her skin in the wake of his skilled touch. With his other hand, he’d cradle the breast, pulling the skin taut with a thumb to create his canvas.
He’d only done it because he had to, she knew that, and he’d probably been disgusted, but for these few moments, all her senses wrapped up by the fabric that had touched his skin, she’d allow herself the fantasy.
The soft folds between her legs were wet and swollen, puffy with lust. She might be a half-wit slut, but she wasn’t completely ignorant. Because lust was all it was, pure and simple. Or not so pure. The half-formed chuckle morphed into a long groan. She knew what she was about to do, knew how stupid it was, but she’d never felt so . . . so . . . lit up. She almost expected the heat to be visible through her skin, a luminescent glow like a fire blazing behind a screen.
If there was one thing she’d learned at Lonefell, it was the comfort her own body could give her. The only names she knew for what she did were ugly or childish, or both—frigging, beating off, jerking off. Taso called that soft, sensitive place a cunt , spitting out the word as if it tasted foul in his mouth. But when she lay hunched in some hideyhole at the keep, cold and miserable and unable to sleep, stroking it helped. The fingers of one hand busy, she’d achieve release, the other fist shoved in her mouth to stifle her cries. Afterward, she’d drift off, telling herself it didn’t matter, that at least one person cared enough to gift her with pleasure—even if it was she herself.
Mehcredi fixed her gaze on the square of night sky framed by the window under the eaves, but what she saw was the swordmaster dancing with his swords on the green grass, his near-nude body so brutally male the impact of its beauty made her heart ache. He wore what she’d come to think of as his inward face, all his attention focused within, hard with concentration. Try as she might, even in her mind’s eye, she couldn’t change that expression to something softer. She tried to imagine how he’d look if he cared about the woman he was fucking, but it was beyond her. She couldn’t even make her mental image smile.
Her eyes stung. Godsdammit, she’d take what she could get, pathetic though it might be.
Inhaling deeply, she filled her lungs with dark spice, allowing one hand to drift down, down, over ribs and belly, to the satin skin on the inside of her thigh. Back up, the hem of the shirt riding on her wrist. The muscles in her legs went slack and her thighs lolled open. With her fingertips, she furrowed through sparse curls, quivering when she encountered wet flesh.
He was wrapped around her, his body a welcome weight holding her down. His muscled forearm brushed the tender skin of her inner thigh, the touch of his fingers on her most secret place arrogantly confident. His command of her body was absolute. He understood the import of every gasp, every quiver. He was going to make her feel good, so good . . .
Mehcredi threw her head back when he circled a finger around the sucking entrance to her body and slid it deep inside. With his other hand, he plucked at a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, pinching to an exquisite point that hovered between pleasure and pain.
“Please,” she whimpered to the silent room, lifting her hips in yearning. “Oh, please.”
He took pity on her, adding another finger, and finally, finally , strumming the little bump of hot aching flesh at the apex of her cleft with his thumb. How so much sensation could be concentrated in such a small area she had no idea, but Walker knew.
Tension grew unbearably, a solid wall of heat behind her pubic bone. Usually, she experienced release as a whiplash of uncoil and recoil, but this time—with him—it was different.
It began as a bud, tightly furled, hard and new. Rapidly, it grew and blossomed, putting out tendrils of heat that twined around the base of her spine, spiraling up and up until she was light-headed with
He’d only done it because he had to, she knew that, and he’d probably been disgusted, but for these few moments, all her senses wrapped up by the fabric that had touched his skin, she’d allow herself the fantasy.
The soft folds between her legs were wet and swollen, puffy with lust. She might be a half-wit slut, but she wasn’t completely ignorant. Because lust was all it was, pure and simple. Or not so pure. The half-formed chuckle morphed into a long groan. She knew what she was about to do, knew how stupid it was, but she’d never felt so . . . so . . . lit up. She almost expected the heat to be visible through her skin, a luminescent glow like a fire blazing behind a screen.
If there was one thing she’d learned at Lonefell, it was the comfort her own body could give her. The only names she knew for what she did were ugly or childish, or both—frigging, beating off, jerking off. Taso called that soft, sensitive place a cunt , spitting out the word as if it tasted foul in his mouth. But when she lay hunched in some hideyhole at the keep, cold and miserable and unable to sleep, stroking it helped. The fingers of one hand busy, she’d achieve release, the other fist shoved in her mouth to stifle her cries. Afterward, she’d drift off, telling herself it didn’t matter, that at least one person cared enough to gift her with pleasure—even if it was she herself.
Mehcredi fixed her gaze on the square of night sky framed by the window under the eaves, but what she saw was the swordmaster dancing with his swords on the green grass, his near-nude body so brutally male the impact of its beauty made her heart ache. He wore what she’d come to think of as his inward face, all his attention focused within, hard with concentration. Try as she might, even in her mind’s eye, she couldn’t change that expression to something softer. She tried to imagine how he’d look if he cared about the woman he was fucking, but it was beyond her. She couldn’t even make her mental image smile.
Her eyes stung. Godsdammit, she’d take what she could get, pathetic though it might be.
Inhaling deeply, she filled her lungs with dark spice, allowing one hand to drift down, down, over ribs and belly, to the satin skin on the inside of her thigh. Back up, the hem of the shirt riding on her wrist. The muscles in her legs went slack and her thighs lolled open. With her fingertips, she furrowed through sparse curls, quivering when she encountered wet flesh.
He was wrapped around her, his body a welcome weight holding her down. His muscled forearm brushed the tender skin of her inner thigh, the touch of his fingers on her most secret place arrogantly confident. His command of her body was absolute. He understood the import of every gasp, every quiver. He was going to make her feel good, so good . . .
Mehcredi threw her head back when he circled a finger around the sucking entrance to her body and slid it deep inside. With his other hand, he plucked at a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, pinching to an exquisite point that hovered between pleasure and pain.
“Please,” she whimpered to the silent room, lifting her hips in yearning. “Oh, please.”
He took pity on her, adding another finger, and finally, finally , strumming the little bump of hot aching flesh at the apex of her cleft with his thumb. How so much sensation could be concentrated in such a small area she had no idea, but Walker knew.
Tension grew unbearably, a solid wall of heat behind her pubic bone. Usually, she experienced release as a whiplash of uncoil and recoil, but this time—with him—it was different.
It began as a bud, tightly furled, hard and new. Rapidly, it grew and blossomed, putting out tendrils of heat that twined around the base of her spine, spiraling up and up until she was light-headed with
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