Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 117336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Her voice is tight, and her entire body seems to be brimming with an edge of tension. Is she afraid I'll somehow displease her? That I won't give her pleasure? I want to reassure her that I wish nothing more than to make her come, and hard, but perhaps it is better if I show her, instead. Reverently I put a hand on each knee, and I can feel the tremor that races through her. "I will do nothing you do not wish me to do," I remind her, rubbing a thumb along the inside of her knee. "Tell me to stop at any time."
"I know."
I turn my gaze to her thigh, skimming my fingers along the inside. I cannot just shove my face between her thighs like a greedy child. This is a battle, and one does not plunge headlong into war, or expect to live for long if on the front lines. Strategy must be employed. Tactics. So I stroke her, learning her body and her movements. I trace every bit of skin, learning the parts that make her twitch, and the parts that make her eyes flutter closed. She likes the caresses on the insides of her thighs, but along the back, she squirms, her brows drawing together. Too ticklish, then. I move my fingers over one small foot, fascinated to see that she paints her toenails a vivid shade. I have seen this in pictures and in magazines, but never in person. "Why are these pink?"
"I like pink," she says defensively. "And I like cute toes. And I found some polish that wasn't too goopy after all this time."
"Your toes are magnificent," I tell her. "I like the pink, as well." I add toe color to the mental list of things that Melina likes. Pretty dresses. Hair clips and wraps. Scented soaps, though they offend my sensitive nose, I find tolerable when on her skin. Ear jewelry and small, unobtrusive necklaces, but not rings and not bracelets. And the plant. She adores the plant and tells me every day that it has not yet bloomed, but she has high hopes for it. "I like everything about you."
"Even my opinions?"
"Especially your opinions." For some reason, I feel the urge to press my mouth to the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. I lean in and do so, and she quivers against me. "I like your advice. Your suggestions. Your determination. You are not like the sheep here that dwell in the fort, opening their mouths and waiting for food to fall in. They do not question a leader. You question everything, and I like that." I graze my mouth against her warm skin. "It makes me want to do better, to please you."
Melina shifts on the bed, her breath shuddering as I rub my lips against her skin again. She lies back, flat, as if no longer able to support herself on her elbows.
I lean forward, my tongue brushing against her skin. I taste her, and she tastes just as light and enticing as I thought she would. She is all clean flavors, but with a hint of arousal underneath, that perfect, seductive perfume that engulfs my senses whenever she is near. Melina moans as I slide forward, and her hands go to her breasts. She clenches them, squeezing, even as her thighs fall farther apart.
I wanted to wait, to draw things out a bit longer, but I cannot. I am drawn toward the sweet folds of her cunt. Her legs press against my shoulders, posing a bit of a logistics problem, but I solve it by sliding one over my shoulder and then the other. My head is practically clasped between her thighs, her scent drowning me, and my cock is aching under my robes.
I run my mouth along the inside of her thigh, toward the crease where her leg joins with her body, and then her wet, incredible scent drenches my senses. "I am going to taste you now," I rasp. "Tell me if you yet wish to stop."
She makes a soft, whimpering sound, and when I look up, her hands are clasped tight on her breasts, her eyes closed.
That is not a “stop” as far as I am concerned. I turn my focus back on her cunt, running a hand up the front of her thigh as I study her. The curls here are different from the ones on her head, trimmed down close to the skin, but so fragrant with her scent that I want to rub my face into them and wear her like a mask. I glance up at her, wondering if that is done, if she will think me mad.
"I do not know the human words for your anatomy here," I tell her. "What should I call this…cradle between your thighs?"