Naamah's Kiss - Jacqueline Carey [84]
"Raphael…" I whispered.
He pressed one finger against my lips, then pointed. "On the bed."
I lay down.
For a long moment, he merely stood and gazed at me, eyes dark with desire. Then, slowly, he undressed. It was absurdly tantalizing. I watched his bare torso emerge as he shed his doublet and shirt. His shoulders were broad. I gazed at the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse beat visibly and understood what Benoit Vallon from Atelier Favrielle meant about subtle beauties. Raphael shed his breeches and undergarments. The muscles in his flanks flexed, shadowy in the dim lamplight. His phallus was hard and erect, curving toward his flat belly.
Stone and sea, I wanted him.
He untied a thong holding back his tawny hair and shook it loose, smiling sidelong at me. When he joined me on the bed, I reached for him.
"No." Raphael caught my wrists gently, pinning them above my head with one hand. "Slowly. You have a lot to learn, Moirin." I do?
He leaned over me, his hard chest brushing against my erect nipples. Kissed me—slowly. Languorously. His free hand traced the line of my inner thigh. "Yes."
Until that night, I thought myself well versed in the ways of desire. After all, it had come effortlessly to me. But the coach-driver Theo scarce counted and Cillian mac Tiernan was a green lad beside Raphael de Mereliot, who was the Queen's lover. And she was an adept of the Night Court.
He undid me.
From top to bottom, stem to stern. Everywhere he touched me, I ached with pleasure. When he spread my thighs wide and lapped at the slick crease between them, my hips jerked clean off the bed, my fists knotting in his hair.
Raphael lifted his head, eyes gleaming. "Slowly."
"Please!" I whimpered.
He smiled. "In time."
Time… what was time? That night, it was measured in the broad, insistent strokes of his tongue, driving me to pinnacles I hadn't known existed. I dissolved beneath it, melting with pleasure.
The bright lady beamed. Oddly, she wore Jehanne's face.
Raphael slithered up the length of my body, bracing himself on his arms, mindful of my healing ribs. He kissed me, tasting of me. He guided my hand to his erect phallus. It throbbed in my fist, beating with a pulse of its own.
I sighed with gratitude. "Now?"
"Now," he agreed. The moment he pushed into me, I came hard— then came hard again as he continued to thrust. In and out, filled and not-filled. It was so good, and yet. Stone and sea, I was tired! It was almost a relief when he shuddered and spent himself in me, his ballocks rising and his buttocks clenching beneath my clutching hands. Almost a relief to feel his softening phallus slipping out of me.
"Ohh…" I whispered.
And slept.
I awoke to sunlight and Raphael's absence. It was late morning. The rumpled bed linens glowed white in the bright sun. The room smelled of sex. There was a robe with the House Mereliot crest laid out for me. I rose and donned it, feeling suddenly famished and very much in need of a bath. With an unexpected pang, I found myself missing home. A plunge in the stream and a breakfast of fried trout would be a glorious thing.
Instead, I rang the bell to summon one of Raphael's servants. The maid who answered was a sly-faced creature named Celine, not one of my favorites. She had a habit of smirking at me out of the corner of her eye. This morning was no exception, and when I asked where Raphael was, her smirk widened.
"Why, he's gone to the Palace, my lady," she said with an air of false innocence. "Gone to answer a summons from the Queen."
"I see," I said slowly. I hadn't expected him to refuse Jehanne. Still, it seemed something of an insult to rise from our shared pleasure bed and find him at her beck and call.
"Your bath will be ready shortly." Celine tossed her head. "Will you dine downstairs or shall I have a tray sent up?"
I held her gaze without answering until she flushed and looked away. "A tray will be fine. Have it sent to the guest-chamber, please."
"As you wish," she muttered.
By the time I had bathed and dined, there was still no sign of Raphael.