He shoved the gown down her shoulders, baring her breasts to the cool air. They were fuller than Malaica's, tipped with large, dusky nipples already pebbled tight. He palmed one roughly, then bent to take the other into his mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing the sensitive peak. She cried out, her head thudding back against the stone, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders.
"I don't need your begging," he said against her skin, his breath hot. "I need you wet and willing and screaming."
His hand plunged between her legs, hiking up her skirts. She was bare beneath, as he'd suspected—no smallclothes. Her cunt was a soaked, steaming furnace, slick coating her inner thighs. Two fingers slid into her without resistance, curling deep, finding that spongy spot inside that made her legs buckle. He pumped them, scissoring, stretching her, while his thumb found her clit and rubbed rough, tight circles.
