Chapter 19: Volume 1- [ - 20 ]
My fingers found her pussy. The outer lips were swollen, slick, parted by her arousal. I traced the slit with my middle finger — a slow, teasing stroke that gathered the wetness and spread it upward toward her clit, which had emerged from its hood, stiff and prominent and begging for attention.
"Hahh—" Elira’s head fell back. "My lord—"
’I can feel his fingers — they are so close — where I need them — why do I need them — I should not—’
Her thoughts were my map. Each internal protest told me where her boundaries were, and each involuntary admission told me where to press. When she thought ’too close’, I moved closer. When she thought ’not there’, I went there. When her mind whispered ’I should not want this’, I gave her body a reason to want it more.
I found her clit. Pinched it — gently, a rolling pressure between thumb and forefinger that made her entire body jolt as though she had been struck by lightning.
"HIENGH—!!"
Her back arched. Her belly rose. Milk leaked from both nipples in twin streams. Her hands clawed the sheets.
’He is touching — there — no one has ever — Garrick does not even know where — the sensation is — it is going through my whole body — I can feel it in my fingertips, in my toes, in—’
I kissed her. My mouth covered hers, swallowing the moan, my tongue pushing past her lips with the same slow confidence I had used on her pussy. She kissed me back — hungrily, desperately, her tongue meeting mine with an urgency that belied every word of protest she had offered. Her internal voice dissolved into sensation:
’Melting — my body is melting — his mouth is — his fingers are — I can feel his cock on my thigh, so hot, so heavy, so big, I cannot stop thinking about — what would it feel like—’
I pulled back from the kiss. Her lips were swollen, wet, trembling. I looked into her eyes — wide, damp, conflicted — and asked, in the soft, conversational tone of a man inquiring after the weather:
"How many months?"
She blinked. The question, in the midst of everything, seemed to startle her. "W-what?"
"The child. How many months?"
’Why is he asking — now — while his fingers are — oh — his fingers are still — rubbing—’
"Nine," she gasped, her hips twitching against my hand. "Nine months. The doctor says — ahhn — any day now—"
My fingers were rubbing the edges of her pussy — the outer rim, the tissue around the entrance, which had darkened during pregnancy to a deep brown, nearly black in the low light. I traced the pigment line, circling the opening without entering, and the sensation made her thighs shake.
"So you are going to give birth soon," I murmured.
"Yes — yes, my lord—"
I looked at her. The candlelight caught her face — the tear tracks, the flush, the parted lips, the wide dark eyes that held equal measures of fear and wanting. She was beautiful in this light. Not the beauty of a court woman or a painted doll, but the raw, swollen, abundant beauty of a woman on the edge of creation, her body stretched to its limits and aching not for rest but for touch.
I took my cock in my hand. Lifted it. Brought it down against her thigh with a soft, heavy ’thwap’ that made her flinch.
"Can I enter you?" I said. "Just once. Just to feel you."
Her eyes went wide. "No — please — it will hurt — the baby—"
"It will not hurt the baby," I said, and the clinical certainty in my voice — borrowed from a modern world’s worth of basic biological knowledge that this medieval setting had never benefited from — landed on her like a verdict. "The doctor who told your husband that was wrong. The body is designed for this, even now. Especially now. The blood flow, the sensitivity, the natural lubrication — your body is more ready for this than it has ever been."
’I — is that true? I have heard — the midwife said — but she also said Garrick should not — but the way he says it, so certain, so calm, as if he has read books I have never—’
"It will hurt," she whispered, but her voice had lost its conviction.
"I know," I said, and the admission was soft, almost tender. "I know it will. But I want to feel you. Just once. Just the tip." I paused. Let the silence do its work. Then, quieter: "Can you not bear a little hurt for me?"
The candle guttered. A draft moved through the room, carrying the salt-smell of the sea. Elira’s internal voice rose in the darkness of her mind like a drowning woman surfacing:
’Why do I feel this way? It is wrong. It is cheating. Garrick is my husband. I took vows. But — but Garrick has not touched me in months. He does not look at me. He treats me like a patient. And this boy — this lord — he looks at me as if I am the only woman in the world. He reads to my child. He tells me stories. He oils my skin and tells me I am beautiful, and when he says it, I believe him, because his voice shakes when he says it, as if he is the one who needs to be convinced—’
’He is manipulating me,’ some smaller, clearer part of her thought. ’He is saying exactly what I need to hear. He is—’
But the thought died, smothered by the heat between her legs and the ache in her breasts and the terrible, wonderful loneliness that had been her constant companion for five months and that his hands and his mouth had, for the first time, silenced.
I heard her surrender before she spoke it.
"Fine," she whispered. "But — slowly. Please. And only the tip. You promised."
I leaned forward. Kissed her forehead — a gentle, chaste press of lips against her hairline, the kind of kiss a mother gives a child, inverted, subverted, made obscene by context. She trembled beneath me.
I reached down and spread her thighs wider, lifting them slightly, angling her hips to accommodate both my entry and the great curve of her belly.
She watched my cock — thick, long, the head a fat crimson dome — approach her entrance, and her breathing went shallow and rapid.
"It is too big," she whispered. "Please — I will not be able to—"
I pressed the head against her opening.
The contact was electric. The heat of her — wet, swollen, oil-sensitized — met the blunt pressure of my cockhead, and Elira’s body responded with a clench, a flutter, a gush of fresh wetness that spread across the head and down the shaft. I pushed forward — just the tip, as promised — and watched her outer lips part around the broad flare of the crown, stretching, stretching, the tissue darkening from pink to red as it accommodated the girth.
"Hnnngh—" She grabbed the sheets. Her knuckles went white. "It is — it is too — the width—’