Page 32 of Water Dragon
“What about this one?” he asked innocently, bringing her eyes to his as he pointed at the healing scar on his shoulder.
His expression gave her hope, his request even more so. She ignored the tremor in her legs as she pushed herself forward to rest her lips against the spot he’d indicated, giving it a gentle peck.
She pulled back but lingered close enough that, when she raised a hand to his cheek, where a bruise bloomed, she felt his breath across her lips. She made him turn his head so that she could graze the bruise with her kiss as well, his scent going to her head and why was he still not touching her?
The thought that it was all a great big mistake had time to flit through her head, but then she moved her mouth to hover before the cut on his upper lip and her gaze met his as their noses touched.
“What about this one?” she whispered, running her thumb over the cut. He made the smallest noise in the back of his throat. It encouraged her to close the distance, lips meeting his softly.
His hand slipped over her hip, up her side, moving to touch fingertips to her cheek and she parted her lips against his. When he followed the movement, and she felt the tip of his tongue seeking hers. she licked against it. This time, the noise he made was deeper, chesty, and his arms went around her to pull her close. Her hands were on either side of his face, but as he pulled her against him, they slid into his hair.
She was practically laying on top of him, feet still hanging over the side of the bed, and still it wasn’t close enough. She had the urge to crawl up, to straddle him, feel him beneath her, between her legs. The urge was startling in how unused to it she was, and even more so, in how certain it was.
She wanted him to see her, all of her, and yet had a rush through her belly at the thought of undressing. What if he didn’t like what he saw? What if this was no more than a fleeting impulse?
But deep down she could feel it wasn’t. That it was anything but fleeting. His tongue languidly exploring the dance she had instigated told her as much, brushing against and swirling with hers. His taste was him, the same as his scent, so full of masculine undertones and the currents of the darkest depths of the deepest lakes that she felt like drinking him in.
His hands were on her upper arms now, clasping them, and she followed the soft tug of his hold and did what the urge had told her to do. Moving her hands from his hair she pushed herself up, hiking her skirts up so that she could straddle him, hands resting against his chest as their foreheads connected.
He seemed to have forgotten he had ever been injured. He was swelling beneath her; she could feel him through the thin layer of the sheet separating them. It was empowering to think she might have such an effect on him, emboldening her to reach down. She wanted to feel him.
She had never asked if he had lain with many women. He had never seemed the type and perhaps she should know, but there had been trips he’d taken with his father, with his knights. Trips which she had not been allowed to attend, stuck in her role of fluffing his pillows and raking out his hearth.
The look on his face was one of quiet awe, his mouth slightly open, as if waiting for more kisses.
She smiled then and it lit a gleam in his eyes that made her hearts sing. A smile spread across his mouth as well, her fingers sliding on the outside of the sheet along the hardness of him. Then his hand grabbed her wrist, and he stopped her.
There was worry in his gaze. He was worried that she wasn’t sure.
She was not about to let him remain that way.
She slipped her free hand back into his hair and joined their lips again.
Chapter 9 - Malcolm
Her nearness was sending spirals of pleasure dancing beneath his skin and when she kissed him again, he felt himself melt into her touch. Her fingers dragged along his cock, the fabric of the sheet still between them, and the yearning for skin against skin made the ache in him intensify.
He felt immediately self-conscious.
He had only come close to laying with a woman once, but it had felt too rigidly orchestrated—Sir Patrick bringing a woman to him, encouraging him to make use of the bedroom set up for such nightly excursions—and he had stopped the event before it could really be said to have begun.
He had touched himself, though, but that had felt nowhere near the sensations she was producing in him, like waves rolling into shore. Slow, steady, expectant of the moment when they would break against the sand.
He wondered if she had ever done anything like this to a man before.
Perhaps she would be able to tell that he didn’t possess the skills of a lover.
But then his fingers slipped from her waist, as if of their own accord, as he wanted nothing more than to reciprocate. He worked his hand under her skirts and up her thigh, having her finally realize what he was doing. She ended the kiss then, pulling back to look at him, eyes hazy with desire.
His cock twitched at the sight of it.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he confessed, knowing it would make her grin. It did.
His fingers slid against the fabric of her undergarments until his touch produced a hitch in her breath, telling him he had found the right spot. He was going entirely on instinct and there was soft amazement when she rolled her hips against his hand, pressing herself into his touch with a soft moan.
“There,” she whispered in his ear.
He moved his hand gently in a back and forward motion and when the response was her leaning her head back, chest heaving as she met each movement with a correlating roll of her hips, he felt himself swell in painful ways. He reached for himself, unable not to, and stroked himself from head to hilt, breathing growing labored just from watching her climb towards climax. The V of her jawline tantalizing and the noises she was making enough to make him moan along with her.
