“Tell me,” he murmured. “There are many nice things we can do.”
“I want you inside me,” she whispered.
“I want that, too, but I think it might be too soon.” They had done it three times since yesterday, surely too much for a novice.
She arched up a little, luring him with her hips.
“I think it’s fine,” she said in a soft voice, her blue eyes brilliant beneath drooping lashes, and it nearly made him slide right into her, precautions be damned.
He lowered his body over hers and kissed her on the mouth.
Her slender hands stroked down his back, then more tentatively over his behind. It drew a low, throaty grunt from him.
“She’s fine,” she said, sounding serious. “Really.”
“Let me see,” he said.
She was moving restlessly at first, choking back tiny noises when his mouth brushed her breast, her belly, the charming little dip of her navel. He kissed lower, and she went silent.
He kept her thighs apart with the breadth of his shoulders.
“She looks beautiful,” he said.
“I’m glad to hear it,” came the faint reply.
He trailed a finger through the fine protective curls, and her thighs clenched against his biceps.
“Just making certain,” he murmured, already intoxicated.
He ran his thumb up and down the delicate seam, parting it slightly. At her hesitant sigh, he pushed inside her, then spread the wetness with the pad of his finger. She said his name, and it sounded anxious, seeking . . . He lowered his head and did it with his tongue. He indulged himself, taking long licks, his fingers digging into the softness of her hips. He was lost, so hard he could feel his pulse in his cock, and so he didn’t immediately register her response. It dawned on him that he wasn’t hearing or feeling affirmations of her pleasure.
He raised his head and searched her eyes across the tense plane of her stomach. She was looking up at the ceiling.
“Is it good for you?” he asked.
She lifted her head. Her face looked red and anxious. “I think so.”
“I like it,” he said, in case she doubted it. “Very much.”
She nodded. “Go on, then.”
When he lowered his head, he felt her thighs stiffen. She was bracing herself.
He paused. “You don’t enjoy it,” he said slowly, “do you?”
She put a hand over her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said in a small voice. “I’m familiar with the practice, I have read about it, women are supposed to find it wonderful.”
He sat up, and so she raised herself up on her elbows.
“I don’t care what your forbidden book says,” he said. “If you dislike it, we don’t do it.”
“I don’t dislike it,” she said. “It’s just . . . it’s so . . .”
She drew up her feet and tried to close her knees. He shifted back to let her, resisting the urge to grab her thighs and keep her wide open to him. He clasped her ankle instead, just holding it.
“It’s what,” he nudged.
“It’s wet,” she said at last.
He ran his hand over his chin. “It is, yes.”
She grimaced.
Difficult to think without much blood in his head. “You don’t like it because it’s wet? It’s mostly you, by the way.”
“I know, but the sensation distracts me. It doesn’t really hurt, though, we can certainly do it if it pleases you. Goodness, I’ve made it terribly awkward now.”
An unexpected surge of tenderness tampered his lust. A few of his observations about her, parceled away at the back of his mind, began to form a picture.
“You’re very sensitive,” he said. “I noticed. Your skin ripples when I barely touch you. You don’t suffer noise well, either.”
“I’m sorry.” She made to tug the sheet over her breasts.
“Ah, ah.” He gripped the sheet in his fist.
He brushed his lips over her knee, and a lustful sigh was the response.
He rested his chin on the spot he had kissed and watched her confused face. “There,” he said. “You can’t even help it.”
He slowly ran his hand down her shin, and inch by inch, the tension seeped from her limbs. He raised her foot and pressed an open-mouthed kiss onto the lovely arch. She held her breath. He dipped his tongue between her toes. Her body bowed up with delight.
“Habibit albi,” he said. “It’s a gift, your sensitivity. It’s a pleasure to pleasure you. Allow me to try.”