Page 14 of Some Like 'Em Burly
Is that not a nice thing to say to someone? Am I being weird? Maybe I’m pressuring him. Maybe he doesn’t want me getting any wild ideas.
I mean, it’s not like I’m expecting him to get down on one knee for me or anything, just because I dropped to my knees forhim. A man like Rhys, an independent, successful man who’s good at his craft and can make his own way… well, what use would he have for me?
“Cariad?” Rhys frowns down at me, tugging me to a halt. “What’s wrong? You just wilted before my eyes.”
I shrug, casting around us for something to say. We’ve stopped beside an iron age hill fort, a scattering of huge stones submerged in the scrubby grass. A faint echo of a long gone time.
Did they go blackberry picking? Surely they did. I shove a berry in my mouth now, tart juice bursting over my tongue, stealing a few moments to think as I chew.
“Gwen,” Rhys warns. My skin prickles. I love that low, commanding tone, but he undercuts himself slightly by rummaging in my basket as he scowls. The berries look so tiny in his grip—even the swollen, ripest ones.
I watch a purple berry disappear behind his lips.
“Gwen.”
I pluck at the front of my gray sweater, letting cool air swirl beneath to chill my flushed skin. “I’m fine.”
Rhys stares at me for a long moment, then grunts and shrugs off his jacket. He lays it down in the grass like a makeshift blanket, then waves me down to lie on it.
I go, heart thundering. What am I going to do, say no? I’d rather cut out my own tongue.
The world tilts, and then he’s standing over me, impossibly tall. Two crows dance on the air currents somewhere far over his head.
When Rhys Evans kneels between my legs, my heart leaps into my throat. That’s why I can’t speak, why I can barely swallow, and all I can do is squeak as he gently pushes my sweater up to my neck.
“Fuck.” He makes a pleased, rumbly sound, gray eyes scanning the bared skin of my stomach, no sign of displeasure at all at my moles and freckles and extra padding. Then my bra goes next, pushed gently above my breasts, freeing my nipples to the chill air.
My wicker basket creaks as Rhys dips a hand in there again, drawing out a swollen purple berry. He holds it next to my nipple, turning the berry slowly between finger and thumb as he watches my pink flesh harden. Jumping to attention for him.
“What do you think?” I grit out. Desperate for his approval.
Rhys smirks. “Ripe for the plucking.” And without warning, he crushes the blackberry in his fingers, dripping dark juice onto my bare skin.
“Oh!” I arch up off his jacket, mind spinning. The blacksmith draws swooping lines over me in blackberry juice, doodling on my body with a stern expression before returning to my breast. He rubs the pulped fruit into my nipple, working the juice into the grain of my body, and when he finally brings the berry to my lips, I suck his fingers into my mouth too.
Rhys hisses between his teeth. “Fuck, Gwen. You make me so…”
So what?
Sowhat?
I don’t have time to ask, because he’s plucking another berry from the basket. Crushing it over my stomach this time, watching the juice drip. Rhys holds it over my belly button, filling me up like a chalice, and only once I’m full to the brim does he rub the pulp into my other nipple.
On and on he goes. Painting me in sticky sweetness, the afternoon light fading as the blacksmith works steadily at his task. This must be what it’s like for those lumps of metal on his anvil: shaped steadily in his design, at the mercy of his unrelenting patience.
Finally, I find my voice again. “Rhys Evans, if you’re just making me all sticky for your own amusement—”
“Of course I am.” There’s a wicked glint in his eye. “But I’ll clean you up again, don’t you worry.”
As if to demonstrate, Rhys tosses his latest pulped berry into the grass, then shuffles back on his knees, staring down at my bared, stained body. His chest lurches up and down under his thick shirt.
When Rhys braces on his hands and leans over me, I feel again just how muchbiggerhe is. It’s like having a bear or a bull on top of me, and I’m pinned, completely at his mercy.
A hot, damp tongue traces the center of my chest. I still beneath him, so aroused my brain has turned to mush.
“Shall I keep going?” The blacksmith’s voice is muffled against my skin, and I yank on the ends of his dark hair.
“Yes. Oh my god, yes.”
