Mists of Velvet

asleep.
    She would take care of him now. Taking the cloth and bowl of water, she returned to his side and kneeled. The water was warm, and she dredged the cloth through it, wetting it, then brought it to his face. Carefully she washed him. He sighed but did not wake.
    The thorn-apple was a powerful drug. The lethargy and mental fatigue he was suffering could last for days.
    She had wanted to continue hearing his voice, to study his beautiful violet eyes, but this was nice, too—the quiet and being able to watch him unguarded and asleep. She could peruse his body and allow her gaze to linger on parts she hadn’t dared to stare at while he had been talking to her.
    His body, so hard and big, was a work of art. Bronwnn let her fingertips trail along the contoured ridge of his thigh. He was as hard as granite, but warm. She continued washing him—his arms, then his legs. She avoided his chest, allowing the witch hazel ointment to work.
    She had no idea how long she kneeled beside him in the pretense of bathing him. His body was clean, and the water had cooled. She was done. But she could not force her hand to stop touching him. She wanted more—to straddle him and feel his body beneath hers. She wanted to touch him intimately, to take his staff and feel it grow in her hand.
    She was a virgin, but she was not innocent of sex. She was the goddess of sexuality and fertility. She knew the ways of pleasure. They were instinctual to her. Sex was nothing to be ashamed of or to fear. She embraced it—would embrace it with him.
    Boldly, her fingertips left his thigh and trailed over to his hip, then to his cock. She had heard many species use this word to refer to that part of themselves. She liked the sound of it; she wanted to hear it uttered in the man’s deep voice.
    Her finger traced the length of it, and the man moaned, and she watched as it grew, thickened. She reached out and curled her fingers around it, feeling its satiny smoothness and thick veins. He was broad and long, and the need to smell and taste was overpowering.
    She held him, feeling it pulse in her hand. He was warm, the veins growing, filling. And then she jumped as she felt his fingers curl over hers.
    “Yes,” he purred sleepily.
    Using his hand, he pumped up and down, and she listened to his moans of pleasure as she studied the rhythm he liked. His skin was flushed, and his abdomen was tense and rigid. His free hand moved to cup the sac between his legs. He rolled it and squeezed as the pressure of his hand on hers increased, encouraging her to quicken her strokes.
    His breathing was fast, his cheeks stained red. His cock was now so thick, her fingers could no longer curl around the staff. The musky scent of his body aroused her, and she felt her nipples bead and her thighs quiver. Her mouth actually moistened as she studied the way he looked in her hand.
    Then, he was reaching for her, his strong fingers wrapped gently around her nape, and he brought her down, till the wet tip of his cock brushed against her mouth.
    He tasted of salt, sweat, and the unidentifiable scent that aroused her so much.
    “Take it in your mouth.”
    Her body felt hot, alive. His voice was even more arousing when heated with pleasure. His voice in the quiet made her wet, reckless.
    She was innocent; yet instinct guided her where inexperience could not. In all her dreams of him, she had not done this, but as she had watched over him last night—their first night together, staring at his body, touching it—she had wanted to taste him.
    She lowered her head and sucked him deep, listening to his low groan. She took pleasure in the way he fisted his hand in her hair—just as he had in her vision, when he had been rough and primal. The animal in her stirred, recognizing its mate. The animal was not gentle, and it overtook the woman in her.
    Sucking him, she pleasured him with the tip of her tongue. First, she used tiny flicks; then, deeply she drew him in, sucking him and tasting his skin.
    “If this is heaven, then thank God for death,” he whispered as he bucked his hips forward. He grew thicker in her mouth, and she used her tongue to lave the smooth skin, then the wrinkled edges of his shaft. As he moaned and grew more forceful, she felt her body turn soft and her thighs grow slick.
    Moving her hand between them, she discovered her core was wet and aching. Then her hand was brushed aside, replaced with his hot, hard palm.
    “Wet and waiting,” he murmured huskily.