CHAPTER 32: CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

He lifted his head.

The sudden, shocking absence of his mouth, the cool air hitting her wet, sensitised skin, made Ines whimper, a small, protesting sound.

She was lying back on the heavy oak desk, her nightgown and robe pushed down in a pool of pale blue silk at her waist. Her breasts were bare, aching, and rosy in the warm lamplight. She was panting, her chest rising and falling in short, sharp gasps, her mind a complete, shimmering blank.

Carcel hovered over her. His hands were braced on the desk on either side of her body, caging her in. He was breathing heavily, his own chest heaving. His dark, damp hair fell over his forehead, and his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle jumped.

And he was looking at her.

It was not a gentle look. His eyes were black, the pupils blown wide, and they were fixed on her—on her bare breasts, on her kiss-swollen lips, on her wide, dazed eyes—with a raw, stark, undisguised hunger that had nothing to do with food. It was the look of a man who was starving, and she was the banquet.

"Ines," he said. His voice was not a whisper. It was a groan, a rough, pained sound, as if her name had been torn from his throat.

She was still dazed, her body thrumming with a thousand new, sharp, electrical currents. She was lost. She had no idea what was happening, only that it was the most terrifying and wonderful thing in the world.

He moved one of his hands.

She watched, as if in a dream, as his large, warm hand left the desk. It did not move to her waist. It did not move to her hair.

It moved lower.

He stroked her leg, his hand on her bare skin, just above her knee. His touch was impossibly light, a mere feathering of his calloused fingertips that made her skin leap.

This... this is part of the lesson, her hazy mind insisted. Yes. The lesson. I am... learning.

His hand traveled slowly, deliberately, from her knee, up the smooth, exquisitely sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Ines shivered, a violent, full-body tremor. The silk of her nightgown was pooled at her hips, and his hand was now moving under it.

He was going... he was going... oh, dear God...

His fingers brushed against the soft, tight curls between her legs.

Ines gasped, her entire body jolting. No one had ever... no book had ever...

His hand did not stop. It was warm, and sure, and impossibly gentle. His fingers explored, mapping this new, secret, sacred territory. And then, his thumb, with a soft, knowing pressure, found the one tiny, hidden, central point.

He brushed it. Once.

A bolt of lightning shot through Ines. It was not a tingle. It was not an ache. It was a jolt, an electric shock that zapped from that one, tiny spot, straight to her spine, her stomach, her breasts, her brain.

"Ca... Carcel!" she stammered, her voice a sharp, shocked squeak.

He did it again, a small, slow circle.

"Ahhh... Ahng!" The sound was torn from her, a high, strangled cry she had never made before. Her eyes flew open, wide with a new terrifying pleasure. It was too much. It was... it was... what was that?

Carcel leaned his forehead against his arm, which was braced on the desk. He was breathing heavily, his own control shattering. Her cry, her sharp, innocent, shocked cry of pleasure, had nearly undone him.

He moved his other hand. He added a finger. Gently.

He found her. The "moist and soft inner flesh" she had so clinically written about. He slipped just the tip of one finger inside her.

Ines screamed. It was a muffled sound, her back arching off the desk, her entire body clenching. She was wet. He could feel it. The sensation of his finger, inside her, was so new, so foreign, so... full...

She grabbed him. Her arms, which had been lying uselessly at her sides, flew up and wrapped around his neck. She clung to him, her anchor in this storm of new sensation.

"Carcel," she panted, her voice a broken, pleading sob. "It’s... it’s too much. I... I can’t..."

He lifted his head. His face was inches from hers. He was in agony. He wanted her. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to take all of her. But it’s not time.

"Ines," he growled, his voice a soft, pained rumble. "Look at me. Do you like it? Here?" He moved his finger, just a fraction, and she whimpered, her hips lifting off the desk.

Her eyes were squeezed shut. She couldn’t form words. She just made a small, animal sound in the back of her throat, a sound of pure, helpless pleasure.

Carcel chuckled. It was a dark, strained sound. "You need to keep your voice down, Ines. It will be very... troublesome... if we get caught."

She didn’t seem to hear him. She was lost, moaning his name, a soft, helpless "Carcel... oh..."

He had to silence her. For her sake. For his.

He leaned in, and he kissed her. It was not the brutal, claiming kiss from before. This was a silencing kiss. A deep, slow, drugging kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, catching her moans before they could escape.

His mouth was on hers, and his hand... his hand was still moving.

This is so unreal, her mind sang, her thoughts dissolving into pure sensation. It’s... it’s driving me crazy. How... how can something feel this good in the world?

He moved his finger, in and out, a slow, steady, relentless rhythm, while his thumb continued its magic on that one, central point.

Why do only the men get to enjoy this? she thought, a flash of her old, defiant frustration. Only they get to feel this before marriage? It’s not fair! It is really, truly... not... fair!

The feeling was building. The tingling, the coiling, the ache... it was all tightening. It was winding up, like a clock spring, tighter and tighter and tighter...

"Carcel..." she moaned against his lips.

He broke the kiss, his mouth moving to her jaw, his breath hot on her skin. "I know, Ines. Let go. It’s alright."

She couldn’t hold it. The spring snapped.

Her entire body seized. A wave of pleasure so intense, so overwhelming, so violent, it was almost painful, crashed over her. Her back arched, her hands clutched his hair, and she shattered.

She cried out, a high, sharp sound, but he was prepared. His mouth covered hers again, swallowing her scream but breaking it.

Her body convulsed, a series of racking, exquisite shudders. She instinctively, wildly, wrapped her legs around his waist, locking him to her, as if he were the only thing keeping her from flying apart. Her body was on fire. Her mind was white. And her hand, in a last, desperate attempt at propriety, at silence, flew from his hair to her own mouth, her fingers pressed hard against her lips, trapping the aftershocks of her moans.

She was gone. And he, still fully dressed, still holding her, watched her, his own body aching.