Page 50 of Veiled Flames
Our gazes meet, and I nearly shoot my seed onto her belly and chest. It’s impossible to process everything I see in her eyes—contrasting innocence and wisdom; courage and uncertainty—and the raging lust she may not yet fully recognize in herself.
“Should I stop?” she asks.
Her grip has loosened; her touch is gentler. And for a moment, I have no idea how to answer, because if I’m honest, Ineverwant her to stop.
“If you touch me much longer,” I say with as much control as I can muster, “my seed will shoot onto your body.”
“You haveseed?” Her hand stills, but her thumb strokes the hard ridge of my underside.
Gritting my teeth, I fight to contain myself as I nod.
She looks down again, then back up with renewed wonder in her eyes. “Is that your seed beading at the tip of your rod?”
“It is.”
“And there’smoreof it inside?”
I nod again.
“Do you need to keep it contained?” she asks. “Is that why I should stop?”
Her fingers softly draw up my shaft, and suddenly I have no idea why I’ve been holding back.
“No, ma chérie. It is meant to come out. Keep touching me. Touch me however you want, and I’ll warn you when my seed is about to erupt.”
My breaths come heavier and heavier, as do hers, and I don’t even try to control my sounds as I groan and grunt under her touch.
“Grip me more tightly,” I instruct her, and she does, her small hand circling to cover more surface as it glides up and down my shaft. It’s as if she’s done this hundreds of times before, although I know that she hasn’t.
“Holy thrix, Rosomon. My eruption. It’s coming.”
She looks up into my eyes, just as my seed explodes, and when she feels it strike her body, she looks down. Her hand stalls for a moment, but then she continues to stroke me, and I shoot again, painting her skin. Spent, I reach down to remove her hand from my softening rod.
Thrix, if she doesn’t look even more beautiful painted in my juices, like she’s been marked forever as mine. I wish.
Her fingers trace through the thick fluid on her belly, then she lifts a finger to smell and then taste it. “Salty,” she declares.
“Earlier.” She tips her head to the side. “The other times…Did your seed shootinsideme?” Her eyes are unbelievably wide now.
I nod, and then slowly push myself up to sit. I reach for my chemise, quickly putting it on.
“Is it time for me to leave?” She slides to sit at the edge of the cot, clear disappointment in her eyes.
Standing, I cup her chin. “Not just yet, ma chérie. Your question has reminded me that I must give you some tea.”
“Tea?” Her nose wrinkles. “I don’t much enjoy tea.”
“It’s a very special type of tea. Courtesan’s tea.”
She grimaces. “Is that what I am now? A courtesan?” It’s clear that she knows the word’s negative connotations, even if she might not fully understand what it means.
“No. But the tea will ensure my seed doesn’t take root inside of you.”
She nods, but I can see in her eyes that she doesnotunderstand—not at all.
“Wait here,” I tell her. “I’ll fetch the tea before I explain.”
Luckily the water is still on the boil. I prepared the herbs earlier, and it takes but a moment to fill the small pewter teapot.
