Seducing Anne (22 page)

She wrote the words to a song instead—also in French, since his poem had been stunning in her favorite language.

It made her mouth water to think about him speaking to her again in that tongue.

Normally, if she was ill and in bed, she would do her needlework, but that seemed entirely too dull right now.

And anyway, she was in good health.

She picked up her lute, plucked at the strings and created a dark and sensual melody to pair with her lyrics.

Her smile was firmly affixed in place as she practiced it several times. At one point, she even found herself up and dancing around to the tune running amok in her head.

Would Guy enjoy it?

She had been told many times she had a lovely singing voice, was excellent on the lute and a nice dancer.

Her thoughts were disrupted later by supper being brought in to her by one of her ladies, who mentioned in passing that Anne was flushed and should probably get back in bed.

Anne ignored it, ate with gusto after her servant left and then went right back to swaying her hips and thrusting her breasts forward.

She used her legs in a suggestive way to portray what Guy did to her and how he incited her to passion—only, she worried he might find it vulgar.

When the chambers outside were quiet, and she knew her maids to be sleeping in their own apartments, she made sure to leave all her doors open a crack so Guy could make his way inside.

For once, she did not worry that the king would try to sneak inside and seduce her. Nothing frightened Harry more than the threat of disease upon his royal person.

As she was heading back to her bedchamber in only her shift and a light wrap covering her, she heard the door being pushed open.

She turned to find Guy leering at her.

“Perfection,” he whispered, and held his hand out for her.

She smiled and almost leaped to his side.

Her fingers were steady as she placed them in his palm.

His grin spread wider, and he pulled her out into the corridor, then tugged her toward his chamber door.

She managed to shut the door to hers before she was thrust inside his room.

“You smell better than Heaven, sweet girl.” He closed his door and cornered her up against it, then inhaled deeply at her neck.

When he pulled away, his pupils were so enlarged his eyes looked black like hers.

“I want to smell like you, too, right now.” He yanked her clothing up over her head in one swift pull.

She stood in the nude, unsure of what to do now. “I had planned to sing a song for you I wrote in your honor. I had a dance to go with it also.” She stared at him, waiting for an answer.

He gave none. Instead, he took on a wide, commanding stance, put his hands on his hips and jerked his chin up at her. “Dance then. Sing your heart out, sweet lady.”

“Now? Here?” She glanced around the room. “Naked?”

“Yes, yes, and hell yes. Go.” He did the chin jerking motion again, and his eyes were in earnest.

“But I am without clothing.”

“Yes, you are. I would not have you any other way. Dance for me. Please your sir.” He smirked, then cupped his cock.

That small act, and envisioning it elongating and throbbing for her, emboldened her.

“Sit down so I have space. Would you?” Her stomach was filled with fluttering butterflies. Had she ever done anything so wanton before on purpose? And why did she feel so conflicted over a simple thing like telling him to clear some space for her?

“I will move as soon as you get over here and kiss me,” he said, pointing at the space between his legs.

She gulped, her eyes flashed big and then she padded her way over to him.

He pushed his breeches down enough so his cock was released.

It was erect, and like last time, oozing his seed of potency at the tip.

“Christ!” she said through gritted teeth.

He placed his left hand on top of her crown while his right went to the base of his shaft.

With gentle pressure, he pushed her to her knees.

Her mouth moistened, she licked her lips and then opened wide, remembering how he preferred to go deep.

“Lick the seeds off and keep them on your tongue as you dance around. If you swallow them down, I will be forced to give you more than you might like.”

Her eyes jolted up to his.

He gave her that look that said he was telling the truth.

She lapped at the tip, and it bobbed with the motion.

Her eyes flickered up to his a few times. “Jesus, that feels divine.”

A moment later, his hand he’d placed on her head was pushing her back a little and held her there. “Enough. You will make me come, and I want to determine where I spill on your gorgeous body.”

A thrill chased down her spine, making her breathing pick up in pace.

“Up. Dance. Please me.” He helped her to her feet.

She stood alone now as he retreated to his bed and took a seat on the edge.

He motioned for her to begin.

She closed her eyes and hummed the first few bars of the song, then her lips parted and she sang higher and clearer than she ever had, even though she managed to keep it quiet so no one else would hear if they happened to be in the corridors late at night.

She swayed automatically as she sang, then a twirl, then a bend of her back, and she was a fairy-folk flitting about the room, and exposing her breasts by jutting her chest out.

She opened her eyes, and her fears he would think it a grotesque display of foolishness was gone.

He was lying back, stroking his stiff cock and watching her intently, eyes almost completely hooded.

“Fuck—keep going, Anne.”

She skipped over to his side to the tune she held in the air and then turned around, bent backward until she was almost across his lap, facing up toward the ceiling.

“Beautiful, my beloved. Truly spectacular.”

She had forgotten to sing it in French, so she started over and sang it the way she had intended.

When she stood up straight so she could dance away, he snatched her around the waist and spread her out on the bed so her ass was hanging off the edge of the mattress.

He dropped to his knees on the ground. “Sing while I eat you, fairy princess. And keep it in French while I French your pussy.”

She swallowed the newly formed lump in her throat and sang with shaky chords.

What did “eat her and French her pussy” mean?

She was baffled until his tongue was on her clitoris and he was making these ravenous sounds.

It was a difficult task to sing for him when his mouth was on her, but she kept going.

When she had finished, she asked, “Does this make up for the missed days of my pleasing you and doing something daily for you?”

His lips let go with a smacking sound. “Hardly.” He dove right back into her slickened folds.

“How can I make it up to you?” Her arms flung out and she gripped his counterpane and fisted it.

“Play with food.” He rose with grace to his feet and reached for a bowl of fruit she had not noticed when she was vying for his praise.

“Wh-what does that mean?”

“You shall see.” His right eyebrow hitched up, and he plucked a plum off the top. “Stand up and strip the coverlet down.”

She fulfilled his bid and when she turned around, the rest of his clothes were off and he was biting into the fruit, hovering over the exposed linens, dripping all over it.

Her eyes drifted to the mess he was creating, and she gasped when she saw her virgin blood dried on the cloth.

“That is me?” she asked, and then her hands cupped her mouth.

It was a sizable blotch. How did his servants miss noticing this?

“No one saw it. After I brought you to your own bedchamber, I came back here straightaway and then pulled the covers back up. Tonight, we hide the evidence with fruit juices of a matching color.”

“You want me to eat like a savage with you?” She smiled at this outlandish idea.

“No. You are to lie back and have the juices run over your thighs—grace your tits and your sweet lips I adore.”

“You do?” She blinked and stood steadfast.

“I do.” He gripped her right arm to get her moving. “I adore every bit of you.”

“Impatient,” she muttered.

“Impatient for a good fucking,” he clarified.

She snorted. “Yes, I am sure this is all it is to you. It sounds more like you mean to host a play on my body.”

“Ahhh, what a wicked imagination you have for such a pious, wholesome lady.”

She flinched. “Have I—”

“No, you have not. Do not think I have scandalized you or wish to gloat in your face about it. That is not what I meant. I was only teasing.” He dipped his head, took another bite and the red waters of the fruit’s womb spilled down his bearded chin. He angled himself so it landed between her thighs, right in her hairs.

“Cold,” she whimpered.

“Yes, I chilled them all for you.” He grinned in wicked delight and with a promise in his eyes of more to come.

He bit again, did the same thing, but this time it produced more of the syrup and it dribbled down between her folds and dripped onto the bedding.

She grinned at him as he kept going.

When the fruit was devoured, he tossed the pit into the fire.

“What next?” She glanced at the bowl.

“Cherries, my sweet,” he said with a French accent.

She giggled, but he did not bite into any of them.

Instead, he took a palmful so the stems were between his fingers. He cupped them so it was a handful of bulbous red bobbles.

He ran the frosty fruit over her breasts one at a time, drawing it down the length of her torso.

When he got to her clitoris, he cupped her and moved with small increments so the large beaded fruits would tug and coax it into expanding and flooding her lower down.

“I love cherries. Always have,” he said, then stopped but held this expression like there was more to say.

“I do, too. May I have one?”

“Share? With you?” He made a sucking sound with his tongue. “I think you shall have to earn it first. What do you plan to do for a bite of my precious fruit?”

He kept stroking her female flesh with the fruit.

It was losing some of the icy bite to it as it warmed to her skin.

“I shall do whatever pleases you, sir.”

“You suggest, then I will approve or deny.”

She nodded and tried to come up with something worthy.

Nothing came to her.

“Shame. Anne, I thought you the brilliant one in the room. Seems I must letter you as a commoner.” He pulled his palm up, bit into one of cherries and drew some letters across her chest between her breasts with the bleeding end of the fruit.

She strained to see it. Her eyes traveled over each letter, and then she stopped breathing when she read—
Moore’s
.

“I expected you to draw a flower,” she teased, though her insides were in knots now. What if Harry decided she was well tomorrow and he pawed at her there? He would see.

“Lick it off, please,” she said, pressing her shoulder-blades together to bring that area closer to his mouth.

“As you like.” With the flat of his tongue, he washed it away, only it was not away. It was ingrained into her skin, a deeper red, and it resembled blood.

Kind of like the marks he had left on her collarbones.

“What is this?” she cried out.

“It is my claim to you. It is my name emblazoned into your pores.”

She made a whimpering groan. This could be really bad. “What am I to say when my servants are to wash me?”

“You tell them you are still too sick and contagious and that you must wash yourself. Or do not wash at all. I rather like the idea of you smelling like my come for many hours of the day.”

She gave him a mocking glare, then laughed because she would not cry.

“You, sir, are nothing but trouble.”

“But only the very best kinds.” He straddled her thighs and demolished the cherries in his hand and in the bowl.

When he was done with that, he ate some strawberries and let those paint her shoulders, dabbed some of the juices over her lips and forbade her to lick it off. He said he would do that later.

He swirled the fleshy part of the strawberries over her hardened nipples, and sucked at them like he was dying of starvation and had been destitute for days on end.

When he had some of the sloppy remains of the fruit in his bowl and splotches of various shades of red all over the linens, he growled, “You are red and swollen for me in every way I like. Spread for me, darling, and take what is yours and what you need.”

Her heart rate spiked, and she did as he requested, using her palms to stretch her legs as wide as they would go.