she couldn’t do that here. Severin would
notice.
Wouldn’t he?
Her hips twitched as she pressed her thighs tighter
together. A pulse ticked in her groin. This was unbearable. The last climactic
gasps of the rutting couple seemed to echo in her skull. Blood of the Bull ,
she cursed to herself. He wouldn’t know. She could do it quietly. She didn’t
have to make any sound or thrash about or anything .
Very carefully she pulled her skirt up from where it was
bunched at her knees, gathering it a finger’s-length at a time. She made sure
not to make any noise. To slip her hand between her thighs she did have to
shift her position slightly, but she disguised that with a sleepy wriggle.
There—her fingers were tucked up against her pubic mound now. Delicately she
reached in to the crease tucked behind, finding the moist groove of her sex and
then her swollen clit. A shiver of grateful pleasure ran through her whole body
as she lubricated that sensitive bud of flesh, and the restless ache was
mollified at once. That was all she needed, that gently circling fingertip and
time for it to do its work. She could be quiet.
But normally when she fingered herself her mind was almost
blank, aware of the sensations only. She had few mental pictures to draw upon,
after all—perhaps the memory of some handsome huntsman’s smile and bow as he
rode by, or the thighs of some courtier in particularly tight hose. Or that
footman rooting the scullery maid up against the wall—yes, that was a common
theme. This time it was different. This time, unbidden, the picture of Severin
working off his frustration that first morning in Ruda’s barn flashed into her
inner eye. Eloise shivered inwardly, her heartbeat picking up. She had to force
her breathing to stay steady as she recalled the firm grasp of his hand about
his stiff member, the tilt of his chin, the thrust of his hips.
The burning glance he’d cast her way, not seeing her. But
suppose that he had…
She knew she should stop, but it was too delicious.
And now other pictures bloomed, knit of memories and
imagination. She saw herself sitting astride his lap, facing him, her skirt
rucked up to her hips and her bare thighs spread upon his—his legs would be
darkly hairy, wouldn’t they? She imagined her lips against his, his fingers
plucking at the laces of her neckline, his hands caressing and cupping her
breasts as he bared them. She felt the pucker and swell of her nipples as he
teased them, the hot lap of his tongue on her throat. She felt him twine his
fingers in her hair and use it to tug her head back—she’d always found a secret
enjoyment in having her hair pulled—so that her back arched and he could bury his
face in her breasts. Kissing. Sucking. Biting. She knew he’d be forceful and
perhaps even a little bit harsh, and though she didn’t quite understand why,
that thought made her blossom wetly. He’d slip his big thick cock between her
open legs and deep inside her, thrusting as he mouthed her breasts, bouncing
her in his lap, until he spent his seed in a white gush—
She fell then, breathless and silent, every muscle locked
immobile, the thunderclap of her orgasm inaudible to everyone but her, but
leaving her ringing like a lightning-struck bell.
A moment later and she was back in the real world, prickling
with anxiety. Had she made any noise? Had Severin noticed anything? The man in
her fantasy and the man lying behind her seemed impossible to reconcile. Eloise
felt a rush of blood to her face that wasn’t just post-coital heat but genuine
embarrassment at her shameless recklessness.
The pulse hammered in her ears and she could hear nothing
beyond it. No movement from Severin. No snorts of derision from farther afield.
Fiber by fiber she let her muscles relax, feeling the pulsed afterglow of her
orgasm warm her from head to toe, and letting those waves wash her out into the
great dark sea of sleep.
* * * * *
They stopped to eat and sat looking down on a
notice.
Wouldn’t he?
Her hips twitched as she pressed her thighs tighter
together. A pulse ticked in her groin. This was unbearable. The last climactic
gasps of the rutting couple seemed to echo in her skull. Blood of the Bull ,
she cursed to herself. He wouldn’t know. She could do it quietly. She didn’t
have to make any sound or thrash about or anything .
Very carefully she pulled her skirt up from where it was
bunched at her knees, gathering it a finger’s-length at a time. She made sure
not to make any noise. To slip her hand between her thighs she did have to
shift her position slightly, but she disguised that with a sleepy wriggle.
There—her fingers were tucked up against her pubic mound now. Delicately she
reached in to the crease tucked behind, finding the moist groove of her sex and
then her swollen clit. A shiver of grateful pleasure ran through her whole body
as she lubricated that sensitive bud of flesh, and the restless ache was
mollified at once. That was all she needed, that gently circling fingertip and
time for it to do its work. She could be quiet.
But normally when she fingered herself her mind was almost
blank, aware of the sensations only. She had few mental pictures to draw upon,
after all—perhaps the memory of some handsome huntsman’s smile and bow as he
rode by, or the thighs of some courtier in particularly tight hose. Or that
footman rooting the scullery maid up against the wall—yes, that was a common
theme. This time it was different. This time, unbidden, the picture of Severin
working off his frustration that first morning in Ruda’s barn flashed into her
inner eye. Eloise shivered inwardly, her heartbeat picking up. She had to force
her breathing to stay steady as she recalled the firm grasp of his hand about
his stiff member, the tilt of his chin, the thrust of his hips.
The burning glance he’d cast her way, not seeing her. But
suppose that he had…
She knew she should stop, but it was too delicious.
And now other pictures bloomed, knit of memories and
imagination. She saw herself sitting astride his lap, facing him, her skirt
rucked up to her hips and her bare thighs spread upon his—his legs would be
darkly hairy, wouldn’t they? She imagined her lips against his, his fingers
plucking at the laces of her neckline, his hands caressing and cupping her
breasts as he bared them. She felt the pucker and swell of her nipples as he
teased them, the hot lap of his tongue on her throat. She felt him twine his
fingers in her hair and use it to tug her head back—she’d always found a secret
enjoyment in having her hair pulled—so that her back arched and he could bury his
face in her breasts. Kissing. Sucking. Biting. She knew he’d be forceful and
perhaps even a little bit harsh, and though she didn’t quite understand why,
that thought made her blossom wetly. He’d slip his big thick cock between her
open legs and deep inside her, thrusting as he mouthed her breasts, bouncing
her in his lap, until he spent his seed in a white gush—
She fell then, breathless and silent, every muscle locked
immobile, the thunderclap of her orgasm inaudible to everyone but her, but
leaving her ringing like a lightning-struck bell.
A moment later and she was back in the real world, prickling
with anxiety. Had she made any noise? Had Severin noticed anything? The man in
her fantasy and the man lying behind her seemed impossible to reconcile. Eloise
felt a rush of blood to her face that wasn’t just post-coital heat but genuine
embarrassment at her shameless recklessness.
The pulse hammered in her ears and she could hear nothing
beyond it. No movement from Severin. No snorts of derision from farther afield.
Fiber by fiber she let her muscles relax, feeling the pulsed afterglow of her
orgasm warm her from head to toe, and letting those waves wash her out into the
great dark sea of sleep.
* * * * *
They stopped to eat and sat looking down on a
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