She would take him, the pleasure he could bring, and give back the same.
Wilder spilled her to the bed, her wrists pinned in one hand, and bit her throat. She twisted with another desperate little noise, then dug her head back against the bed, offering her neck to him in the basest kind of submission.
He licked the pale line of skin she bared, nipped lightly. “I don’t know how long I can be gentle.”
“Tell me what I need to know,” she whispered, rubbing one foot against his calf. “If there’s anything I mustn’t do. If there’s anything you want me to do.”
Only one thing to say, one thing for her to know. “If I’m to stop, tell me so and make me hear it.
Don’t—don’t push me away.”
“Never.” Her foot slid higher, until her leg was all but wrapped around him. “I’m not an innocent, not afraid or delicate.”
“No, it—” He bit his tongue. She’d had hounds before—he had to acknowledge it even as it made his skin heat with primal jealousy. “It isn’t about that. You know why you mustn’t run from me.”
“I know.” Tenderness filled her gaze as she met his eyes. The sunburn on her cheeks had faded, but this close he could see the freckles dusting her pale skin. She dug her teeth into her full lower lip, just for a moment, then smiled at him. “I don’t wish to. I only meant that you shouldn’t worry that I’ll want to run from you. The things I would have you do to me…there is nothing proper or respectable about them.”
“I will take you.” Their encounters up to this point had been passionate, raw…but controlled. “Do you know? Do you?”
She didn’t lie. “No. But I trust you. And I want you.”
Perhaps a better man could have stayed in control. Wilder growled, the last of his sanity slipping away in the blackness of the night.
He wanted her sweetness, her pleasure. Her cries.
He would have them.
Satira expected him to fall on her like a beast. Instead he stared down at her, wildness in his eyes, but the hand grasping hers still gentle. Firm—she imagined she could struggle with everything in her and not break free—but careful.
The hound shaking above her would not hurt her. That truth might as well be carved in her soul.
He put his tongue on her first, licking the delicate ridge of her collarbone. Tasting her skin. She didn’t fight her shiver or her quiet moan. Let him have no doubts about her willingness or the way her body sang when he touched her.
He parted her legs with his knee and nestled his hips tighter to hers. “What is it you want?” he rasped.
She couldn’t deny him anything, even if it meant she might be forced to deal with the consequences later. “You. Inside me.”
The fingers around her wrists tightened, and he thrust against her, hard through his clothes. “Now?
Already?”
Satira didn’t know how to guide him, didn’t know if it was madness to try at all. “I want to hear your desires. To know the ways you’ll take me.”
He drew back to his knees, tugging at his belt as he loomed above her. “I’ll taste you first. Tease your cunt with my tongue and fingers.”
The bedroll scraped under her fingernails as she closed her fingers on it in a desperate attempt not to reach for him. “Do you mean to make me come? Or only tease me?”
“To make you come.” The corner of his mouth ticked up in a wicked smile. “Eventually.” Time would have no meaning to him. Not tonight, or for the two nights to come. In a brothel, he might have had several women to see to his needs. Here, there would be only her. Not enough to give him relief, if he fought to hold himself back. If he feared hurting her… terrifying her.
She could show him he had nothing to fear. She started by reaching for him, sliding her fingers over his. “May I help?”
Wilder grasped her hands, twining his fingers with hers, and pressed them back to the bed. “You said you trusted me,” he reminded her. “Trust me now, Satira.”
“With everything.” That was simple. Harder was admitting the truth. “I don’t trust myself to be enough.”
Something softened in his implacable gaze, and he bent his mouth to her ear. “You are, believe me.
But if you push… I could hurt you, darling.”
A more challenging task had never been set for her. To feel instead of think, to let go instead of clutching at control. She turned her head and brushed a kiss to his stubbled cheek. “You may have to remind me. I’ve always been a bit pushy.”
His laughter blew warm on her ear. “I like that about you. Usually.” She squeezed his hands where they pressed hers to the mattress. “Do you want me to keep my hands like this?”
He squeezed back. “Right there. Just like that.”
Such a simple little request. She should be able to obey, even if growing arousal made it hard to lie still when she wanted to arch up against him.
When he released her, he trailed his fingers down her arms to her breasts. “Is this what you want?” He caught her nipples between his fingers and pinched lightly.
The sensation shot straight through her, like she’d shocked herself on one of her own inventions. Only this time pleasure rode that edge, and a moan caught in her throat, coming out sounding small and needy.
She tried to speak and only managed a whisper. “Yes.”
He pinched harder.
She couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or pain that arched her back. Both, perhaps, in an alchemical reaction more impressive than her finest explosive round. Too late she noticed she was reaching for him and scrambled to clutch at the bedroll again.
“Good girl.” He gave her his mouth then, his tongue teasing around her nipple.
Her body came alive for him. He’d learned it already, even in the short time they’d been together, and now he seemed willing to use that knowledge to relieve her of what remained of her sanity. It felt so good that she had the strands of his hair tangled around her fingers, this time, before she realized she’d moved.
He murmured to her, though his voice had dropped to a low growl. “Almost ready for me, aren’t you?” His hand eased between her thighs. “So fucking ready.”
“All of me.” She eased her hand above her head again, afraid she’d push too far if she didn’t. “I’m always wet for you, as soon as you touch me.”
His hands wrapped around her thighs and jerked them wider. “All of you?”
He’d taken her in so many ways, and never the most basic, fundamental one. Plenty of working women swore that a bloodhound couldn’t get a woman pregnant during the new moon.
It might even be true—it seemed improbable she’d never heard of it happening if it could—but Satira had always been too logical to let herself hide behind such an excuse. She didn’t believe herself safe. She simply thought it worth the risk.
He was worth the risk, and if the worst happened…
Satira pushed the thought away and gave herself over to the moment. To him. He held her spread wide, bare to his gaze, and the erotic power of it stole her breath. So did the words that tumbled forth, crude and illicit. “What do you want, Wilder? My cunt, tight around your cock?” His gaze burned as his hands tightened on her legs. “You want that?” So much. Her hand trembled as she edged it down—her own body, this time, instead of his. She bit back a whimper as two fingers slid through her slick folds, narrowly avoiding the temptation to let her fingers linger where she might give herself relief from twisting tension.
Instead she spread her fingers wide. “Can you see how much?” Several quick breaths soughed in and out of Wilder, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he slid down, putting his mouth close to her hand. Then he licked her fingers, licked her, probing with his tongue.