Page 40 of Veiled Flames
“May I cleanse your bosom?”
My mouth turns dry, but I nod.
He rewets the sponge with warm water. “You are so beautiful.” He draws the sponge down, painting a warm line from my throat to the place between my breasts.
“My bosom is too small.” I parrot Dresser’s oft said lament about the size of my paps.
“Not at all.” His finger circles one of my small orbs, and my breath catches in my chest.
“You are perfect,” he says. “Your paps are like ripe plums. Any larger and you would not have accomplished your ruse as a boy.” He winks and then circles the other. “Not that you fooled me for a moment.”
He continues to bathe my chest, taking far more time in this location than the other parts of my body thus far, and he pays extra attention to the red marks on my skin. My nipples were already tight, but they’ve now hardened to the point of pain. And yet, each time the sponge brushes my stiff nubs, I feel a rush of pleasure, and I squeeze my legs together as heat continues to build between them.
“May I kiss you?” Saxon asks, his voice soft but hoarse.
Breathless, I nod and then lift my chin to improve his access. But instead of capturing my mouth, he bends and tugs one of my painfully sharp nipples between his lips.
“Ah!” I suck in a ragged breath, shocked at how the feeling races through me, instantly tightening the place between my legs.
His large hands encircle me, holding me still, as he sucks on one nipple, and then the other. And then he presses soft kisses along all the lines marking my sore skin. My knees are shaking, and I place my hands on his shoulders, borrowing his strength and loving the movements of his ropey muscles that shift every time he moves his head.
So much heat has built between my legs that I’m finding it increasingly difficult to draw in full breaths. Then, just as I’m getting used to his suckling and kissing my bosom, he rises to full height. Looking up into his eyes, I let my hands fall from his shoulders and onto his chest, still covered by his linen chemise.
He shakes his head. “What have you done to me?”
I want to ask what I could possibly have done to him—it’s he who has done everything to me—but his lips steal my opportunity to ask. Cupping my head in his large hands, he captures my mouth in a kiss, one far more passionate and intense than any preceding it. His mouth presses and tastes and probes mine, as if my lips carry the elixir of life.
Even though our bodies remain nearly a span apart, his chemise brushes my belly.
Gasping, Saxon releases my lips and steps back from me.
His chemise has tented, jutting out above his hips, and the sight is exciting and terrifying at once. Hisrodis what brushed me. And his desire—his desire for me—is what made it stiffen. Power surges inside me.
Women hold no standing in this world, certainly not amongst the nobility. I’ve known this truth since I was a tot, but I suddenly recognize that there may beoneway a woman can hold power over a man.
On the other hand, if all this is leading to him forcing his hard rod inside my cleft’s channel, that balance of power will soon shift back to the norm.
Saxon slowly undoes the flaps of my breeches, letting them fall open to the sides, and then he loosens the ties I use to keep the breeches tight at my waist. The leather garment slides down my legs, stalling over my thighs. Then he releases the ties on my braies, and they drop to chase the breeches.
He sucks in a breath, then he crouches to push both garments all the way down to my ankles. I tremble as his hands slide back up the outsides of my legs to my hips, and I squeeze my legs together, hoping to contain the dampness.
Deserting me for a moment, Saxon wets the sponge, and this time brings the basin with him, setting it on the ground nearby.
My entire body is shaking, and I rest my hands on his shoulders as he bathes my ankles, my calves, my shins, and then the fronts and backs of my knees. Continuing to explore, his warm, wet sponge roams higher, cleansing my tightly squeezed thighs which quiver under his touch.
He presses the sponge low against my belly, and water dribbles into the soft curly hair beneath. Then he strokes the sponge over my bottom and the backs of my thighs.
I try to spread my legs, wanting to grant him access to my inner thighs, but the breeches and braies are trapping my ankles. I kick out of them.
Seemingly startled, he looks up into my eyes, and then, without breaking eye contact, he rinses the sponge and carefully bathes my inner thighs. As he strokes closer and closer to my junction, the sponge tickles and teases. The sensations intensify the heatand strange stirrings trespassing through me. I’ve never felt anything quite so exciting, so mysterious, and it makes me crave more.
Crouching, he rewets the sponge and then presses it directly between my legs.
I gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders so I don’t lose my balance on my trembling legs. Looking up, he smiles reassuringly as he strokes the sponge over my cleft, front to back. I shudder, my entire body reacting to his intimate touch.
Then he drops the sponge into the water, scoops me into his arms and carries me into his tent. He sets me on my feet in front of his cot, and his considerable height consumes the center of the shelter, near its pole. Next to me, a small oil lamp flickers on a low table. Its light dances over Saxon’s unabashedly masculine body, and I’m jealous of that light. My fingers itch to touch him, but I dare not move.
I have no idea what’s to come next.
