Page 71 of The Princess Stakes
“No,” he whispered, notching himself at her entrance. “You’re a queen.”
And then he slid into her body.
Sarani nearly screamed, clutching at his shoulders. The fit was distressingly tight, the friction almost impossible to bear as her untried body adjusted to his size.
“Sarani? Are you all right?” Rhystan’s face was strained, a muscle flexing in his cheek.
“Yes,” she said. “But go slowly. Are you in pain?”
He shook his head. “No. You feel so good. So tight.”
Only when he was finally seated did she attempt to pull a breath into her lungs. The movement pushed her breasts into his chest, the rub of his hair against her sensitive nipples making pleasure spiral through her. She felt so full, so deliciously full of him as her body accommodated his alarming girth.
“Oh, my word,” she blurted out. “That was rather not what I expected. Then again, it’s simple mathematics—volume and displacement really. I should not have been surprised, given your dimensions.”
“Dimensions?”
A smile stretched his lips, one brown brow arching with amusement. She was babbling like a lunatic, while he was still seated inside her.
“Size, then,” she said, blushing. “Er, what’s next?” She bit her lips, fighting for composure. She did not want to seem like an oblivious, incompetent henwit, even though she was technically incompetent. “I seem to recall a promise about not being able to speak my own name? Was that a euphemism?”
With a low laugh, Rhystan shifted his hips, drawing a gasp from her. “I always deliver on my promises. No speech, guaranteed.”
He withdrew and slid back in, to her sublime delight, the erotic push and pull making her body crave deeper and faster contact. Instinctively, Sarani rolled her pelvis forward on the next thrust, ripping a growl from his chest as she lifted her hips to take him deep.
“Yes, love, like that.”
His face was still scrunched, his eyes dilated with pleasure as his body worked. Every slow rock of his huge frame sent her spiraling higher and higher, climbing toward some invisible summit. “Rhystan, please… I need…”
“I know, sweetheart.” He took her lips with his, a warm palm finding her breast and kneading. The sensation gathering within her was almost too much. Her skin felt like it was on fire, her very soul enflamed.
When she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, her moans dissolving into incoherent sounds, Rhystan reached his hand between them and slid his hands to the top of her sex, circling a spot that made her body bend like a bow. One swipe of his fingers and she was shattering into a million pieces of light as her orgasm crested and broke.
A few short thrusts later, Rhystan followed her into bliss, a groan wrenching from his chest as he pulled from her body and spent his seed on the sheets between them. Sated and undone, Sarani exhaled, grateful that at least one of them had been thinking about the probability of conception.
Her heart gave a sad twinge. If circumstances had been different…he might have finished inside. Then, they would have cherished whatever came of their union. But those stars had never aligned and that future was not to be. They were merely lovers, notin love. They’d fucked, in his blunt words. They hadn’t made love.
Love did not factor into anything between them. In the wake of such devastating pleasure, Sarani suddenly felt a beat of sorrow. She shook it off. She hadn’t done it for love. There’d been very practical reasons, very rational reasons. Her virginity did not belong to the male sex to do with as they pleased. She’d wanted to experience carnal pleasure with a man she trusted with her body. And life was too short for regret.
Nothing to do with love whatsoever.
Twenty
If he could have booted the man out on his pompous arse, Rhystan would have. Bloody fortune hunter. Viscount Marvelle was in debt up to his ears, and Rhystan had nearly laughed at the ludicrous offer of marriage for Ravenna.
How much is the chit’s dowry? The duns are after me. I’ll take her off your hands.
Marvelle was lucky he was leaving the residence with his legs in good working order. Rhystan wished he could say the same for his unraveling temper. He rubbed his temples. That was the sixth offer this week, all from known scoundrels. Titled gentlemen, but sodding wastrels. Once he’d reinstated Ravenna’s considerable dowry, they’d come out of the woodwork.
Lord Belford, heir to a marquess, was a known gambler. Lord Penderton, an earl in his own right, was barely hanging on to his entailed estates. Mr. Lincoln Trent, son of a prominent barrister, had three by-blows living with him and was a known profligate. Rhystan respected the man’s decision to acknowledge his progeny, but a man who fathered God knew how many children with different women was not the husband for his little sister.
None of them were sodding good enough.
Just like you.
The wayward thought struck him hard.
The truth was, who was he to talk? He’d ruined an innocent woman—a royal no less—because he needed to sate his lust. All because he wanted her. Rhystan raked a hand through his hair, stalking to the mantel where he poured himself a full tumbler of whisky.
