Read Online Maythorn's Wish (The Fey Quartet Book 1) by Emily Larkin - Free Book Online
Authors: Emily Larkin
Ads: Link
that if she could just ignore it long enough, bury it deep enough, it would go away.
It had seemed such a dark, shameful thing—to love a man younger than herself, a man who was married—but now she had another secret. A secret even darker and more shameful.
The deep, warm contentment of being in Ren’s arms evaporated. Guilt squirmed beneath her breastbone.
What she did to Ren was a terrible and profound deception, a betrayal of trust. She’d tricked him into coupling with her. If he knew who she truly was, he’d push her from him with revulsion.
Maythorn squeezed her eyes shut. I am not Widow Miller, she told herself firmly. I am Maythorn. I am young. I am whole. I am worthy to be Ren’s wife .
But in her heart, she knew she was still Widow Miller—and that what she was doing was wrong.
Maythorn opened her eyes and stared into the darkness. She felt guilt burgeoning inside her, putting out tiny, creeping roots. She imagined pale tendrils worming around her heart, coiling up each rib.
She shoved the image aside and nestled closer to Ren. I am Maythorn of York. I am worthy to be Ren’s wife . She slid her fingers up Ren’s arm, trying to ignore the guilt, but the guilt refused to be ignored. It wriggled and grew inside her like the blind, white roots of a weed. Was it going to be with her for the rest of her life? Tainting everything? And if it was, wasn’t that what she deserved for lying to Ren?
Maythorn shifted, rolling to face him, and laid her hand on his chest. Such a solid chest, such thick slabs of muscle. She traced his pectorals, ran her fingertips down to his navel and back up, circled first one nipple, then the other, light and tickling, making his sweat-damp skin quiver. Down to his navel again, and then lower, across his taut, flat abdomen. The muscles trembled faintly beneath her touch.
Maythorn slid her fingers lower, combed them through the nest of hair at Ren’s groin and cupped his hot, heavy balls in her hand. She stroked the thick length of his quiescent cock. No, not entirely quiescent. His cock stirred at her touch. Maythorn gave a low hum of satisfaction in her throat, and stroked him again, felt him stir again.
Her guilt was fading, subsumed by other emotions: love for Ren, pleasure that she was giving him pleasure. She bent her head and kissed the crest of Ren’s cock, smelled the musk of their lovemaking, licked lightly.
Ren’s whole body twitched. He groaned, deep in his chest, and said her name, his tone half-protesting, half-pleading, “Maythorn . . .”
Maythorn laughed, a light, delighted sound, and bent herself more fully to her task, teasing Ren’s cock with her fingertips and her tongue, learning the contours and shape of him, learning the taste. She drew him into her mouth and sucked—felt Ren’s body jerk, heard him groan again—and sucked more strongly.
It was decades since she’d last done this, but she hadn’t forgotten the skill, hadn’t forgotten the rhythm. Delicious minutes passed. Her guilt was gone, forgotten about. Ren’s cock was hot and hard, straining in her hands, in her mouth. Maythorn sucked more strongly. She wanted to know what his seed tasted like.
“Enough!” Ren grabbed her shoulders and hauled her up his body. “Ride me.”
She wanted to pleasure him, not herself, but if this was what he wanted, she would give it to him. Anything and everything, Maythorn told him silently. Because I love you . She spread her legs and straddled him. Ren’s cock surged into her, making her gasp.
He gripped her hips urgently. “Ride me!”
Maythorn rode him, in the darkness, in the hayloft, her eyes squeezed shut. This was another rhythm she hadn’t forgotten. Ecstasy built inside her until she almost burst with it.
Ren’s fingers spasmed on her hips, his seed surged inside her, a groan tore from his throat. His climax triggered her own. Pleasure jolted through her, and then subsided in a slow spiral, like a feather floating to the ground.
It had seemed such a dark, shameful thing—to love a man younger than herself, a man who was married—but now she had another secret. A secret even darker and more shameful.
The deep, warm contentment of being in Ren’s arms evaporated. Guilt squirmed beneath her breastbone.
What she did to Ren was a terrible and profound deception, a betrayal of trust. She’d tricked him into coupling with her. If he knew who she truly was, he’d push her from him with revulsion.
Maythorn squeezed her eyes shut. I am not Widow Miller, she told herself firmly. I am Maythorn. I am young. I am whole. I am worthy to be Ren’s wife .
But in her heart, she knew she was still Widow Miller—and that what she was doing was wrong.
Maythorn opened her eyes and stared into the darkness. She felt guilt burgeoning inside her, putting out tiny, creeping roots. She imagined pale tendrils worming around her heart, coiling up each rib.
She shoved the image aside and nestled closer to Ren. I am Maythorn of York. I am worthy to be Ren’s wife . She slid her fingers up Ren’s arm, trying to ignore the guilt, but the guilt refused to be ignored. It wriggled and grew inside her like the blind, white roots of a weed. Was it going to be with her for the rest of her life? Tainting everything? And if it was, wasn’t that what she deserved for lying to Ren?
Maythorn shifted, rolling to face him, and laid her hand on his chest. Such a solid chest, such thick slabs of muscle. She traced his pectorals, ran her fingertips down to his navel and back up, circled first one nipple, then the other, light and tickling, making his sweat-damp skin quiver. Down to his navel again, and then lower, across his taut, flat abdomen. The muscles trembled faintly beneath her touch.
Maythorn slid her fingers lower, combed them through the nest of hair at Ren’s groin and cupped his hot, heavy balls in her hand. She stroked the thick length of his quiescent cock. No, not entirely quiescent. His cock stirred at her touch. Maythorn gave a low hum of satisfaction in her throat, and stroked him again, felt him stir again.
Her guilt was fading, subsumed by other emotions: love for Ren, pleasure that she was giving him pleasure. She bent her head and kissed the crest of Ren’s cock, smelled the musk of their lovemaking, licked lightly.
Ren’s whole body twitched. He groaned, deep in his chest, and said her name, his tone half-protesting, half-pleading, “Maythorn . . .”
Maythorn laughed, a light, delighted sound, and bent herself more fully to her task, teasing Ren’s cock with her fingertips and her tongue, learning the contours and shape of him, learning the taste. She drew him into her mouth and sucked—felt Ren’s body jerk, heard him groan again—and sucked more strongly.
It was decades since she’d last done this, but she hadn’t forgotten the skill, hadn’t forgotten the rhythm. Delicious minutes passed. Her guilt was gone, forgotten about. Ren’s cock was hot and hard, straining in her hands, in her mouth. Maythorn sucked more strongly. She wanted to know what his seed tasted like.
“Enough!” Ren grabbed her shoulders and hauled her up his body. “Ride me.”
She wanted to pleasure him, not herself, but if this was what he wanted, she would give it to him. Anything and everything, Maythorn told him silently. Because I love you . She spread her legs and straddled him. Ren’s cock surged into her, making her gasp.
He gripped her hips urgently. “Ride me!”
Maythorn rode him, in the darkness, in the hayloft, her eyes squeezed shut. This was another rhythm she hadn’t forgotten. Ecstasy built inside her until she almost burst with it.
Ren’s fingers spasmed on her hips, his seed surged inside her, a groan tore from his throat. His climax triggered her own. Pleasure jolted through her, and then subsided in a slow spiral, like a feather floating to the ground.
Similar Books
