His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

The proof was there in the most honest possible language, written in warmth against his fingers.

He slid one finger slowly between her slit, and felt her shiver. He made a glide through the soft wet heat of her, back and forth. He felt the lips of her pussy part softly around his finger, the slickness coating his skin.

Livia stopped kissing him. He felt the kiss dissolve. Her head went back. Her throat exposed itself to the candlelight, the long pale line of it, and she leaned into him.

"Have you been touched like this before?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No."

"Do you want to be touched like this?"

"Yes," she whispered.

His finger continued its movement, not pushing further in, not retreating, simply there, present and patient, learning what made her breath hitch and what made her fingers tighten and what made that small involuntary sound build at the back of her throat. "Tell me," he said, his lips brushing the edge of her temple as he spoke, so that she felt the words as much as heard them, "what have you done before?"

The lips of her pussy was warm and slick against his skin, her body rocking toward his hand in a rhythm she almost certainly wasn’t aware she’d started, the wetness gathering, the small breathless sounds she was making growing incrementally less composed with each pass of his fingers.

"Nothing." She said simply. His finger continued its slow, devastating work.

"Lies," he said. "You got wet very fast."

Livia opened her eyes. It took more effort than it should have. Her lashes felt heavy, her whole body operating on a different system than usual. "I’m not lying, Henry." Her voice came out slightly less composed than she’d have preferred. A hair’s breadth breathless.

"So this—" his finger moved, a long, slow glide that made her jaw tighten involuntarily, "—is for me?" He raised a brow. The warmth of her gathered against his fingers, the slickness increasing with each slow pass.

"What?"

"This wetness inside you." His voice dropped slightly. "How long have you wanted me to fuck you, Livia?"

"Uh—" She blinked again. Tried to locate a sentence. The sentence was not immediately available. "I haven’t thought about it."

It was, she recognised distantly, a deeply unconvincing response. But in her defence, his fingers were currently undoing every cognitive function she possessed and a more sophisticated answer would have required the use of a brain that was no longer fully online.

His finger continued to move. Tracing the slick lips of her pussy. She was rocking into him now. Her hips had abandoned any pretence of stillness and were moving in small, helpless increments toward his hand, toward the pressure, toward more.

She was going to have words with her body later. Then, he slid one finger inside her. A deep moan left her. She bit her lip but it was too late. The sound had already escaped. Her whole body surged into him. The intrusion of his finger inside her was unlike anything she had language for. A pressure that sat on the exact border of overwhelming.

"Henry—" She had never understood, all those nights — the sounds that came through the thin walls of Beaumont’s establishment, the cries and the moans and the rhythmic percussion of the floorboards. She had assumed it was merely performance, exaggeration.

She understood now that she had been wrong. Henry’s finger moved inside her, pressing into the tight wet heat of her and she thought, distantly, in the small surviving corner of her mind that was still capable of thought: Oh, that is why they were always so loud.

She wasn’t doing anything. She was contributing nothing to the proceedings beyond clinging and breathing and occasionally producing sounds she hadn’t preapproved. She should do something. She knew that there were things one did. She simply did not know what it was she should be doing.

Her inexperience was written in every line of her — in the artlessness of the way she held him, in the unguarded sounds she kept making, in the way her body responded with total honest urgency and no technique whatsoever. She was just a girl being undone for the first time.

He brought his other hand around to the small of her back, holding her upright, taking her weight. He looked at her face.

God, her face. Her lips parted, her eyes barely open, her cheeks flushed deep rose. He pressed deeper.

Curled his finger slightly, searching, patient, until — Her breath stopped completely.

There. Right there.

He kept moving. Slow, deep strokes, his palm pressing against the lips of her pussy with each push inward.

"Henry—What’s — what’s happening?" She sounded genuinely bewildered.

"You’re going to cum for me, Livia. Let yourself go."

"I don’t—" she started.

"Let go," he said again.

The tightening in her belly — she’d felt it building for the last several minutes, but then it lurched upward in intensity.

She whimpered into his shoulder. Henry covered her lips with his. The kiss swallowed the next sound, his mouth firm and warm over hers, catching every broken moan as his fingers kept pressing, deep and relentless and perfectly, devastatingly steady. His palm ground against her clit with each stroke and she jolted against him.

He was in considerable pain. His erection pressed hard against his breeches and the mental image that had taken up residence behind his eyes was not helping.

Her. Beneath him. His cock buried to the hilt inside her, slick with the wetness he could feel coating his fingers, her legs wrapped around him, that unguarded face making those unguarded sounds —

He grunted softly as her pussy spasmed around his fingers. She pulled her lips from his, couldn’t sustain much of anything, her whole system apparently occupied entirely with the business of coming apart. Her mouth fell open, her head dropped back against his supporting arm, her eyes unfocused and dark, and she cried out —