Jeweled by Anya Bast

explored his shoulders and upper arms, enjoying the flex and bulge of the build of a man who used his muscles on a regular basis. Ropy strength coiled in his body in a way that made her feel deliciously vulnerable and feminine. It wasn’t often that she was with a man who had a body like Anatol’s. Mostly they’d been Belai born and raised, pampered from birth, with soft limbs and even softer hands.
    One of Anatol’s rough hands, calloused from swordplay, no doubt, covered her breast. She arched against him, pushing her hardened nipple into his palm. He shuddered against her and nipped her lip again, as he worked her nipple with his thumb and forefinger until she moaned deep in her throat.
    “I want you, Anatol,” she breathed. “Please, don’t stop.”
    “How many men have you been with?” he murmured against her lips.
    She breathed out sharply, trying to form the ability to answer his question. “I don’t know. Too many to count.”
    “Women?”
    “Yes, I’ve been with women, too. Many.”
    He eased his hand between her thighs and found her clit. Stroking it back and forth with just the right pressure, he growled into her ear. “I’m going to make you forget them all.”
    Her breath caught in her throat as he pushed first one broad finger deep into her and then a second. Thrusting in and out, he rocked her back and forth on the bed. Pleasure rose up in her, a drowning rhythm that kept time with his hand.
    “Does it feel good?” he murmured.
    “Yes,” she breathed.
    He thumbed her clit, working his fingers a little harder and faster. “Do you want my cock inside you?”
    “Yes.” Her fingers found the bedclothes and fisted, holding on against the onslaught of sensation.
    He shifted downward and covered her clit with his mouth, sucking it into his mouth and tonguing it as he thrust his fingers in and out of her in a rhythm that made her moan. The pleasure that had been welling up in her body crested, overflowed, crashed down in a wave over her. She cried out, her toes curling, her finger gripping the blankets and the muscles of her sex milking his pistoning fingers. It went on and on. She couldn’t think; she could only feel the sensation of her climax sapping all the worry and tension from her body. Her brain stopped and her body ruled. It was glorious and overwhelming.
    “Anatol,” she breathed when it finally ebbed.
    He remained between her thighs, licking her all over. His fingers explored every fold of her, petted her sensitive clit until she shivered and shuddered. “You are beautiful,” he breathed against her inner thigh. “When you come ...” he trailed off, his voice shaking.
    “Come up here. Take me if you think so. I want you.”
    He only shook his head and laved her slit, pushing his tongue deep inside her. The sight of his dark head between her pale thighs ignited something deep inside her again. He caressed her climax-sensitive clit with the pad of his finger and her back arched as she moaned. She was shameless in her desire for more, like a sponge long dried up and now thrown into the ocean. Again he pushed her into orgasm. When it was spent, all she could do was lay limp and exhausted on the bed.
    He came down beside her and she rolled to her side, facing away from him. Inexplicable emotion welled in her, tears pricking her eyes until they hurt. She wouldn’t let them fall. She’d never cried in her whole life that she could remember. It had always been a point of pride for her. She made a dry sobbing sound, pushing the tears away. They wouldn’t go away. Damn it, they wouldn’t go away.
    “What’s wrong?”
    She shook her head. “I don’t know.” She couldn’t name the feelings she had now and didn’t know where they came from. They just assaulted her and she had no way to control them or beat them into submission. “I hate this. I hate it.”
    “Just let it go, Evangeline. Cry. Scream. Do what you need to do with the emotion you have bottled up inside you. Go