Devil's Daughter

His mouth traveled down to the insides of her thighs, where he nuzzled and breathed against the thin skin, and she experienced a moment of misgiving, wondering what had possessed her to ask him for this. It was too much. Too intimate.

Before she could ask him to stop, a low hum resonated in his throat, a sound she’d heard him make when he especially enjoyed something, a glass of good wine, a taste of something sweet or succulent. A single fingertip slid along the plump crevice, finding the yielding, melting-soft entrance to her body. His fingertip pressed into the wetness for a dizzying moment, and then he reached up to her breast, rubbing the nipple with the touch of slickness as if anointing it with perfume.

Shocked, Phoebe began to wriggle away, but he pulled her back easily, his hands strong on her hips. A soundless laugh sank into the crisp curls, his tongue stirring through them slowly, wetting the skin of her mound. His palms pushed beneath her bottom and tilted her pelvis, propping her at a high, helpless angle.

She closed her eyes, all awareness focused on the sinuous strokes of his tongue as he explored the outer folds of her vulva, following the curves on each side, then tracing the delicate edges of the inner lips. His mouth slid to the small, grasping entrance of her body, the tip of his tongue drawing across it. She made an agitated sound as she felt the peculiar sinuous heat of his tongue slipping inside her. Unimaginable. Unspeakable.

The pit of her belly was hot and coiled. Another deep, deliberate lick . . . a teasing wriggle . . . a languid glide. She began to sweat and strain, biting her lip to keep from pleading. Her body no longer seemed to belong to her, becoming a thing made only for pleasure. The bud of her clitoris, bereft of his attentions, ached and twitched, and she shook with the need for him to touch her there. Just one brush of his finger, or the slightest friction from his lips, would send her into spasms of relief. She was making sounds she’d never made in her life, moans and sobs that came from the depths of her lungs.

When the hunger sharpened intolerably, her hand stole down to the triangle of damp curls to ease it herself. Her wrist was deftly caught and pulled aside, and she felt him chuckle against her throbbing flesh. She realized he’d been waiting for her to do that; he knew exactly how desperate she was. Frustrated beyond sanity, she gasped, “You’re taking too long.”

“Now you’re the expert,” West mocked gently, playing with the springy hair.

“I . . . I don’t want to wait.”

“But I want you to.” Gently he pulled the hood of her sex back to expose the throbbing bud and blew cool air over it.

“Oh please . . . West, I can’t . . . please, please . . .”

His silky, remarkably agile tongue slid right where she needed it, circling and prodding, then flicking in a steady rhythm. He slid a finger inside her, giving the frantic muscles something to clench against. Heat flooded her, sensation wrenching every cell of her body. She was lost in him, feeling what he wanted her to feel, yielding every last part of herself.

The aftermath was like losing consciousness, her limbs too weak to move, her head giddy with sensation. Her face was wet with perspiration and perhaps tears, and she felt him wipe it gently with a corner of the sheet. She was gathered against a hard, furry chest, comforted by his soothing murmurs. He stroked her hair and traced aimless patterns over her back, and held her until her trembling eased.

He left the bed briefly and she rolled to her stomach, stretching like a cat and sighing. She had never felt so sated, so replete.

When West returned, he was completely naked. Phoebe began to turn over, but he straddled her hips and pressed her back lightly to keep her facedown. She lay quietly, aware of the textures of him, the muscles and coarse hair of his thighs, and the silky weight of an erection that felt as long and hard as a raffling pole. There was the sound of a glass stopper in a flask. His warm, strong hands descended to her back, rubbing and massaging, while the scent of almond oil drifted to her nostrils.

He squeezed the muscles of her shoulders and worked his way down along on either side of her spine, releasing tension and sending ripples of pleasure through her. Phoebe moaned softly. No one had ever done this to her before; she would never have guessed it would feel so lovely. As his palms glided up to her shoulders, the length of his aroused flesh slid along the cleft of her bottom and partly up her back. Clearly he also took pleasure in the massage, making no effort to hide it. He kneaded her lower back and the full curves of her buttocks with increasing pressure until the clenched muscles relaxed.

One hand reached down between her thighs to cup the soft pleats of flesh, his fingertips riding tenderly on either side of the swollen, half-hidden nub. A few exquisitely light and indirect strokes, back and forth, caused her breath to catch. He touched the opening of her body, circling into the wetness before one of his fingers—no, two—entered in a gradual but insistent thrust.

Her body tried to close against the intrusion, but he was so gentle, his fingers undulating like the sway of water reeds in a slow current. Her legs spread a little, and soon she felt the need to push upward, to take more of him in. As she raised her hips, something inside her loosened and stretched to enclose him. He breathed her name raggedly, seeming to luxuriate in the feel of her, his fingers twisting and curling with almost protean grace. Keeping her crimson face pressed against the cool linen sheets, she squirmed and gasped and arched tightly.

As his fingers slid from her body, the opening felt oddly open and liquid, muscles clenching on emptiness. His weight lowered over her back, the hair of his chest tickling pleasantly as he bent to kiss and lick her shoulders and the nape of her neck. His lungs were expanding and contracting with full, heavy breaths. Her eyes opened wide as she felt an intimate nudge between her thighs, the shape of him broad and hard. He pushed, but despite her willingness and arousal, her flesh resisted.

“Wait,” she gasped, flinching at a sharp ache. He stopped at once, lodged solidly but not quite penetrating. Panting with effort, she tried pressing back onto him, but hesitated as it began to hurt. “I can’t, oh, I’m sorry, it’s no use, I’m—”

“Darling,” West interrupted, having the effrontery to smile against her ear, “before we admit defeat, let’s try it another way.” He rolled off her and coaxed her to leave the bed with him. After retrieving the small flask of oil, he led her to the upholstered wing chair.

Phoebe shook her head in bewilderment. “Surely you don’t mean to . . . on a chair? . . .”

He sat and patted his knee.

She regarded him with amazement. “You great immodest creature,” she exclaimed with a nervous giggle, “sitting there with a flagrant erection and showing not one hint of concern about it . . .”

“On the contrary, I’m very concerned about it. And since you’re the cause, you should take some responsibility.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said doubtfully, glancing at the upthrust length of him. “Although it’s a bit more responsibility than one would wish for.”

“Be grateful you don’t have to live with it,” he advised, pulling her onto his lap so she was facing him.

Seeming to enjoy her blushing discomfiture, West opened the almond oil, shook a few drops into one of her hands, and set the flask on the floor beside the chair. “Will you?” he asked softly.

“You . . . wish me to apply it?” she asked, thoroughly flustered to find herself sitting naked on a man’s thighs in such an outlandish posture.

“Please.”

Tentatively she rubbed the oil between her hands and reached for his face.

West caught her slim wrists, his blue eyes laughing at her. “Not there, sweetheart.” Slowly he drew her hands down to the thick shaft straining between them.

“Oh.” Mortified and amused, Phoebe stroked the length of him, covering the satiny, ruddy skin with a thin sheen of oil. His male part was large and well shaped, the rigid flesh alive with pulses and deep-secreted quivers. His breath became unsteady as she caressed him from base to tip and let her fingers slide back down to the heavy sack below.

“You’re handsome even here,” Phoebe murmured, gently grasping him with both hands.

“Thank you. I’m rather partial to it. However, I don’t agree. Women’s bodies are works of grace and form. Men’s bodies are strictly for function.”

“Women’s bodies serve some rather important functions as well.”

“Yes, but they’re always beautiful.” His fingertips went to her stomach, tracing the delicate crescent of a stretch mark gleaming silver in the daylight. “What was it like?” he asked quietly.

“Giving birth?” Phoebe glanced down ruefully at the faint lines low on her belly. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I was grateful to have the benefit of modern medicine.” Her lips quirked as she watched his fingertips move from one mark to another. “They’re not pretty, are they?”

His gaze met hers with surprise. “Everything about you is pretty. These are marks of a life well lived, and risks taken, and miracles you brought into the world. They’re signs of having loved and been loved.” He brought her closer, lifting her to her knees so he could kiss her throat and the upper curves of her breasts. “I’m sorry to say,” he continued, his voice muffled in her cleavage, “my respect for the institution of motherhood doesn’t affect in the least my desire to debauch you thoroughly.”