Page 57 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
His hands slipped into her hair, and his fingers massaged her scalp as he spoke her name like a prayer.
Then the buttons were done with, and the long thick length of him strained against the thin linen of his smalls. What use was such a garment in the face of such a foe? She pushed the wool and linen down his slim hips, and he stepped out of them. Their bodies pressed together so close but not quite touching, and she took hold of him, wrapping her hand around his length. Silk and steel. She squeezed, and he arched against her, the muscles in his jaw working hard.
She released him and fell to her knees, trailed her fingernails down the muscles of his thighs, scattered with hair as well. His hands remained in her hair, and he tried to pull her back up.
“Beautiful,” she whispered, resisting his efforts, liking it just fine where she was. All lean muscle and ropey sinew. All man.
“Those words are for me to say to you,” he said.
“I shall say as I please, and this is the truth. You should be the model, not I.” For he served as her muse in a way, inspiring her to mold her own life as she saw fit. “Can I do to you what you did to me?”
“Not today.” The words sounded choked. “I will lose control.”
She rather liked the sound of that—to drive a man with such control as he had quite to his wit’s end. Hadn’t she been trying to do that all this time anyway? She never suspected she would do it without her clothes on, but her teasing and her winking—all of it meant to ruffle him.
And because she was curious and did not like following commands, she kissed the tip of him and then tasted the length of him, drawing her tongue down the shaft. He had flicked his tongue inside her earlier, but she could not do that to him. Perhaps… she took him into her mouth, and he hissed a curse. She removed her lips from his person and looked up at him. Had she hurt him?
But the gaze he cast down at her was one of intense pleasure, not pain, and before she could take her next breath, he hauled her to her feet and threw her over his shoulder. Three strides took him to the bed’s edge, and he threw her down upon the mattress. He stood poised above her like a warrior, a victor—no, a king. Setting one knee on the mattress, he touched her everywhere, paying particular attention to the places where her curves were most ample—hips, breasts, thighs. He kissed and clutched and looked, and she kissed and touched him back.
“Oh, Theo.” The words that had begun as a caress turned into a cry as he slipped his fingers inside her, his thumb going to that spiraling bud of need at her center and circling, pressing, in just the right way.
Then his hands bracketed her hips, and he flipped her, pulled her to the edge of the mattress until her feet hit the floor. She arched her back to see his intentions in his face and saw only a wild thing, no polished king, but a feral god of old.
He was everything she wanted, had ever wanted.
And he wanted her. He did not hide his desire. It rose long and throbbing between them, and it burned in his eyes. He pressed himself against her rear and cupped her breasts as she supported her weight on her arms, her hair a curtain spilling around her face, cutting her off from the world, cutting her off from everything but him.
This,this, felt wonderful. Her only complaint that she could not see him, touch him. But some deep corner of her enjoyed giving in to him this way, making herself entirely vulnerable and at his command as she never would be outside of the bedroom.
“Beautiful,” he said, raking his fingernails down her back. He likely scored her skin, and she welcomed it. She wanted to score him, too. His hand reached between her legs. “Wet.”
“Yes.”
And then he pushed inside her slowly, and it had been so long, and he felt so big.
His body leaned over hers, holding her tight with strong arms, holding her up if she needed his strength. “Are you well? Is it fine? Shall I stop?”
“No.” She hugged his arms with her own, keeping him connected to her. “Never stop.” She dropped back to the bed, supporting her own weight with one hand and reached the other arm backward to draw his body closer, using her nails to hook him.
He hissed, but he came to her, did as she bade him, and he did not stop until he was buried in her to the hilt. “Perfection.” He kissed her shoulder.
She agreed. Absolute perfection, the fit of their bodies together. How could it be so, when they were so opposite in every other way?
He withdrew, oh so slowly and almost entirely before he thrust back home. And then again and again, slow then faster, over and over, the same rhythm that had driven her to the same peak of delirium she’d experienced earlier in the library.
Almost there. Almostthere, but not quite.
And then his hand appeared low on her belly, and his fingers worked at her center, stroking, circling, holding her tight to him at the same time, and as his hand worked, and as he thrust from behind, she gave in to him, gave in to the feeling, and let it sweep her entirely away.
She collapsed, her muscles no longer able to keep her upright, but her rear still lifted for him as he made his final thrusts and pulled entirely out, spilling his seed onto the mattress beside her.
His breaths were ragged pants, and as he crawled onto the bed beside her, he pulled her with him, held her close against him. The sun still shone beyond the window glass, but the bed curtains offered welcome shadows to hide herself in. He stroked his fingertips along her jaw and neck, down her arms and back up, making her shiver and burrow closer until he stopped and kissed the top of her head.
She should have taken a lover sooner. She never would have guessed that if she did it would be Lord Theodore. Now, she could not quite imagine it being anyone else.
Fifteen
Cordelia woke to a kiss. And as the five mornings since she first began her affair with Theo, she pretended to sleep just a moment longer. Because Theo adored her most when he thought her sleeping; when he thought she could not hear or feel his adoration.
