He shoved into her. She was tight and not quite ready, but he pressed relentlessly. He would not be forestalled; he would not retreat.
“Griffin,” she gasped. She arched beneath him, her legs widening.
That gave him a little more room. He took advantage of that fact, pressing forward into her lush heat.
“You and I,” he panted, “are special. This isn’t like what everyone else does. It isn’t like anything I’ve ever had before. We are unique together.”
“That can’t be,” she said stubbornly, even as her slim fingers gripped his buttocks.
“It is,” he said against her mouth. Why wouldn’t she believe him? Why this denial of something nearly mystical? “Listen to me. I will never have another lover like you. You will never have another lover like me. What we have should be cared for and cherished.”
And he pushed one last time and seated himself finally. She was wet now, grasping at his penis in erotic little twists that made his balls draw up tight, made his brain go fuzzy.
“But I don’t think—” she began, maddening, maddening creature.
And since he could no longer form a coherent argument, he did the next best thing. He covered her mouth with his, thrusting his tongue into her honeyed warmth, his hips moving of their own accord. God! This was heaven, though he’d surely be damned by that blasphemous thought. She was soft and giving beneath him, making small animal sounds against his mouth, her hips cradling his, and all that time her sweet cunny gave and gave and gave.
He’d lost the ability to move with any finesse. Years of sophisticated practice in lovemaking fell by the wayside because he’d not been lying: This was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Where before he’d been performing a physical act, now he did something that involved both body and soul.
With Hero, this ancient movement was making love.
He threw back his head, glorying in the sensations, physical and mental. She made him believe he could fly. He looked down and watched her face, glowing with exertion. Her eyes were closed, a slight frown between her brows, her mouth a little parted. She bit her bottom lip as he watched, and he knew she was close.
Close and he could make her fall over the edge.
He hitched himself up, pressing against the apex of her thighs with each thrust, rubbing against her little bud. She swallowed, her delicate throat working.
He grit his teeth and held out. He was close as well, but he’d not go until she’d found her bliss. He lowered his head and whispered in her ear, “Come for me, sweeting.”
She shook her head stubbornly.
“Yes,” he murmured against her neck. He could taste salt and woman, and his cock jumped within her.
She moaned.
“Let me feel your honey.” He licked down over her breast. “Come for me.”
She arched, her legs moving restlessly.
“Come, my love,” he murmured against her nipple, and then sucked that tender bit of flesh into his mouth. He drew it between his teeth and bit carefully, gently.
And she came apart in his arms, her cunny squeezing so exquisitely about his cock he let go of her nipple and arched back. He shouted his agony, holding himself deep within her as he jerked and jerked again in almost painful bliss.
She was his, he was hers, and at this moment in time their world was complete.
HERO STARED AT the canopy over Griffin’s bed and traced circles on his broad back. He’d collapsed on top of her after their lovemaking and showed no signs of moving. Her legs were splayed wide beneath him, his penis still lodged within her. It was not a graceful pose, but at the moment she didn’t care.
She held him tenderly in her arms, this big, strong man. This man who shouted at her and carried her off—twice now!—to his bedroom to have his wicked way with her. He was stubborn and rude and made his living making gin. He was everything she disapproved of, in fact, and yet, if he stirred right now and indicated he wanted to make love again, she’d do it.
And what’s more, she had no doubt that she’d enjoy it.
Was this love? Silly question. She was too mature to mistake physical lust for love, but still… the question whispered in her brain. If she felt nothing for him, surely she wouldn’t have this near-constant longing to be with him? Surely she wouldn’t be already mourning their coming separation?
He sighed and lifted off of her, his penis sliding from inside her. She felt bereft.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his words slurring a bit. “I didn’t mean to crush you.”
“You didn’t,” she replied, as polite as if he’d apologized for stepping on her foot while dancing.
He grunted and threw an arm around her shoulders, scooping her close to his side. She lay against him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his eyelashes as he drifted into sleep.
She inhaled and smelled his scent—male and sexual. She thought about how she felt when she was with him, about the way he looked at her sometimes, as if she were a strange and very precious bird whose song he couldn’t quite figure out. She thought about Mandeville and his perfection and about Maximus and his pride and his hate. She thought about herself and what she’d learned since that fateful carriage ride when she’d placed her hand on a bare male cock. Griffin’s bare cock.
And as the shadows began to lengthen along the wall, she came to a decision.
She knew what she must do.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning, the three princes—looking somewhat grim—assembled in the stable yard, for the queen wished to go riding. When everyone was mounted, Queen Ravenhair faced her suitors and asked, “What is the heart of my kingdom?”
She glanced once at the stable master, so swiftly that no one might have noticed. But the stable master touched his finger to his cap, and his lips curved just a tiny bit at the corners.
Then the queen rode out of the stable yard with the princes….
—from Queen Ravenhair
“I do not see why Mrs. Vaughan must hold a musicale every season,” Cousin Bathilda said the next morning at breakfast. She waved an invitation furiously in the air, causing Mignon, sitting on her lap, to snap at it.
Hero surreptitiously moved Cousin Bathilda’s imperiled teacup away from the edge of the table.
“She never spends the money necessary to employ musicians of any talent,” Cousin Bathilda continued, “and thus we are all forced to listen to off-key violinists and tipsy sopranos while partaking of squashy cakes and watered wine.”