The damp grass soaked through the fine wool of Lyssa’s gown as she knelt. Her face was level with the rough linen of Kian’s trousers. Her intention was a stark, silent statement in the quiet orchard.
Kian’s hands flew to her shoulders, not to push her away, but to hold her, to stop her. His eyes were wide, frantic with concern. He shook his head, a sharp, jerking motion.
No. Not like this. You’re upset. This isn’t what you need.
His fingers pressed into her, trying to lift her up.
She shrugged his hands off with a violence that surprised them both. Her fingers went back to the laces of his trousers. Her movements were clumsy, fueled by a desperate, frantic energy. She freed the ties and pushed the rough fabric down his hips. His cock lay against his thigh, soft, vulnerable. She stared at it for a long moment, her breath hitching.
A bitter, sigh escaped her. She reached out, her fingers brushing the soft, warm flesh. It twitched faintly under her touch. “I need this,” she said, her tone shifting, hardening with resolve. “I need you. I need to forget his words. His face. My father’s face. I need to forget everything that isn’t you, right here, right now.”
She wrapped her hand around him. He was still mostly soft, a handful of pliant flesh. She began to stroke, her grip firm, her thumb sliding over the sensitive head. She watched his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in a war between concern and building arousal. She pumped her hand, establishing a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“That’s it,” she breathed, feeling the first undeniable swell beneath her palm. It was a slow, incredible transformation. The flesh thickened, growing heavy and warm. It began to rise, pushing insistently against her encircling fingers, forcing them to loosen their grip. Gods. She’d seen it hard, felt it inside her, but watching it come to life like this, under her command, was something else entirely.
She actually had to lean back, tilting her head to give it space as it reached its full, proud length. It stood thick and ruddy against the pale skin of his stomach, a blunt, veined declaration of his desire winning over his worry. Her gaze travelled up its length to his face. Her own amazement was plain. His eyes were open now, dark and burning, locked on hers.
Now hard. So hard.
Lyssa leaned forward again, her breath ghosting over the heated skin. She didn’t take him in her mouth. Not yet. She pressed her lips to the side of his shaft, a soft, closed-mouth kiss. Then she let her tongue out, a pink point, and licked a long, slow stripe from root to tip. She tasted salt and skin and pure, masculine Kian. She swirled her tongue around the broad head, collecting the bead of moisture that had welled there. She hummed at the taste.
She moved her mouth to the other side, licking and kissing, exploring every ridge and vein. She was mapping him with her mouth. Then, an idea, a spark of her own desperate mischief. She shifted her attention lower, to where his cock met his body. She nuzzled the coarse, dark hair there. Then, very carefully, she took a small curl of it between her teeth and gave a gentle, insistent tug.
A full body shudder racked Kian. A silent, gasping groan was torn from his throat. His hips jerked involuntarily. The reaction sent a bolt of pure power straight through Lyssa’s core. She had done that.
Emboldened, she finally took him into her mouth.
She started slow, letting her lips stretch wide to accommodate his girth. She took just the head, swirling her tongue around it, sucking gently. She relaxed her jaw, sinking down a little further, feeling him press against the back of her throat. She pulled back with a wet, soft pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to him.
Then she went deeper.
She set a rhythm, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked, bobbing her head. Her hand worked the base of his shaft in tandem with her mouth. The sounds were obscenely wet, slobbering, and deep. She gagged slightly as he hit her throat, but she didn’t retreat. She pushed forward, tears springing to her eyes from the effort, taking him as deeply as she could. Her nose pressed into the wiry hair at his root. She held there for a second, breathing hard through her nose, her throat fluttering wildly around him.
She pulled back, gasping for air, spit slicking her chin. She didn’t pause. She dove back down, faster now, her rhythm becoming frantic, hungry. She needed to consume him. To have this part of him, this proof of his passion for her, inside her. Her free hand clutched at his hip, her nails biting into his skin.
Kian’s control shattered. His hands, which had been clenched at his sides, flew to her head. They didn’t force her. They cradled her, his fingers tangling in her red hair, holding her with a desperate, tender possessiveness as she devoured him. His hips began to meet her thrusts, shallow, helpless pumps.
She felt the change in him first, a tensing of the muscles under her hands, a throbbing pulse against her tongue that was different from the steady beat of his heart. He tried to pull her off, a warning tug on her hair, but she gripped his hips and held on, taking him deeper, sucking harder.
He came with a silent, convulsive roar.
The first hot, bitter spurt hit the back of her throat. Her eyes rolled back in her head, a moan vibrating around his flesh. More followed, flooding her mouth, coating her tongue, some trickling down her throat in a thick, warm stream. She swallowed reflexively, again and again, milking him with her mouth until he was spent and trembling.
Slowly, carefully, she released him, pulling her mouth off with a final, soft suck. She stayed on her knees for a moment, panting, swallowing the last of his taste. Then she stood, her legs shaky. She stepped into his space, her hands coming up to cradle his stunned, beautiful face.
She pulled him down and kissed him.
It was a deep, messy, slobbering kiss. She pushed her tongue into his mouth, letting him taste himself on her, a raw, intimate sharing. He groaned into it, his arms snapping around her. One large hand palmed the curve of her buttock through her gown, squeezing possessively. The other wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. They stumbled, losing balance, and fell together into the soft, damp grass, their mouths never parting.
Back in the manor, the great hall door slammed with a force that shook the wall sconces. Lord Barlon stood just inside, his chest heaving, the ghost of his daughter’s words… I hate you .…echoing in the silence.
Lord Corvus was still at the table, delicately picking his teeth with a fingernail. He looked up, his small eyes gleaming with amusement.
“Temperamental stock. I’ll have to breed that out of her. A few seasons in the quiet south, a child or two in her belly… she’ll soften.” He dropped the gnawed-clean bone onto his plate with a clatter.
“Her little performance settles it. I’ll return in three days to collect my bride. See that she’s bathed and… suitably penitent.”
He heaved his bulk from the chair, not offering a hand or a bow. He simply walked out, his retinue of guards falling in behind him.
When the outer gates clanged shut, the strength seemed to leave Barlon all at once. He fell into his great chair as if his bones had turned to water, his head dropping into his hands.
A soft rustle of silk. Lady Anya moved like a shadow, coming to stand behind him.
“She looked at me as if I were a stranger,” Barlon said, his voice hollow. “As if I’d carved out her heart. She said she hated me.”
Anya’s cool hands settled on his broad, tense shoulders, beginning to knead the knotted muscles. “She didn’t mean it,” Anya murmured, her voice a low, soothing melody. “She’s a child, lashing out at the nearest target. She loves you.”
“This marriage… Anya, tell me true. Should I truly tie her to that… that thing for the rest of her days? For land and a king’s favor?”
Anya’s hands stilled. She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. “That is a lord’s decision. A hard one.” She paused, her breath warm against his skin. “But who, my love, could possibly stop the great Barlon if he decided… otherwise?”
He turned his head to look at her.
She smiled, a slow, secret thing. She took one of his large, calloused hands in both of hers and began to walk backwards, leading him from the chair.
“Come. You need distraction.”
He was on his feet in an instant, the melancholy burned away by a more familiar, primal energy. He lunged forward, grabbing a generous handful of her buttock through her silk gown, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp.
“I need more than distraction.”
She giggled, a genuine, girlish sound, and slapped his hand away playfully. “Not here, you hungry beast!”
She led him by the hand, a sly smile on her face, up the grand staircase and down the corridor to their private chambers. The tension was already coiling between them, a palpable charge. She pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped inside, pulling him after her.
They both stopped dead in their tracks.
In the center of the room, caught in a sliver of afternoon light, stood the young servant girl. She was frozen, her face a mask of pure, petrified horror. One hand was clutched to her slave attire. The other was behind her back, trying desperately to hide something.
But not quickly enough. Dangling from her fingertips, a scrap of delicate, lace-trimmed ivory silk, was one of Lady Anya’s personal undergarments.
The girl had been holding it to her face. The flush on her cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of her small breasts under her rough shift, the glisten of unshed tears in her wide eyes… it was all painfully clear. She had been in here, alone, sniffing the intimate garment, her own hand likely between her legs.
“I… I…” the girl stammered, her voice a mouse-like squeak. She looked from Anya’s calmly arched eyebrow to Lord Barlon’s suddenly intrigued, speculative expression, and she looked ready to faint.