“I think I feel sorry for these gentlemen’s wives,” Helen muttered. She was hot, the constant pressure of the cool lemon making her anxious. Aroused. She wished he would just finish and come make love to her.
But Alistair was obviously in no hurry. “Rather you should feel sorry for the wives whose husbands do not believe in the existence of the clitoris.”
She squinted at the ceiling. “Are there men like that?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” he murmured. He finally took the lemon away from her sensitive flesh, but now she felt contrarily bereft. “Some doubt there’s such a thing at all.”
And he slid the halved lemon slowly into her.
She gasped at the sensation. The cold citrus, his warm fingers. He twisted inside her, did something, and then withdrew his fingers, leaving the lemon inside.
“There are those who doubt that a woman feels any sensation at all when stimulated here.” He drew his finger up through her folds again until he tapped once more on her clitoris. “I think they are mad, of course, but a scientist always tests his theories. Shall we see?”
See what? Helen thought, but had no time to say, because before she could speak, his mouth had replaced his finger, and she had no way of speaking after that.
All she could do was feel.
He licked carefully, delicately, through the flanges of her sex, as if he wanted to taste every drop of the spilled lemon juice. And when he reached the top, he licked around her bud, in tighter and tighter circles until she was clutching at the sheets on either side of her in trembling ecstasy and had raised her knees to press against him. He took her legs and casually slung them over his shoulders without lifting his mouth from her. Instead, he held her hips more firmly, keeping her from arching away from him. He narrowed his tongue and darted it into her channel, and when she thought she might simply disintegrate from the sensation, he moved up again. He took that sensitive bit of flesh between his lips and sucked on it, gently and persistently.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t escape his determined lovemaking. She was moaning and panting, unable to control the sounds coming from her mouth. She’d tangled her fingers in his long hair at some point, and that lifeline was the only thing holding her earthbound. She tugged anxiously, inarticulate with need, for him to stop or continue—she didn’t know which, and it did not matter.
Nothing was stopping him.
Until light exploded behind her closed eyelids, and pure, almost painful pleasure radiated out from the center he still ministered to. She gasped, feeling tears welling in her eyes.
Feeling as if she’d touched heaven.
He continued to lick softly as she quieted, and then he rose, standing by the bed, examining her almost dispassionately as he shed his clothes.
“I don’t believe I shall ever taste a lemon and not think of you,” he said conversationally. He stripped his breeches off, and his penis rose, monstrously erect before him. “Think of this.”
He prowled up her spent form, his arms on either side of her, his weight making the bed sink beneath her. He took off her wrap and chemise as easily as undressing a doll, and she only watched him, her lids lowered lazily. He shifted and tugged her until she lay on the bed properly, and then he spread her legs again, as wide as he could. He lowered himself onto her.
She flinched slightly at his touch, her flesh still sensitive.
He bent his head until his lips touched her ear. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I must be in you now. I can no more refrain than I can stop breathing. Gentle.” He said this last because the head of his penis had nudged her entrance. “Relax. Just … let me.” He pushed an inch or so inside.
She breathed rapidly. She’d never been this sensitized. She felt as if a feather’s touch would make her shudder. And what he was introducing inside of her body was no feather. He slid a little farther in. She was very wet, but she was also swollen, ripe with arousal. She turned her head and licked at his jaw.
He froze. “Don’t—”
This time she carefully tested her teeth against his skin. No matter how casual his words, he was on a razor’s edge—she could tell by how stiffly he held his body—and a wicked part of her wanted to send him over that edge. Wanted to drive him to the brink of insanity.
She scratched her nails down his back.
“Helen,” he rasped, “that isn’t wise.”
“But I don’t want to be wise,” she whispered back.
That did it. Whatever thread that had held him snapped. He lunged, driving his length into her softness, pummeling her, thrusting into her, panting and uncivilized.
She wrapped her arms about him and held on as he plunged and writhed above her, watching him, watching his strong, scarred face. Even when the edges of her vision blurred and pleasure began to sweep over her in hot beats, she still forced her eyes open, watching, watching.
And he watched her back, his gaze locked with hers, his eye darkening as he neared his crisis. It was as if he strove to communicate something he could not say but could only demonstrate with his body. His lips twisted, his face flushed, and his mouth opened wordlessly, but he kept his eye locked with hers even as he pulsed hot life into her body.
Chapter Twelve
Thereafter, when the sorcerer relieved him from his guard duty, Truth Teller would hunt the mountain for the purple flower. It took some time, for he had only the light of the moon to search by, but eventually he had gathered enough buds to grind them into a powder. Then he set about finding two horses. This proved an even more difficult task, for the sorcerer kept no horses. But one night Truth Teller took what coin he had and hiked all the way down the mountain to a farm in the valley below.
When he awakened the farmer and explained what he wished to purchase, the man frowned. “Your purse is too small. I can only sell you one horse for that amount.”
Truth Teller nodded and gave the farmer all the money he had in the world. “So be it.”
And he hiked back up the mountain before dawn with only the one horse. . . .
—from TRUTH TELLER
Helen woke in the wee hours of the morning in Alistair’s bed. The embers of the fire still glowed in the hearth, but the candle sitting on the table by the bed had long ago guttered out. Next to her, Alistair’s breathing was heavy and slow. She’d not meant to fall asleep here. The realization brought her fully awake. She needed to return to her own room and her children.
With that thought, she quietly inched from the bed and padded to the mantel. There was a jar of tapers here, and she bent and lit one in the fire’s embers, then lit several candles so she could see to dress. She looked around. Her wrap was half under the bed, but she couldn’t see her chemise. Muttering softly to herself, she took up the candle and approached the bed to look. The chemise wasn’t under or next to the bed. Finally she leaned over the great mattress, searching for the chemise amongst the bedclothes. She paused as the soft candlelight illuminated Alistair.