Page 15 of Some Like 'Em Burly
An approving rumble, and then he’s licking meeverywhere. Devouring every inch that he painted in juice. He tastes my stomach, my waist, the swell of my hips, the dip of my ribs. He drinks from my belly button, eyes screwed shut in concentration. And his beard tickles, and his breath is warm, and every touch makes me ache even worse between my legs.
When Rhys sucks my nipple into his mouth, I cry out at the clouds. He rolls the bead over his tongue; palms my breast and lifts it higher. Hefeastson me, bathing me in the wet, eager heat of his mouth, and only switches to the other side when I’m breathless and dizzy.
“Oh, god.” I moan, helpless, as he sucks at my second stained nipple. “Oh, there had better be a punchline to all this, Rhys Evans, or you are a cruel, cruel man.”
In answer, he flips up my skirt. I lift my hips automatically as he slides down my panties before tossing them onto the grass. “Come on, Gwen, I’m not cruel. I’m a teddy bear.”
He’s not, he’s—aah—he’s an evil genius, and this is some comic book torture, especially when the blacksmith spreads me with two fingers and crushes another berry directly over my sex. Tart juice drips down, painting my clit and sliding through my folds, and I was already a slippery mess. Swollen and desperate.
“Lick it up,” I moan. “Oh my god, lick it up.”
“I will.” Thick fingers rub the juice over my sex, and Rhys looks so primal as he kneels over me beside the hill fort. He’s a bearded, hungrybrute, his dark hair tugged by the breeze and his eyes lined with age as darkness falls around us.“Trust me, Gwen.”
Oh, I do. I really do.
But I still let out a howl when his face dips between my legs.
Because the blacksmithdevoursme. He laps at me like he’s never tasted anything so fine; he suckles on my clit, his beard brushing my inner thighs. And thenoiseshe makes. The grunts and growls. The way the muscles in his shoulders bunch as he leans over me. The strength in his hands as he presses me down…
“Gwen.” His deep voice vibrates through a million nerve endings, and I choke out a breath.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to put my fingers inside you. Alright? It might hurt at first, but it will make things easier if you ever want to… if we ever…”
Oh my god.
“Do it.” I try to buck my hips, but he’s holding me down, his face still so close to my pussy that I feel each shuddering breath. “Open me up for you. Make me ready.”
Another low groan. “Fuck.”
He’s right. As his thick middle finger pushes into me, it’s uncomfortable at first. I’m tight and untried, and my eyes burn at the sharp stretch. But Rhys works it in and out, lapping at my clit again, and by the time he adds a second finger, I’m writhing and panting once more. The tension is bleeding away, replaced by a new sort of tightness. A new coiling sensation, low in my belly.
“How do I feel?” I can’t help myself. I live for this man’s praise, and he never disappoints.
“Like heaven,” Rhys grates. He crooks his fingers, rubbing at my inner walls, and I let out a mewl. “If I ever got inside here, if I felt you around my cock… I’d lose my mind.”
“You will.” Even though the light’s fading, I screw my eyes shut. It’s all too much, and my heart is raw, and as the blacksmith licks me, the pleasure is so intense that it’s edginginto pain. “You will get in there, I promise. I want you, Rhys Evans. Only you.”
It’s his desperate cursing that throws me over the cliff edge. I thrash and whine, muscles twitching and pussy clamped tight on his fingers, the wind whipping at my hair and the scent of fresh grass in my nose. And Rhys licks me through it all, fingers pumping and breath hot, and when I finally nudge him away, he sits back with something like regret.
“You’ll get down there again,” I joke, lying in a puddle on his jacket.
He doesn’t look like he believes me. I swallow.
It’s okay. We’ll have time to figure things out together. We’ll have time to convince each other that we’re both truly in this.
I mean, there’s no rush, is there? It’s not like either of us is going anywhere.
Gwen
“I’m leaving the valley. So you can back down, Mr Roberts, because it won’t do you any good.”
I puff out a heavy breath beside the blacksmith, as winded by those words as if he’d punched me in the chest. Rhys Evans frowns at my father in the cobbled town square, his big hand wrapped around mine, and this is a dream, right? Or a nightmare.
It was supposed to be a simple walk into town for milk and eggs. And now Rhys is leaving? What the hell?
How? How can he hold my hand like that, sweet as pie, and all along he’s secretly planning to leave?
