Page 71 of Wench

His fingers tighten at her hip, then slide lower, palm spreading over the curve of her backside as he presses the hard line straining against his trousers against her thigh. ‘If we leave now, I won’t stop until I’ve memorized every sound you make.’

The wine burns warm in Marian’s blood, loosening the fear until only want remains. ‘Then I suggest you stop wasting time.’

ChapterTwenty-One

Lox’s mouth claims hers the moment they’re alone. The kiss is rough and consuming, teeth grazing her lower lip until she gasps. He presses her back against a tree, bark biting her shoulders as his hips grind into hers, swollen heat straining through damp linen. Her hands fist in his tunic, dragging him closer until there’s only the pulse of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth, and the desperate press of their bodies.

He drags her deeper into the trees. They stumble, break, then collide again. Another tree, another kiss. His hand cups her breast through thin fabric, thumb circling until she moans into his mouth. Her thighs tremble as his palm slides beneath her skirt, claiming every inch he can reach.

His fingers trail up her leg until they find what they seek. Marian bites his shoulder to keep from crying out, as he explores at an unhurried pace that’s more devotion than conquest.

Lox’s mouth finds her again, slower this time, the hunger tempered by awe. His hand slips higher, fingers tracing the slick heat of her before sliding inside. Marian arches against him, her breath catching in his mouth. He swallows the sound, kissing her harder, his hips pressing forward like he’s fighting the urge to be inside her.

His fingers move with a patience that borders on reverence. The world beyond them disappears – no revellers, no music, no forest watching. Only the rhythm of breath and pulse, of her body softening against his.

When she breaks from the kiss, gasping, his name falls from her lips. ‘Lox?—’

His pace quickens as he slips another finger in. ‘Tell me what you want.’

She’s past words, past reason, reduced to need. She drags his face back to hers, her mouth fierce against his. ‘You,’ she breathes. ‘Just you.’

He pulls her off the tree with a growl, their bodies intertwined as they make their way to his quarters. By the time they reach it, Marian’s lips are swollen, her tunic wrinkled and half-laced, her pulse a wild staccato that thrums against every place he’s touched.

His hands slip beneath her as he lifts her up the narrow stairs. She laughs and wraps her legs around his waist instinctively, their mouths colliding again, this time slower. He pins her halfway up the steps, grinding into the cradle of her body until she cries out, teeth sinking into his neck. He pulls her free and shoulders in his door, before kicking it shut behind them.

‘You’re wearing far too many clothes,’ Marian whispers against his throat.

He chuckles and tosses her onto the bed. ‘Care to rectify that?’

Her fingers work quickly, tugging at the laces of his shirt before dragging it over his head. Every line of him is hewn from muscle and raw, relentless grace.

But it’s the ink that makes her pause.

It’s everywhere. It climbs his arms in dark green and deep black; vines coiled with thorns and leaves are etched into flesh with a tenderness that borders on violence. Across his right forearm, a vine splits at the elbow, with one path curling down toward his wrist and the other arcing upward to wrap around a long, silvery scar on his bicep. Along his ribs, the vines grow wilder, etched with leaves that look weathered and wind-torn; and on the left side of his chest, a larger design curls beneath his collarbone: a pattern of woven ivy and hawthorn thorns circled around what looks like a broken arrowhead.

Each mark is a story written in skin.

Marian’s hands roam down his stomach. Her fingers dance over the ink as if it’s a ledger of his life. But now is not the time for history lessons. Her touch trails lower.

His breath catches when her hand cups him through his trousers, the pressure firm and slow.

‘Bark and bramble,’ he growls, biting his bottom lip. ‘Do you have any idea what you do to me?’

‘Show me,’ she commands. Marian strokes harder, her thumb brushing over the swollen ridge until his jaw snaps tight, head tipping back. The sight of Lox, the unshakable Rootkeeper, trembling beneath her touch makes something molten bloom inside her.

He seizes her wrist suddenly, his golden eyes blown black with hunger. ‘If you keep that up, I’ll be finished before I even get inside you,’ he grits, the words rippling with need.

Marian sits forward and presses her lips against the line of his hip, while her free hand tugs at the strings of his trousers until the knot falls free.

His whole body jolts when her hand slides inside the loosened fabric, closing around him. He lets her other hand go with a guttural sigh and Marian releases him, only so she can pull his pants down entirely.

He springs free, thick and already leaking at the tip.

Marian wraps her fingers around him. He shudders, hips bucking into her hand. She strokes him slowly, learning the weight of him, how his breath stumbles when she traces the vein along the top. Tension gathers in his shoulders, a flush rising along his neck. He groans when she squeezes gently, thumb sliding over the head, and he twitches into her grip.

She leans forward and Lox curses softly, watching her with wide, dark eyes as she leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the base of him, before dragging her tongue up the underside in a slow, maddening swipe.

‘Marian . . .’ he rasps, his voice breaking into something feral as his fingers dig into her curls.