So here it is, the next installment of Sabine and Roland's story. And the hottest (I think). I'm terrible at writing these scenes, which is why I'm trying my pen here, to get some expert reader's advice.
So please don't hesitate to voice your opinion, give plenty of stars (I'm hopeful), and follow!
Thanks and good reading!
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Chapter 12:
Smiling, Roland unwrapped her at the same leisurely pace one would a long coveted gift, folding the nearest flap of the blanket towards him and letting the other slide over the edge and pool on the floor. A heated whiff of perfume hit his nose, a heady mix of Sabine's natural scent and rosewater. He mentally patted himself on the back for picking the latter. The suave fragrance suited her perfectly.
Exposed to the cooler air of the room, Sabine shivered, the rosy peaks of her breasts tightening and poking at the gauzy lace.
"On second thoughts, I might purchase this chemise. It offers a rather enticing view..."
A tray of bite-size delicacies and a decanter of sweet wine waited on the side table. Choosing a piece of marzipan, Roland popped it into her mouth, gagging her with sugar. Her ensuing frown amused him, and he placed a miniature jam tartlet in her hand. "Your turn."
Hesitantly, Sabine raised the treat to his lips. What happened to her doing nothing? She yelped when he seized her wrist and gobbled the food, sucking her fingertips clean.
"Delicious..." he drawled, "My turn again..."
He offered her another bit, holding his fingers still until she took the hint and wiped them with her tongue.
She was resigned to feeding him again when he poured a glass of wine and offered it to her. She waved her hands in refusal but he insisted. "Drink, it will soothe you."
"I don't really like the taste..." The nuns had warned their wards against liquor's nefarious effects, and she never had more than a polite few drops of the sour liquid, enough to cringe and wonder how anyone could abuse it.
"You will like this one. Try it."
Warily, she obeyed. The first drops engulfed her taste buds in honey, dried fruits, and spices. She swallowed and took another sip, and another, pouting when the glass was moved out of reach.
"Slow down, I don't want you drunk." She was eager as a child who just discovered candies, but also light of frame and unused to strong beverages, and this particular vintage packed quite a punch under the sweetness. "I see my valet forgot the towels. Allow me..."
Roland lapped at the lost drops, starting at the edges and moving on to cover her lips. She didn't pull away. Encouraged, he pushed forth his tongue until he encountered the unyielding barrier of her teeth.
"Let me in, ma douce..." he whispered against her skin.
Puzzled, Sabine obeyed. What could a kiss entail beyond the contact of the lips? As a result of his attentions, hers already felt strange, wet and swollen and restless, with an itch that could only be eased by firmer, longer pressure. Would it get worse if he went on? Surely it couldn't be harmful...
Roland pressed on as her jaw relaxed, exploring her mouth with great care. Her taste was inebriating, her teeth healthy and smooth like a string of pearls, while her tongue, shy at first, soon responded to his teasing. He savored her for a brief moment before releasing her. Too much too fast might scare her. The night was young.
Or mayhap no so young, he mused, as a muffled cough echoed from the dark corner. Louis was bored; patience was never his strong suit. It might explain why the Queen didn't often seek her husband's affections. Oh well, he'd better watch and learn, for Roland had no intention of rushing the seduction of his wife. The authority of the King stopped at the door of his bedroom, or, in this case, at the lit area of it, this being likely what Bassompierre was sotto voce stressing to the youngster.
Ignoring the disturbance, Roland moved on to the next round of pastries and wine.
Sabine's head was swimming. Lucky she was to be sitting, for she certainly wouldn't trust her legs to keep her upright. The silly appendages lay on generously stuffed upholstery, content and boneless, alike the rest of her. Why would she try standing anyway? She giggled at the notion. She wiggled her toes and curled into the man's warm embrace, rubbing her nose and cheek on marvelously scented fabric. Lavender. She loved lavender. It mixed so wonderfully with the taste of cake and...
"More wine, please..." The nuns had been so wrong. Wine was scrumptious, making her languid and giddy.
A light laugh, a finger under her chin, and eyes were peering into hers. The courtier's... her husband's. They were a stormy grey, not as dark as she had first assumed. The flames of the hearth reflecting on the black pupils added a hellish touch.
"Which demon would you be?" she blurted, hand flying to her mouth upon realizing she had spoken out loud.
"I think you had enough to drink, ma belle amie." Roland cupped the back of her head and Sabine frowned as his smile descended, landing in a smoldering kiss. Her eyelids dropped as her hands rose, palms gliding up his chest to anchor on his shoulders.
Kisses were nice, she decided. She didn't believe he was doing it right, though. She had never heard of kisses making anyone weak or hot or dumb. His seemed to melt her bones, and kindle a line of fire from her chest to her womb. Her mind could form no coherent thought while his wicked lips and tongue plundered her, plunging her into a state of blissful abandon.
She had a fleeting awareness that she should not enjoy this, not here and not with him, but she swatted it. She was so tired, tired of suffering, of dragging herself through life with no better prospect than swift death.
Roland guessed her surrender when Sabine softened in his arms. Her beauty would have inspired a painter, resting slightly short of breath, all mussed hair and flaming cheeks and puffy red lips, a freshly tumbled nymph.
He stood, lifting and delicately depositing her back on the lounger, head on a downy cushion, wild curls spread in a halo. Divine. History and temper aside, she wasn't the worst choice of bride. Planting heirs in her would be no chore.
Brushing aside a wayward strand, he offered her a reassuring smile. "To answer your question, I am willing to impersonate a demon of lust tonight, or at least borrow their expertise. Don't worry, you are safe with me."
The new position sobered her a little. She bit her lip, and nodded. While the liquor had dulled her fears, they were still lurking in the nooks of her skull, ready to raise their ugly heads. She wished he had let her drink more, enough for her to become completely oblivious. Clearly, it wasn't his plan.
A pinch on the lobe of her ear forced her to shift her attention back to him. "Ouch, why would you do this?"
His grin was wholly unrepentant. "Do not think. Feel." He nibbled on the sensitive shell and she moaned, unable to master her voice in her fuddled state. Encouraged, he trailed down her neck and settled on a round shoulder, coaxing more musical trills out of her. She was a true little nightingale, he mused, and subsequently felt compelled to elicit a similar song from her opposite side.
The new melody was subtly different and still very enticing. On the last note he reached the neckline of her chemise, considering and opting not to remove it. She would feel less exposed under its cover.
Not that it hid much. It clung to her slim shape, enhancing her curves and showcasing the sharp points of her breasts and the blonde fuzz gracing the junction of her legs. The latter he had forbidden the maids to remove, disregarding the current fashion in aristocratic women. It would go, eventually, his Moorish wench would see to it. Until then, he would relish the novelty.
His hands slid down towards her twin mounds, enveloping them in warmth and gently squeezing until they bulged up. Through the sheer linen and silk muslin, the firm flesh appeared nearly opalescent, fresh as the snow of an Ottoman sherbet and topped by the most appetizing berries.
He chuckled quietly. This cute hellcat was fast turning him into a lousy poet.
He bit into the tempting fruits and soothed them with his tongue, sucking and licking until the lace was soaked. Then he blew cold air. A stifled yelp rewarded him, and Sabine squirmed in his grip, attempting to distance herself from the offending mouth.
Surprising her, he stood and released her. Not for long.