“W-what are you doing?” she asked, blood draining from her face. Her Grandmama never talked about this happening, and why would she? Perhaps, it was a secret between husbands and wives.
“Be still, Cathy,” he commanded softly, his hands planted firmly on her knees. “Trust me.”
He did not wait. With the first swipe of his tongue on her, she trembled. He drew circles around it repeatedly, taking her, pulling her, inviting her to the edge. Her vision blurred as hematched his actions with gentle thrusts of his finger inside her.
“Delicious,” he growled, watching her face as she came undone. Miss Priggish had become a wanton siren, breathing hard while being thoroughly pleasured. She let him feast on her in such a way that she had never imagined before. She had become a wanton woman as her breath became ragged.
“You can let go, Cathy,” he hummed against her.“Give it to me.”
She moaned loudly, and then he doubled his efforts by sliding another finger in, testing her. Was he claiming her tonight? Would she be ready?
The questions flew from her mind when he started sucking her nub while thrusting his fingers more vigorously. This time, her breath came in pants, blending with his grunts of effort.
“I... I think something is happening,” she moaned, as she felt her insides tighten around Tristan’s fingers. Her body was preparing for something as the thrusts became more urgent and her hips moved up and down the couch as if they possessed their own life.
“You are doing so well,” he said, his voice gravelly but confident. “Do not fight it. Look at me, Cathy. Yes, like that.”
He squeezed her breasts and flicked her nipple in rhythm with his fingers’ urgent movements. Blinded by white-hot pleasure, she bit back a scream. Her body shook, and it took a long time to still.It felt like an eternity, one that she was willing to hold on to.
Tristan straightened himself, and she could not help but see the bulge in his breeches. She belatedly realized that she took her pleasure and gave him nothing in return.
“W-what about you?” she asked in a haze.
“Tonight is all about you, Cathy,” he said gruffly.
“And that? What will happen to you?”
“I will think of terrible thoughts,” he said, grinning, “so that it will go away.”
“Does it hurt?”
“This? It feels like exquisite torture. As for you, the first time might hurt a little at first,” he said seriously. “I want to prepare you for it, and it is best we do it properly, in your bed or mine.”
“It will be planned, then?”
“Planned?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and smirking. “It will be inevitable.”
“All right, then,” she said, as she straightened her clothes.
“Now, it is time to eat,” Tristan reminded her. “The dishes on the table this time.”
Chapter 18
“En garde! Are you paying attention, Tristan? It is not like you to be daydreaming.”
A metallic smell pulled Tristan from his reverie, reminding him that he was in the fencing club with his friend Brandon. The sounds rushed back to him, more of huffs and grunts from about a dozen men. Some were quieter than others, and one person in particular was distracted: him.
The club was a sanctuary for him, but today, it barely mattered, with its clink of blades and men in white linen and wire masks. Here, the only thing that mattered was the strength of one’s wrist and the endurance of the lungs. It was harder to breathe, though, when one’s mind was elsewhere, lingering on someone who knew how to extinguish his breath.
Brandon’s foil almost caught Tristan’s shoulder. The Duke managed to parry at the last second, his own blade clashing with his opponent’s weapon instead. Then came the rhythmic clacking for which the sport was known.
“I… am perfectly… focused,” Tristan grunted out his words, although he knew it was a bald-faced lie. Sweat stung his eyes beneath the mask’s wire mesh, adding to the suffocating feeling the place suddenly had on him.
He lunged, extending his body in a practiced move that had often made him win countless matches before. At over six feet tall, his reach was his usual greatest asset, allowing the distance to close quickly. He was used to looking down on everything, but now, he felt like he was standing on quicksand.
His timing was off by a fraction. Brandon made his own circular parry, catching the blade with his own. They locked hilts, their wire-masked faces mere inches apart.
“Are you? Truly? You are not fighting as you used to,” Brandon remarked, panting. “You seem trapped somewhere else.”