And all the while, the only thing he moved was that one hand, a thumb shifting briefly over my lips, just enough to make them tingle before the other four fingers slid up my jaw, around my ear and into my hair where he scraped short, blunt fingernails over my scalp. I shivered at the intense reaction my body had to him.
His breath hissed against my neck, coming a little shallower as well, but he didn’t kiss me, since he’d promised to touch me with only one hand. His rough fingers moved with gentle dexterity through the long locks, combing with a relaxing quality that about made my bones go liquid.
I sighed, enjoying the attention, and only whimpered a little in protest when his hand moved out of my hair and flitted down my throat again, because the new place he explored felt just as sensitive to his touch. His palm pressed flat against my left clavicle, then it slid down, directly over my breast.
Even through the cloth of the tunic, corset, and chemise I wore, his hand felt scorching hot. It felt good. But I grabbed his wrist, anyway, not expecting that kind of contact.
“What’re you doing?”
“Just this one hand,” he swore to me, not removing his grip but not pressing anymore of an advance, either. Merely waiting for me to respond. “It’s a massage. Nothing else.”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. One half of me was tempted, the other half told me to cut his damn fingers off.
“This is only about you, Quilla,” he assured me quietly. “Making you feel good. Making you feel relaxed. So you can sleep afterward. It’s not for my pleasure. Just yours.”
“Liar,” I rasped, because relaxed was the very opposite of what I felt right now. “Why do you have to touch me there, then?”
“You mean, your breasts?” he asked, as if surprised to realize that’s where his hand was. “Because I’m trying to give you a complete massage. And I have a feeling you don’t give them enough attention yourself. You can’t tell me they’ve never been sore. Or ached.” He kissed my throat and whispered in my ear, “Let me rub the ache away, empress.”
My brow knit. He did have a point. Sometimes they were extra sensitive. Maybe massaging them would feel nice. But still… “Why does it feel like you’re totally feeding me a bullshit line right now because you want to feel up my tits?”
He chuckled. “Oh, I definitely want to feel up your tits, but the main goal is still your pleasure.”
My grip on his wrist loosened even as I said, “You’ll understand if I have my doubts, though, right?”
His fingers took this as a green light, and he began to knead the tissue around the outer edges of one breast. His touch was gentle and intoxicating, and I found myself straining against it, wanting more.
“Think about it this way,” he murmured in my ear as he worked over one, then the other. “You agree that I believe you’re my true love whole-heartedly, right?”
I nodded, wishing he’d oh-so-accidentally brush a finger over one of my throbbing nipples that were growing frustrated and even more aroused because he hadn’t touched either of them yet.
“Then you should also agree that I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you or anything that would blatantly cause you to lose all trust for me, am I correct?”
“I—I guess.” Damn, his hand was leaving my breasts.
I grabbed his wrist and brought it back up because, nuh-uh, he wasn’t done there yet.
He chuckled and massaged them some more. Then he tweaked the nipples, getting me to gasp, as he murmured, “Good. Then give me a chance to show you what I do next is still only about your pleasure before you decide to stab me, okay?”
“Okay,” I murmured, closing my eyes, and arching my chest more insistently into his palm.
He sucked in a breath at my response and moved his fingers down, spreading them wide over my diaphragm, where the warmth in all five digits caused my stomach muscles to loosen.
My eyes flew open. “Wait. What’re you going to—oh!”
His hand slid even further down, right inside the waistband of my trousers, and it kept going until a single finger slid between my legs, right into slick heat. I grabbed his forearm, my nails sinking deep, and my thighs locked around his hand, keeping it from going anywhere else.
He paused, his index finger buried where no finger had ever gone before.
“I’m going to massage you here now. Does it hurt?” he asked.
“N-no, but…” I licked my suddenly dry lips, trying to find the words. His finger flexed, and a pulse beat of pleasure throbbed through my pussy, constricting around the digit without my permission. He groaned and pushed in deeper. My mouth fell open, but no sound emerged as my pores clogged with overwhelming desire.
“I shouldn’t let you do this,” I panted, my breathing a complete mess. “I shouldn’t…”
“Why?” he countered, whispering the teasing question in my ear. “I swear to you, you’ll sleep like a baby when I’m done.”
“Oh, God,” I moaned. My head thrashed a little, trying to deny the pleasure. “But Melaina,” I argued weakly. She could wake up and hear us. And though I’d heard—and seen—her doing much more sexual things in my life, I’d die if she caught me doing anything even remotely similar. “What if she wakes up?”
“Then you better not cry out when I do this,” was his only warning before he pulled his finger completely free of me, slicked it up over my swollen, sensitized clit and then pushed back in with two digits this time.
I bowed up, choking on air.
“Quilla,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to the side of my face as his fingers began to move in and out, the rhythm slow but persistent. I turned my head, grabbed his hair roughly, and kissed him, my tongue mimicking the movements of his hand while my hips strained for more.
Growling, he kissed me back, his body shuddering against mine until I felt the hardness of his cock dig into my side. My thighs loosened, then fell open to better receive each thrust as his fingers fucked faster, their urgency meeting mine as muscles coiled tight deep in my womb. My hips bucked against his palm.
“I bet you taste better than blueberry, strawberry pie right now,” he murmured in my ear, pressing in hard as if trying to savor the feel of my inner muscles hugging his fingers. Then he said the unthinkable. “Just imagine if that was my tongue doing this.”
That was all it took. Like the breaking of a tautly pulled string, a great release snapped open inside me, and I came, wave after wave of my orgasm pulsing through every nerve ending I owned. Indigo swallowed the sound of my cry with his mouth, and I gripped his hair, holding on until my surges settled, and I went limp and boneless.
The moment my mouth fell away from his and I tucked my face into his throat, his fingers eased and slid free of my body. He put both arms around me and held me close, kissing my temple as I trembled against him and tried to regain my wind.
“Any pain?” he asked.
“What?” I blinked, unable to think straight.
He chuckled his amusement and brushed some hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear. I closed my eyes as my consciousness slipped.
His mouth pressed against my hair. “Sleep, my empress,” he instructed. “You should be able to rest now.”