Sam’s Creed by Sarah McCarty

fingertips worked between her legs in smooth glides, always ending at that shallow well, always ending in that erotic stretching as he forced her to take that first bit. Always her body welcomed the intrusion. Always her mind struggled with the reality.
    Was she as swollen as she felt? Could he feel the unnatural wetness? O Dios, please do not let him mind.
    “But maybe I’m happy being a heathen.” His drawl deepened until it was almost a growl. “Maybe you’re happy I’m a heathen, not bound by restraint and ‘must nots.’”
    He removed her hand completely, placing it on her thigh while she was paralyzed with a dread that felt a lot like anticipation.
    “Maybe,” he continued, “you like the thought that I’ll do what I like with you without one thought to proper.”
    Maybe he was right.
    The thrust of his finger was a shock, driving deep between her thighs when he’d trained her to expect a tease and withdrawal. The burning ache whipped along her nerve endings, flaying them with the rapture caught in the bit of pain. It was too much, but she didn’t fight, just accepted the burn and the pleasure. Accepted it because she’d asked for it. Accepted it because it felt right.
    “Ah, duchess,” he growled in her ear before catching the lobe between his teeth, “I do think you like my heathen self.”
    She did, and the proof was in the moan that accompanied the withdrawal of his finger.
    “Now, that was a sweet sound.”
    She thought it was a humiliating one. She wanted to be as in control as he was. Nothing made it clearer that that wasn’t going to happen than the slow reinsertion of his finger. Searing heat shot from her groin outward, jerking her muscles taut. She would have fallen off the horse if his arm hadn’t wrapped around her waist, trapping her arms at her sides, holding her for the pleasure he insisted she experience.
    “Like that, sweetheart?” he asked as if he expected her to be able to answer. “Do you like it like that or do you prefer—” an equally slow retreat followed immediately by a shallow thrust “—that?”
    The thrust was harder to take, but it delivered such sweet joy.
    “Both,” she managed to gasp. “I prefer both.”
    He chuckled. “Greedy, too.”
    The urge to turn her mouth to his was almost irresistible. “You asked.”
    “So I did. Hold on, now.”
    She already clung to him as if the bottom was about to fall out of the world. His teeth nipped her ear. His fingertips grazed her hungry flesh. She thought the rough callus might hurt, but right now it merely provided an intriguing drag. A tingling ache followed in the wake of the caress. Instinct drove her hips up the fraction it took to renew the contact. It wasn’t the same, though. It wasn’t enough to get the goodness back.
    Sam’s chuckle could have been mocking. She recognized his experience the same way he had to recognize her inexperience. But it wasn’t mocking. Neither was his tone as he circled the hard nub at the top. “So nice and wet for me. I like that.”
    When Isabella opened her eyes and checked his expression, she found merely an openness that comforted. Sam was enjoying touching her. Enjoying the effect of his touch on her. It gave her the courage to ask, “The wetness is normal?”
    “When you’re having a good time, yes.”
    He made another pass with his finger. The tingles flared to fire. She caught his hand, stilling the caress. There was something she had to know. “It does not repulse you?”
    The arm supporting her back shifted, sliding up her back until his big hand cupped her shoulder. Her torso naturally shifted into the hollow created by the curve of his arm. She might be innocent, but she recognized desire when it stared at her, and Sam desired her.
    “If you weren’t such an innocent, I’d show you just how much I’m not repulsed.”
    She didn’t know if she could survive it. Sam clearly came from a different world than she. She’d always been pampered and sheltered