Page 141 of Sweetling
His thrusts were lazy, a leisurely invasion and retreat, rocking them gently.
The morning passed by not in minutes but kisses, the soft light from the windows growing brighter as his hips began to gain momentum. He kept his measured pace, not to be hurried even when she became needy. Her hips rolled backwards to meet his, seeking that next level of friction as the pressure built low in her belly.
“Allarion…” she moaned, reaching a hand back to bury in his silky hair.
His mouth dropped to the sensitive curve between shoulder and neck, and he teased a fang there along her round scars.
He hadn’t needed to drink her blood in a long while, but the memory of when he did, the unique ecstasy of his bite, had her clenching around his cock.
“Do you want my fangs?” he rasped against her ear. “I feel how you clutch at me, sweetling. Do you need my bite?”
A needy sound escaped her, nails digging against his scalp. “Next time,” she said breathlessly. “When the guests are all gone.”
In just a few hours, their first true guests to Scarborough would start arriving. Lady Aislinn and Lord Hakon and their retinue, Balar and his brothers, Maritza and her sisters, Orek and Sorcha Brádaigh and their clan, her little cousins and their families and guardians, Mayor Doherty and his family, friends from Dundúran, friends from Mullon, and more. She probably didn’t need a new set of punctures to hide or explain over the next few days.
What she did need was for him tomove.
Implacable as always, though, Allarion wouldn’t be rushed. Not when she begged nor when she threatened. Snaking her hand under the blankets, she caught a handful of his taut backside and squeezed, but still he wouldn’t increase his pace or power more than incrementally.
A big warm hand seized her breast and squeezed, making Molly whimper.
“I will have this, my love,” he purred. “I have to make it last with so many guests over the next days.”
Molly laughed, although it sounded more desperate than anything else. “They’re not going to be in here with us.”
“No, but they will be in the house. These are my last hours alone with you, and I mean to indulge.”
He said that as if they didn’t indulge every day. The only time they hadn’t was the days immediately after his fight with the fae knights and during his recovery.
After more, shorter sleeps and staying abed for a few days, Allarion had declared himself healed. Molly still bullied him into staying in bed another day, although he’d only acquiesced when she joined him. She hadn’t been convinced he was ready for anything, even if he insisted on at least using his hands and mouth to make up for time lost.
He tuckered himself out completely and took a two-day long sleep after that. So Molly had had her way, insisting he rest. For several weeks, he’d done little more than lay about or sit near, reading or watching her cook or playing the harpsichord.
His strength returned, his healing leaving just the faintest lilac scars on his chest. He’d had her touch them, to reassure herself that he was whole and hale, yet the sight of them still gave Molly pause. No matter what he or Bellarand said, those scars were proof he’d nearly been taken from her. If the Fae Queen had had her way, Allarion would either be a prisoner in the faelands or dead, and Molly hated her for that.
Months on, that hate still lived inside her, but she blanketed it with joy in the everyday. Slowly, life returned to their kind of normal. He resumed work on the house. Bellarand resumed his war with the squirrels, their temporary parley over. Molly resumed her projects and started new ones.
Winter had left and spring was beginning to warm into summer and, finally, not only was her fae back to himself, but the house was finished. Every shingle and every floorboard gleamed. Each room had been furnished to their tastes, new wallpapers and paints adding bursts of color to the walls.
Allowing the forest to help heal him had forged a bond between them, one that he’d never have had otherwise. He was this land and the land was him. With Molly’s help, Allarion had little trouble tying the last knots to bond his magic with that of Scarborough.
Allarion was alive and healthy. The house was finished. The spring blooms were full and bright. It was time to celebrate.
Right after she got the orgasm she wanted.
His name was a hiss through her teeth this time as her hips rolled harder than the tide against the rocks. A rich, low chuckle echoed in his throat, inciting her, enflaming her.
“All right, sweetling,” he murmured at her ear.
That talented hand replaced his magic between her thighs, the pads of two fingers finding her clitoris to make firm circles.
Molly’s back bowed, a silent scream opening her mouth wide. She came apart, body quaking with all the burst tension he’d built over the morning. The pleasure scorched her like a sunburst, hot and intense. Her thighs clamped closed on his hand and cock as she ran down her pleasure, another wave cascading through her to feel him filling her up with spend.
Face buried in her hair, Allarion pumped inside her, their hips slapping together in a wet dance muffled by the bedding. His great chest shuddered at her back, his arms wrapping round to hold her tight.
The pleasure wiped all thought from Molly’s mind, and she lay there for a long while, catching her breath. Her senses came back slowly, every sight and sound and smell of him.
So, so carefully, he lowered his leg to free hers, laying her supine in the bed. Molly rolled into him, welcoming him into the cradle of her body as they sank into more soft kisses.
