But surely I can’t engage in self-pleasure in General Dalgaard’s tent. Whether or not he’s present while I’m rubbing myself. It would be the height of madness.
What if he takes it as an invitation to claim me?
The image of him mounting me from behind enters my consciousness, a detailed fantasy he’s conjured more than once.
“We’ll be sharing this tent indefinitely, Amelia, and at some point, you won’t be able to hold out any longer. If you want to touch yourself right now, it’s okay. I can stay here with you, or I can step outside and give you some space.” His tone is deep and seductive, yet I don’t sense he’s trying to take advantage of me. The predominant emotion that’s rolling off him is one of concern. He truly thinks I’ll be miserable all night if I don’t enjoy a release. Gods, he’s probably correct. The aching in my core keeps getting stronger.
Is it wrong that I want to touch myself right now?
Is it wrong that I want him to stay in the tent?
My body feels aflame with desire, and I can’t remain still any longer. I press my thighs tightly together as I squirm in place.
I’ve never even shared a kiss with Tristan, yet I’m considering asking him to remain in the tent while I stroke myself. Or try to stroke myself. What if I can’t do it right? My face heats with the knowledge of my inexperience.
Technically, I’m a married woman. Not that the union was consummated. But Tristan doesn’t know that. He probably thinks Lord Nevel took me to bed. He probably thinks I know enough about lovemaking—ugh, I’ll admit that’s a poor word choice—to bring myself to a release.
“Are you all right, sweet human?” His deep voice vibrates through me. “Would you like me to step outside?”
“I-I have never… never before…” My voice trails off and I try to push away the shame I’m feeling.
“You’ve never?” he prompts, his tone so gentle it makes me want to latch onto him and never let go.
“I’ve never touched myself before.” I draw in a huge breath as a pleasurable shudder courses through me.
His nostrils flare and a low growl rumbles from his chest. His gaze becomes more heated, and I know if I were to reach for his cock, I would find it fully erect. Of course, I would have totoss back the covers and unfasten his pants first. Heated desire pummels me at the thought. Oh gods, my face must be a vibrant shade of red.
“You’ve truly never touched your pussy before, Amelia? You’ve never stroked your clit?” His gaze still brims with desire and curiosity.
I shake my head. “No. I-I haven’t.”
The look of curiosity he’s wearing deepens, and I sense he’s hesitant to ask his next question. He doesn’t want to make me think of Lord Nevel, nor does he want to shame me for any pre-marital intimate encounters I might’ve enjoyed with another male, but he wants to get a better sense of my carnal knowledge.
“Have you ever experienced a climax, sweet human?” he finally asks.
“No, I haven’t.” A whimper escapes me when the aching in my core mounts, and I’m on the verge of begging him to help me. Begging him to teach me. Maybe it’s messed up—he is, after all, my captor—but I feel entirely safe with him.
The faelights in the tent dim slightly, and though I didn’t see him move a hand or even lift a finger, I know he just used his summer magic. The air is buzzing with it. Fragrant summer and spring scents keep reaching me, and the sound of nighttime insects becomes louder. The intermittent flashes of fireflies glow from outside the tent, and I suspect Tristan summoned the tiny creatures closer.
He reaches for my head and slowly, sensually, combs his fingers through my hair. Then he cups the side of my face. A short while ago, I was flinching from his touch, but now I lean into his palm with a contented sigh.
I peer into his eyes, waiting for him to ask the next question that rests on the tip of his tongue. I know the exact question he’s about to ask, and I’ve already decided on the answer I’ll give him.
Anticipation skitters through me, causing the heat panging in my core to increase until I feel feverish and so unsettled that I almost reach beneath my nightdress to rub myself.
The faelights reflect in his eyes, and as he sits up higher, his long dark hair shifts forward over his shoulders. I know he’s not a fae royal, but I think his features are as regal as they come. He’s a magnificent specimen of masculine beauty. Everything about him draws me in.
“Amelia, would you like me to stay and offer you some guidance? I could instruct you on how to best pleasure yourself, and I could help you bring yourself to a climax.” He draws in a long breath and doesn’t exhale immediately, and I know he’s waiting for my answer. He’s hopeful I’ll say yes, but he’s already promised himself he’ll be understanding and patient if I refuse his offer.
My heart swells with warmth, and not for the first time, I cannot reconcile how brutal he is on the battlefield compared to his gentleness toward me. “Yes,” I force out. My mouth has gone dry, and it’s a struggle to say a single word, but I finally manage. “Yes, please stay. Please… offer me guidance.”
His dark eyes glimmer. “It would be my honor.”
A long silence stretches between us. We hold one another’s gaze, and it’s like the entire realm has faded from existence. It’s just us here in this tent, and all the troubles we’re both facing don’t seem to matter at this moment.
At last, he breaks the silence. “Get atop the covers, then lean against me, with your back to me.”
My face heats as I comply with his wishes. I stand up briefly and allow him to rearrange the covers atop himself, then he spreads his legs and gestures for me to take a seat between them.
