The Beginning of Everything by Kristen Ashley Page 0,19
side, he drew in a large breath and gasped, “But—”
And again with the pounding.
By the true gods, this beast was splendid.
He felt himself beading.
Maybe he would climax just from the thrusts.
“Labbra, mia gazzella,” he heard murmured lovingly.
G’Drey blinked against the silk blankets.
His gazelle?
Yes, he did have a trim, lithe physique so he could countenance that.
But how could he give the warrior his mouth, now, when he was face down…
“Forte, mio toro,” a woman’s voice came.
His gaze jerked down the bed, and up as far as he could force it, as his arse took more, faster and harder, and he saw the be-ringed hands of a woman gliding around the warrior’s wall of brown-skinned chest.
“Labbra.” He demanded her lips, his word guttural as thumbs rubbed his nipples, and they were not the warrior’s own.
“Non dentro, mio amore. Solo per me.” Not inside, my love. Only for me.
“Sì,” another grunt before he pulled out brutally.
He rolled G’Drey to his back, climbed over him on all fours, and held him by the throat in a powerful grip, his knees in Drey’s biceps, pinning his arms to the mattress, as Drey watched, from very close, two hands stroke that mighty shaft, hers on bottom, his large one all but covering it.
And as he gasped, “No,” jerking his head side to side, trying to pull his arms out from under those sturdy legs, his body from that hold, when, with a manly, triumphant groan which did not quite drown out the female’s delicate whimper, the warrior’s seed flooded his face.
That was the injury.
The insult was the warrior shifting, moving his legs from Drey’s arms so he could force his cock into Drey’s mouth and stroke it through his milking while he kissed his woman deeply…
And Drey loving the taste of him.
And the feel of him.
And the sight of him (not including his tongue in the woman’s mouth)
And the long, tight fingers still wrapped around his neck.
In the end he was sucking the softening member, his hand inching to his own cock.
Abruptly, the warrior no longer straddled his face, and his throat was used to tear him off the bed and send him reeling across the tent, landing hard on his hip.
“Esci,” the warrior demanded he leave.
Scrambling, the heat in his body rising from shame, but more with fury, Drey rushed to his robes.
He’d shrugged them on and was darting toward the flaps of the tent, pulling his gown closed at the same time trying to wind his belt around himself when he heard, “Attento, falso prete.”
He stopped dead and looked back at the warrior lounging negligently on the posted mattress, the bold-colored, sheer swaths of silk draping over it and all around, his woman draped on him. She was stroking his boxed stomach with one hand, her other arm around his back, her mouth in his neck, but her almond eyes were tipped G’Drey’s way.
That was when he saw she was wearing the chain.
Delicate gold links starting at a small hoop in her upper ear, leading to another one in her lobe, it had some diminutive but shining rubies and what looked like amethysts dangling from the part that led from lobe to nostril, and then another length fed down to a small hoop at the side of her upper lip.
Right ear. Right nostril. Right lip.
Drey’s focus honed on the warrior’s lip and nostril.
He had the hoops.
He was just not wearing his chain.
They were married.
She was his wife.
Drey tasted bile in his mouth.
The warrior had said, Careful, false priest.
And then he spoke Drey’s native language, the language from the Vale, that being Hawkvale from across the Green Sea. The language spoken throughout the Northlands, save Fleuridia. The language Drey had read all about in the history books. A language that had been brought over when a good number of Lunwynians escaped the ice centuries before when the last Frey before the one they had now betrayed the elves.
“Firenze is not safe.”
“I think you’ve demonstrated that,” Drey spat.
Those eyes under that heavy brow dipped before they lifted. “You are still hard, false priest, do not tell me you don’t now go to your tent and stroke your own shaft, feeling me in your arse.”
His woman licked his neck from collarbone to jaw then turned, snuggling in and smiling cattily at Drey as her husband rounded her lovingly with his beefy arm.
Enough.
He turned to leave, lifting his deep-edged sleeve to his face to wipe away the warrior’s seed.
“That is not the safe I meant,” the warrior called.