms. His moans when I run my hands over his body.
The thought of pleasuring him, of making him lose control and come for me, because of me, is powerful.
Look at my thoughts straying already.
I hesitate.
“I swear I won’t touch you back,” he says, and sounds… desperate? No, it has to be something else. He lifts his hands and laces his fingers behind his head. “No touching.”
With his arms raised like that, his muscles bulge in his arms, his biceps swelling, his shoulders lifting, and… Who knew I’d find a man’s muscles so pleasing? So… hot.
Who knew I’d find a dark fae werewolf so hot?
Live and learn, I think randomly, placing my hand on his chest again, shivering with delight at the feel of him, smooth skin, raised with faint scars here and there, strong muscle stretched over sinew and bone, expertly sculpted. Expertly made to enrapture me.
They say the white weasels of Siris city evolved to be cute so people would feed them. Did the fae evolve to be prettier and sexier so humans would follow them into the woods?
But coherent thought is a lost cause at this point, as I now slide both hands up his hard stomach to his defined pectorals.
My breathing is coming out in short gasps as my body clenches deep inside.
What is it about this man’s body that has me trembling?
I’ve never wanted to wrap myself around any male before.
I’m fascinated by every detail, from the small hard nipples to the smattering of scars on his forearms and the sparse hairs of his armpits.
He’s pretty sleek, in the way fae men are, no beard, barely any fur on him—except when he shifts, I think, and a snort escapes me.
I’m losing my mind.
“Something funny?” he asks. The question is light, but there is a tightness to his voice, and when I instinctively glance down, I see his cock bobbing against his hard stomach, a pearly drop sparkling on the head, at the small slit.
“Are all men’s cocks like yours?” I whisper, meaning the slit.
“None of them are as good,” he says, and I hear the grin in his voice. “Or as big.”
“Is being big that important?”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely. It gives more pleasure. You’d know if you tried.” His cock bobs and the pearly drop rolls down its side. “If you let me put it in you.”
“No way that would fit in me,” I breathe, shocked at the thought.
“What do you want to bet? I know you can take it. I know you’d love it.” His eyes seem to glow under his lashes. “It would make you come so hard, Princess. You think you know pleasure, but there’s nothing like the pleasure of letting me inside you.”
Dangerous words. A dangerous game.
I bow my head, fighting the lust, the urge to tear off my clothes and climb back into his lap, this time letting him touch me, pleasure me. Is he right? Would I like having him inside me more than I did rubbing myself on him?
I have a hazy idea about how sex works. I know ladies love men’s cocks and talk about their sizes when they think nobody else is listening.
I’ve been invisible for most of my life and nobody thought twice about talking in front of the “damaged” girl.
However, I never took such talk seriously.
It never felt like something that would happen to me.
Lust after a man? After his body? After his cock? Impossible.
Yet, here he is. A living temptation. The last creature I’d ever consider sexy. The last man I’d ever want to touch.
“What do I do?” The desire to get a reaction out of him is undeniable. Biting my lower lip, I become bolder, taking his nipples between my fingers and rolling them, lifting my gaze to his handsome face, trying to read the signs.
“Oh, brave little minx.” He grins, eyes growing heavy-lidded. “Is that a question? Do you want to know if I like it?”
I nod.
“If I’m still talking, being coherent, you may infer I like it—a little. My nipples aren’t sensitive like a woman’s.” He licks his lips. “Like yours would be.”
I smooth my hands over his muscular arms, then down his sides, and he shivers.
“Ticklish,” he clarifies. “My sides are good torture spots if you want to extract information out of me.”
I laugh. “Noted.”
“Now, if you move lower…” He winks. “If you want to know what a man likes… touch me lower, Princess, as you did earlier.”
I want to. Been dying to. Slowly, I’m realizing how much I’ve kept back and how much I wish to do this, against all the rules. I always thought rules were good, there for a reason, to protect us, but breaking them is sweet.
No, not sweet. Essential. Necessary. Unavoidable, if I want to break out of my bitter shell of loneliness and seclusion, ignorance and avoidance.
I have regrets in my life. Not saying goodbye to my parents before they were gone forever. Not venturing out of the manor for most of my life. Not fighting for more, thinking I deserved little. What if I don’t act on my impulse, on my desire and my feelings, and then I regret it forever?
I blink at my hands that have trailed down to his navel and the trail leading between his legs, to his cock that’s hovering against his stomach. I avoid touching it at first, smoothing my palms on either side of it, feeling the muscles of his stomach quivering, tightening. Rippling.
His strength always impresses me and affects me on many levels. I love how his body is built, how powerful he is.
I trail my fingertips down to the cut of his thick thighs, circling the area he wants me to touch, denying him the gratification, wanting to see his reaction.
His hips rise, his cock jumps when I slide my hands to his inner thighs, so close to his knot, and yet not touching.
His breathing is choppy, ragged, and a flush has worked its way into his cheeks and down his neck. He looks less in control now. Wilder than before. He’s watching avidly my every move, the muscles in his arms straining as he struggles to keep his hands locked behind his head.
Struggling not to reach for me, or for his cock, I’m not sure.
I study the knot at the root of his cock, the tight skin, the way it rests on top of his balls. I’m becoming familiar with his body, his aroused state, the gleam of his amber eyes. Those wolf ears are so cute on him, and his sharp teeth… I want to feel them on my skin.
I let out a hushed breath and slide my hands closer to his knot, watching that magnificent body tense more, ridges and planes leaping out in stark relief.
Finally, I cup my hands around his knot, and he jerks, cursing and bending toward me. His knot is firm, warm. His cock is hard as a rock when I slide my hands up to curl my fingers around it.
He’s gasping for breath now, his entire, tall body shaking, his gaze fixed on my hands around his cock. I tighten my hold on him, moving my hands up and down experimentally.
He snarls, his sharp canines glinting, and bucks a little, pushing his cock into my grip. He really does seem to like this, the pressure, the stroking.
Then I lean in, so curious, so hungry for him, and nuzzle the head of his cock, tasting his saltiness, and he groans deeply, like a wounded animal.
“Finish it,” he mutters, breathless. “Finish me, Princess. End me.”
“I’m not sure—”
“You’re doing great. Fuck, don’t stop.”
I lick at the head of his cock, and he groans again. I rub my hands over the thick length, and he gasps. His groin smells like forest essence, pine, bark and musk, plant and animal, and incandescent fury, dark burrows, and hidden monsters.
On a whim, I take the head into my mouth and this time his control breaks. His hands fly to my head and grip my long hair.
“Yeah,” he growls, “take it, little minx, take it… Hells……”
Then he pushes me off him with a shout and his cum sprays all over his chest, hitting his chin, dripping down his arms.
I’m staring, open-mouthed, at the fountain of cum coming from his cock. Another spurt. And another.
Finally, he closes his eyes, head bowing. His hands drop from my head to land on the rock. “Well,” he says hoarsely, “fuck.”