Page 51 of Down and Dirty

“There is that.”

He released her hands and lowered himself to his elbows. Now he was nuzzling her neck. Her neck!

Frigg’s foot! Enough! She grabbed his face, raised it, then kissed him hard, thrusting her tongue inside of his mouth with the finesse of rusty plow in a cotter’s field. He did not resist, exactly, but he choked and lifted his head, evading another kiss.

“You move too slow.”

“Slow is good.”

“Slow is good for fermenting ale, not for fermenting the female juices.”

He chuckled. “Give me some credit for knowing a little bit about lovemaking, Britta.”

“And give me some credit for knowing what I want.” In one deft motion, she hooked a leg around his calf, pressed against his chest, and rolled him over so that she lay atop him. “Now do it,” she ordered. “I would do it myself if I knew exactly how.”

He was laughing so hard he could scarce breathe, let alone “do it.”

Now she was embarrassed at her daring. He must think her a wanton. She tried to roll off of him but only succeeded in landing at his side and almost knocking them both off the bed.

With much more deftness than she’d employed, he took her by the waist, tossed her back to the middle of the bed, and placed himself atop her again. “Now, behave yourself, Britta. I welcome you jumping my bones, but not this first time. Understood?”

“Nay, it is not understood,” she grumbled, turning her face to the side, still embarrassed, not just at her attempt to control the bedsport, but at having failed.

“Look at me, sweetheart.” When she refused, he slid down her body a bit and kissed first one breast, then the other, right on the tips.

She squealed and arched her body upward. She was looking now, all right. Good and plenty.

He put a hand at her chest and pushed her back down, roughly. She would no doubt have finger bruises on her chest come morn.

It had been a bare whisper of a kiss, but her nipples rose to attention, wanting more. Then he went to work in earnest, kneading her entire breast, raising it high from underneath, licking all around, but never quite in the center where she most wanted — nay, needed — his mouth to be.

She continued to try to arch her chest upward, offering her breasts to him.

He continued to hold her down. “Tell me what you want, Britta,” he said in a voice that was deliciously husky.

“How do I know what I want? I do not know. Yea, I do. I want your mouth on me.”

“Oh? Here?” He pressed his mouth against hers in a fleeting kiss.

She shook her head.

“Or here?” He raised one hand and kissed the wrist where her pulse no doubt beat like a battle drum.

She shook her head.

“Ah, I know.” He nipped her shoulder with his teeth, then kissed it better.

“Nay, nay, nay, aaaaahhhhh!”

He had taken her nipple into his mouth and was flicking it with his tongue. Over and over and over. And whilst he ministered to the other breast with playful fingers, he began to suckle her, soft, then hard, soft, then hard, in a rhythm that had no end.

She succeeded in arching her body off the bed, taking him with her.

And still he suckled.

She was keening a never-ending response to his breast play, not understanding how his touch in one place could be felt by her in another place. Ripples of the most incredible tension were building there. She feared she was about to have another orgasm, except this felt different than the one in the bathing chamber.

And what did the lout do? He bloody hell stopped. And knelt betwixt her legs. And just sat back on his heels, studying her there.