Page 9 of His Savage Sweet

I washed my hands and forced myself to the door. Turning the heavy iron key to lock it, I pressed my back against the steadying oak. I hiked up my apron, skirt and petticoats and, staring at the table where he’d spread me out like a buffet to be enjoyed, I dragged a finger along my cleft.

I was so wet.

Gasping, I repeated the motion, sending jolts of pleasure and longing all the way to my toes, making my backside jerk against the heavy door. I didn’t think I’d ever been this wet when I’d touched myself before.

I curled my fingers up inside me, my thumb playing with my swollen slit, cupping my core as I imagined his cock thrusting in and out of me.

My breathing became hotter, heavier, as I stared at that tabletop remembering his hands on my tits, his lips on my skin.

Remembering the way his forearms strained against the fabric of his shirt and jacket. He hadn’t even stopped to take off his clothes, and I couldn’t think of anything more erotic than that—remembering the way his cock looked as it slid in and out of my curls.

Remembering he’d been so desperate for me he hadn’t withdrawn, and instead spilled inside my core, the way he’d bellowed his pleasure for the world to hear.

Remembering the way a real man felt between my legs.

My pleasure built and built, but refused to spill over. The ache was becoming painful, I needed it, I craved it. Desperate now, I used one hand to unbutton my blouse and thrust my hand into my corset. I squeezed my nipples under my corset, trying to recreate the feel of his hands on my breasts…

But it was no use.

I wasn’t going to reach that pinnacle, I wasn’t going to orgasm, no matter how desperate I was for it.

I slumped against the door, realizing the truth.

Prince Beowulf had ruined me.

* * *

Wulf

“Wulf! Wulf, stand down!”

A hand on my shoulder and my brother Findlay’s voice penetrated the blackness around the edges of my vision.

“Wulf, ye’re killing him, for fook’s sake!”

That’s what it took to make me stop slamming my fist into my opponent’s face, to step back, to cool off.

Christ.

It had been a long time since I’d harmed one of my own men, and this was completely my fault. My sparring partner was just as brawny and had been on the castle guard longer than I’d been in command, but that wasn’t an excuse. I knew I was stronger, faster, and I hadn’t let up after I’d landed those first two hits.

Stupid dobber.

I’d been saying that about myself a lot over the last two weeks.

As we watched my man being helped out of the ring, Findlay kept his hand on my shoulder. Why? Was he afraid I’d lose control of my inner beast again? I would’ve scoffed, if I hadn’t been breathing so heavily.

“What is wrong, Wulf?” He gave me a little shake. “Ye’ve got us all worried.”

My breathing had calmed enough that I could snort and throw off his grip, so I crossed the courtyard and began unwinding the wrappings at my wrists. These sparring sessions had always been important to maintain our alertness, but during the last two weeks I’d been using them as an escape into oblivion—a chance to be hurt and to cause pain—and I knew that was bad…but I couldn’t make myself stop.

“Wulf—”

“What?” I snapped. “Ye’re worried because I hit him a few times too many?” I tried to sound flippant, but fook, that was enough to worry me.

“No,” Findlay said quietly. “We’re worried because ye’ve stopped eating. We’ve missed ye at dinner.”

I snorted again. I couldn’t imagine the family would even care if I stopped joining them for evening meals. There was no way I could eat the food I’d always loved—the pastries!—and not think of…of her.

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