Chapter 424: Chapter 424 Bard
The taste of herself mixed with his skin was intoxicating, a primal fuel that left her breathless and wanting more than she could name.
She watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Riley moved down her body with a deliberate slowness that was its own exquisite torture.
He didn’t simply part her legs; he revealed her, spreading her long, pale limbs with a reverence that made her feel both worshipped and utterly claimed.
Then he descended, and there was no more hesitation, only gusto.
It wasn’t just a kiss or a lick; it was a full, devouring claim.
The sensation was so profoundly good it bordered on unbearable—a direct line of pure, shimmering pleasure that connected his talented mouth to every nerve ending in her body.
His tongue was his instrument, and he played her with virtuosic skill.
He laved, he sucked, drawing the very essence of her into his mouth.
He built the rhythm of her pleasure like a composer building a symphony—slow movements giving way to frantic, driving crescendos.
Her hands, which had been fisting the sheets, flew to his head, her fingers tangling deep in his hair.
The pressure built, coiled tight and impossibly hot in her belly, until she was practically exploding against his mouth.
"Sooooo goood! Ohhhhhhh!" Her cry was a raw, unfiltered sound, torn from a place of pure, animal ecstasy.
He didn’t stop, not even as she trembled and shook, not even as her pleas became mindless whimpers.
In the heavy, perfumed silence that followed, broken only by their ragged breathing, Riley finally lifted his head.
He gathered her shaking form against him, and she nuzzled into his chest, utterly ravished, utterly complete.
The air, thick with the scent of their prior exertions, seemed to still.
In the hazy, golden aftermath, a single assumption solidified in her mind: the beast had been fed, and now it would simply take its final, conquering prize.
But Riley had never been a man of predictable appetites.
He reclined against the plush pillows, a picture of indolent command, and turned his head to gaze at her with dark, expectant eyes.
"It’s time for you to please me, my dear Duchess," he said, his thumb tracing a idle pattern on his own lower abdomen. "I won’t have a lover who doesn’t know how to get me going."
Monique turned onto her side, propping her head on her hand.
The helpless tension was gone, replaced by a curious, power-tinged thrill.
"This is my first time," she replied, her tone a mix of defiance and play. The words were true, but the subtext was a challenge. "You can’t possibly expect me to know anything, can you?"
"You got all the time in the world to learn, Monique. But the best time to start is now."
With a grace that belied the novel situation, she slid down the bed, the silken sheets whispering against her skin.
And there, her eyes found their focus, and her breath hitched.
It was thick, veined, and profoundly large, the ruddy head flushed with a promise that seemed, for a fleeting second, like a threat.
It was simply terrifying to look upon—a flesh-and-blood weapon of mass seduction.
The memory of his own mouth on her, his skilled, torturous patience, became her textbook. Observation, then replication.
The first contact was not with her mouth, but with her breath, a warm caress against the sensitive crown.
She tasted salt and skin and the uniquely musky essence of him.
Emboldened, she repeated the motion, firmer now, learning the shape and the response.
Her hand came up to cradle the formidable base, her fingers unable to meet, and she began a tentative, twisting stroke in counterpoint to the licks of her tongue.
She was not a courtesan with practiced art, but a duchess discovering a potent new form of alchemy, transforming her tentative curiosity into his palpable, shuddering tension.
She took her time, learning their weight and warmth, before beginning a gentle, rhythmic massage—squeezing and rolling with just the right amount of pressure.
Slowly, irresistibly, a thick, pearly string of precome began to bead at the tip of his cock.
With a soft, greedy sound, she swirled her tongue over the slit, lapping up the salty-sweet fluid as if it were the most precious nectar.
For nearly ten minutes, she maintained this tantalizing rhythm—sucking, massaging, coaxing him steadily toward the edge.
Finally, with a ragged groan, he surrendered.
Pew—
She gasped and was startled.
But she recovered in an instant, her reflexes taking over.
Pew—
The subsequent bursts filled her throat, rich and warm.
Her face was a mess—glistening with his release, her mascara slightly smudged—and the look in her eyes was one of pure, unabashed satisfaction.
