Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
He ignores my bad mood and marches right up to me and takes my hand, turning it over and examining it. “Did I hurt you?”
Oh. “It stung, but you did the same to the others.”
“I’m not married to the others.” He lifts the back of my hand to his muzzle and rubs his nose against my skin. “I’m sorry. I was trying to be gentle with you and instinct kicked in.”
“I don’t want you to be gentle with me,” I tell him, distracted as he continues to rub his muzzle against my skin in a way that makes me feel shivery inside. “I want you to treat me the same as the others.”
“But you’re not the same,” he murmurs, and his golden gaze meets mine. “You’re my wife, and I’m supposed to be teaching you about pleasure. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
His response leaves me flustered. “It’s not like it’s been about pleasure over the last few days. You haven’t touched me since the first day we got here.”
“Missing it?”
Oh gods. My face heats. “I mean…no…”
“Liar.” He grins, his expression practically feral as he releases my hand and takes another step forward. I automatically take a step back, and stumble over roots, only to find myself with my back against the nearest tree. His hand goes to my waist, and then he flicks open my belt and slides his hand into my pants.
Sucking in a breath at the feel of his warm fingers against my skin, I flick my gaze up to him. “What are you doing?”
“Making you feel better.” The heat in his eyes is playful, even as he cups the back of my neck with his other hand and draws a teasing circle around my clit. The pose makes me gaze up at him, and when I brace a hand on his chest, I can see a smile curving his mouth. “You sounded sad that I haven’t touched you lately. I’m making it up to you.”
“You—you don’t—I wasn’t—”
“Shhh. I know, little bird.” He strokes against my clit, and my knees almost buckle. “I have you.”
My lips part, and anything I want to say, to protest, disappears from my mind as he keeps touching me. His fingers dance through my folds, slicking them with my juices, and when he dips a finger into the heat of my channel, my body makes a wet squelch. I jerk, startled and embarrassed.
Hawk only hums with pleasure. “Feel how wet you are, Aspeth? When the moon is upon me, the more I touch you, the more slick your body will create so you can take me. You’re going to be twice as wet as this, so wet that it runs down your thighs and soaks the bed. It’s all so I can stretch you to take my knot, and it’ll make you feel so good.” He eases his finger into me again, his thumb moving to rub my clit as he does, and then starts a slow, regular motion, pumping into me with his hand. His gaze is locked on mine as I curl my hands in his shirt, clinging to him as he pushes me toward a climax.
When I come, it’s with a muffled cry, my face pressed against his chest as he keeps fingering me. Pleasure bursts through my mind and sweeps down my legs, and then it rolls through me, leaving me sated and weak-kneed. “Oh. That was…nice.”
“It was, aye.” He rubs his muzzle against my ear, as if drinking in my scent.
“I wasn’t begging for you to touch me,” I tell him primly. “I just thought that we were supposed to be spending our time here in the woods getting to know each other. Our time alone, that is.”
“Oh, we are.” He chuckles, amused at my prissiness. “I’m getting to know which touches make you squeal, and that you talk about Old Prell in your sleep.”
I wriggle until I free his possessive hand from my body and slip away from him, flushed with embarrassment. “I do not.”
He licks his fingers clean of my taste with lascivious strokes of his tongue that make me think all kinds of naughty things. “You do, and it’s charming. Last night you were discovering bowls in your sleep.”
“Last night” was actually “last day,” since we’ve been sleeping in the daytime, but I don’t correct him. I’m a little too mortified that he’s right. I do have vague dreams of unearthing glowing bowls from a big pile of rocks. “What kinds of bowls?”
Hawk chuckles, his expression amused and full of affection as he gazes at me. “I don’t know. You kept saying it was a secret.”
Normally I’d be fixated on the soft expression my new husband is giving me, but all I can think about is that I’m talking about secrets in my sleep. Is real life bleeding over into my dreams? Have I mentioned anything about my father and his hold? His need for artifacts? I need to distract Hawk from this line of thought so he doesn’t pay too much attention if I do so again. “You know, Prellian bowls were a very important part of mealtimes. They had different-sized bowls and different colors of bowls depending on what was being served and at what time. It was considered poor manners to serve anything in a large bowl at the first meal of the day, for example. It implied you were greedy. If a wife wanted to get on her husband’s bad side, she’d keep increasing the size of a bowl, a subtle insult.”