CHAPTER 31: CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

He didn’t just kiss her. He plundered.

It was not a gentle, testing, polite kiss. It was the kiss he had described—a claiming.

His mouth was hot, and firm, and desperate. It was the pent-up frustration of two weeks, of two years, of a lifetime of seeing her as his best friend’s untouchable sister. It was the fury of a man who had been pushed to his absolute limit.

And Ines, who had only ever dreamed of this, met him with a small eager gasp. Her hands, which had been splayed on his chest in a gesture of surprise, suddenly clutched. Her fingers fisted in the fine linen of his shirt. She was not pushing him away; she was holding on. She was holding on as the world tilted, as her senses were overwhelmed.

His tongue, hot and wet and tasting of nothing but him, breached her lips, her teeth. It swept into her mouth.

"Oh"

A small, strangled sound, half-moan, half-surprise, was trapped in her throat.

I couldn’t understand, her mind reeled, a distant, frantic thought, why the female protagonist in novels would moan just by touching lips. It seemed so... so silly. But now... Oh, but now I understand how they feel.

He was everywhere. He was inside her mouth, a hot, wet, demanding presence. His tongue was not just "twining," as he had said; it was fighting hers. It was a duel. A battle for dominance that she, in her utter, complete inexperience, was losing in the most spectacular way.

It’s driving me crazy, she thought, her knees going weak. She clung to his shirt, her body a live-wire, her mind a blank, shimmering haze.

He broke the kiss.

He pulled back, his mouth tearing from hers with a soft, wet sound. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving under her hands. He was still holding her head, his fingers tangled in her hair, his other hand still a band of iron at her waist.

He stared at her, his eyes black, his lips swollen.

Ines was panting, her eyes wide and dazed, her own lips red, stinging, and kissed-senseless.

And then, in a move of curiosity, she did something that shocked him more than her scream in the hallway.

She lifted a trembling hand. Her fingers, still slightly smudged with ink from her writing, rose to his mouth. And she touched his lips. She brushed her fingertips, slowly, wonderingly, over the firm, hot, damp skin.

Carcel froze. He went utterly, completely still, his eyes locked on her. He had just given her a kiss that could start a war, a kiss that had shattered his own control. And she was... she was examining him.

"Once you taste something unforgettable," Carcel whispered, his voice a husky, breathless new sound, "you will... you will become curious about other tastes, too."

He stared at her, his mind reeling. She wasn’t... she wasn’t flirting.

"Other than lips?" she asked, her voice low, her eyes—her wide, innocent eyes—shining with a terrifying, genuine thirst for knowledge. "Ah... tasting is fine, I suppose. But where else...?"

A sound rumbled in Carcel’s chest. He was frozen for a moment, and then it escaped. A low, deep, astonished giggle. It was a sound of disbelief.

"Oh, Ines," he said, his voice rough with a mixture of arousal and sheer amusement. "Cute. So cute."

Ines frowned, her brows drawing together in a tiny, adorable pout. He was laughing at her. This was a serious inquiry, and he was laughing.

Carcel saw her pout and his amusement deepened, though his body was still aching. "Tasting in other places," he explained, his voice a low, teasing rumble, "doesn’t mean the left side of the mouth, or the right."

"Then where?" she asked, her frustration making her bold.

His smile vanished. The lesson, it seemed, was back in session.

"For example," he whispered. He lowered his head, his face moving from hers. "Here."

His lips, his hot, knowing mouth, touched the place where her neck met her shoulder. He didn’t just kiss her. He inhaled her, his breath a hot gust against her skin. Ines’s head fell back, her eyes fluttering shut, giving him access. A tiny, helpless whimper escaped her.

He nuzzled the sensitive, leaping pulse just below her ear. He trailed a line of small, hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat, along the delicate line of her collarbone, which was visible above the silk of her robe.

The sensation was damning. It was... everywhere. It was a thousand needles of pleasure. Ines’s hands, which had been on his chest, found their way to his head, her fingers tangling in his damp, thick hair. She was, as the prompt had dictated, holding his head steady. She wasn’t just letting this happen; she was, with a silent, desperate greed, asking for more.

He reached the V-neck of her robe, his lips brushing the top curve of her breast, right through the silk.

He stopped. He lifted his head, his eyes on fire. He looked at her, her head thrown back, her mouth parted, her eyes closed in a daze of pleasure.

He reached for the thin, silk chiffon straps of her nightgown, which rested on her shoulders. With a slow movement, his gaze locked on hers, he hooked his fingers under the straps. And he pulled them down.

The pale blue silk slithered down her arms, the robe and the gown, pooling at her waist, which he still held.

Her breasts, high and full and pale in the lamplight, were bare.

Ines’s eyes snapped open, a small, shocked gasp escaping her. She was exposed.

"Even here," he said, his voice a hoarse, guttural growl.

He bent his head. He took one hardened nipple into his mouth.

Ines cried out. It was a sharp, high-pitched sound of shock. It was nothing like a kiss. It was hot, and wet, and pulling. His tongue, a rough, wet, magical thing, swirled around the peak, laving, teasing, sucking.

It was... it was...

This feels... absolutely different from what I imagined reading a novel, her mind, the last sane part of her, shrieked. The books said ’he caressed her peak.’ They didn’t say... this! This feeling... it’s... it’s pulling. It’s... it’s a rope, and it’s pulling... it’s pulling at my stomach... it’s pulling at my...

He lifted her and sat her on the desk. As his mouth worked its magic on her, his other hand, his large, warm, soldier’s hand, moved to her other, bare breast. He did not grab. He cupped it, his thumb finding the other, aching, jealous peak, and he began to roll it, gently, then firmly, between his thumb and forefinger.

Ines was lost. She was gone. She was no longer a noble lady. She was just a body, a collection of raw, screaming nerves, and she was being played like an instrument by a master. Her head was back, her back was arched, and she was making small, whimpering, pleading sounds in the back of her throat, her hands no longer just holding his head, but clutching him to her.