she breathed. ‘Oh! You can do that all season. Yes!’
He could hear the tears of need being squeezed from her voice. He would have carried on alternating his kisses from one breast and then onto the other if she hadn’t managed to slip her fingers beneath his tunic.
The sensation of her cool hand against his warm flesh was too much to resist.
Her fingers stroked downwards, pushing beyond the drawstring waist that fastened his hosen. He knew she was reaching for the pulsing hardness at the centre of his loins.
And then she had a fist encircled around him.
‘My goodness,’ she exclaimed. ‘I see you’re smuggling a longsword in your pants.’
She squeezed her grip around him and he shivered.
‘I trust you know how to handle such a weapon,’ she teased.
‘I think you’re handling it just fine for me,’ he grinned.
It wasn’t the first time he had enjoyed such banter. Lifting her in his arms, comforted that she didn’t remove her fingers from their hold around his shaft, he carried the redhead to one of the hay-filled stalls. They lay down slowly together, their bodies buoyed by a mattress of prickly hay.
As he moved his head back toward her breasts, anxious to suckle again against her stiff nipple, she pulled herself away.
He frowned, concerned that he had done something to dampen her ardour.
‘Please don’t tease me,’ she insisted. ‘I want you now. I need to feel you inside me.’ The hand around his erection gripped tight as she added, ‘I need to feel you inside me right now.’
He laughed and nodded.
The nearness of dragons had that affect. Aside from the pleasure of working with the beasts themselves, it was one of the main benefits of being responsible for the husbandry of the dragons. Every man or woman who petted a dragon was filled by the immediate urge to rut.
He pushed the redhead’s legs apart and knelt between them.
She shifted the hem of her kirtles upwards and lay back for him.
In better light he would have been able to appraise the sight she revealed. He would have been able to admire her moonlight-pale thighs and the sight of her exposed sex. He could imagine that the curls around her labia would be as rich and vibrant a red as the russet-red curls at her head.
But the light in the stalls transformed every sight into shadows and shapes and every colour was simply saturated in darkness. He could make out pale skin touched by shards of moonlight, and dark curls that glistened sharply with dewy wetness at their centre.
Then he realised the urgency of her need matched the strength of his own arousal and he tried to understand why he was wasting time admiring the woman when he could be rutting with her and satisfying both their appetites.
The redhead tugged at his erection, urging him toward her.
As eager to be inside her as she was to accept him, Owain made no attempt to deny what she wanted. She fumbled to release his shaft from his hosen and then she was guiding him toward her sex. Her left hand was cool against the super-heated ferocity of his hardness. He was gratified to note that she held her fingers so he couldn’t feel the unwelcome weight of that wedding band on her heart finger.
She had been right to describe herself as wet.
The slippery secrets of her sex were oily around his length as she rubbed the swollen head of his erection back and forth against her nether lips. It was a languid motion that had him torn between wanting to push into her and desperate to revel at the hand of her masterful taunting.
‘Do you want me?’ she asked.
‘You know I want you.’
‘Say it.’
‘I want you.’
Her fingers squeezed around him. She held him over the moist centre of her sex, her dewy lips lightly kissing the end of his length. ‘Say it as though you mean it,’ she insisted.
‘I want you,’ he repeated. He wasn’t sure how else he could say the words without sounding stupid.
‘Louder,’ she demanded.
‘I WANT YOU!’
At the same moment he cried out, she bucked her hips forward. There was one moment when it felt as though she was squeezing hard around him with a grip that was unbearably tight and painful. Then his length was filling her and her warm, sultry wetness sheathed his hardness as he pushed all the way into her moist and welcoming confines.
They cried out together.
It took Owain a tremendous effort not to release his climax into her with that first thrust. She was tight. She was simultaneously slippery and heated and he thought it was like having his erection caressed by the perfect embrace of an angel. His chest was pressed against her exposed breasts. Her lips were at his neck, whispering encouragement and telling him that his size was massive and impressive and unbearable and divine. And he wanted to savour the pleasure of simply allowing his length to pulse and thrust and pump into the haven of her dark confines.
But, more than that selfish impulse to simply take what he could from the experience, he wanted to make the rutting pleasurable for the woman beneath him.
Resisting the urge to give in to his climax he savoured the pleasure of having her appreciation made manifest in the words she poured into his ear. Resisting the urge to give in to his climax, Owain rode himself slowly back and forth and in and out of her wetness.
The redhead groaned.
It was a throaty moan of approval. It was a sound borne from absolute bliss.
He quickened his pace, relishing the sultry friction of her muscles clutching at him as he ploughed in and out. He maintained the same languid pace and discovered that she was raising and lowering her pelvis in an adopted rhythm that perfectly matched his.
Each time he pushed himself into her wetness, the redhead urged her hips upwards to meet the thrust of his penetration. She stroked at his nipples, pinching them lightly with the tips of her gaily painted nails. In retaliation, he trapped the buds of her nipples between the calloused knuckles of his fists.
As she raised one leg to encircle him, he found himself shifting a leg to get closer to her.
The change in position allowed him to slide deeper into her sex.
The fresh sensations had them both sighing in unison.
‘You’ve done this before,’ she laughed softly. Her words were carried by breathless grunts of approval. ‘You must be a guildsman in this art. Is that your profession, sire? Do they call you the Owain the fucker?’
He smiled at the idea of being known as Owain the fucker. The smile hardened to an expression of self-reproach when he realised he didn’t know her name. He had either never bothered learning what she was called, or, if she had told him her name, he had forgotten it in the urgent desire to get between her legs.
