Cededa stretched beneath her, sinuous as a cat. Her tongue teased him, sent shivers dancing across his skin as she licked and nibbled her way from his ribs to his belly. Her fingers followed, dragging across the tips of his nipples, repeating the caress as he moaned and held her waist.

Beguiled by his reactions, Imogen embraced her newfound skills, plying her mouth and tongue across his navel and over the line of blond hair that led to the apex of his thighs.

His cock brushed her cheek as she knelt between his legs. Imogen paused. Last night, she had only glimpses of his nude body, too caught up in a dizzying whirl of sensation, fear and the anticipation of having him inside her to see or fully appreciate him. Now, with the morning upon them and slow time in a soft bed, she could indulge.

He seemed huge in her eyes, though Niamh’s straightforward remarks about a man’s body had taught her he was likely endowed as other men. Still, the memory of him stretching her, filling her until the pressure in her belly made her squirm, argued he was more blessed than most.

Her hand closed around his shaft. Cededa moaned. Delighted by his response, Imogen tightened her grip and dipped to nuzzle the inside of his thighs, the soft give of his bollocks. His scent filled her lungs, a faint musk mixed with the herbs from the soap he’d used to bathe earlier.

Cededa buried one hand in her hair and reached down with the other to grasp her hand. “Like this,” he instructed and guided her into quick strokes. She followed his lead, setting a rapid rhythm up and down his cock that had his hips thrusting in time. His head was arched back into the pillow, lips parted to breathe shallow breaths. His eyes were half closed, the whites showing beneath his lashes.

She grasped him even harder, savoring the feel of the stiff cock slipping back and forth against her palm. A milky bead of semen crested the tip. Imogen slid her hand higher to smear the fluid with her fingers. Incoherent sounds fell from Cededa’s lips, guttural, encouraging. She carefully licked one finger, tasting a touch of salt.

A vision of the fresco in the king’s chamber, of a woman kneeling before a man, his cock half in her mouth, filled her mind’s eye. Flushed and aroused by the feel of Cededa in her hand and the taste of him on her tongue, she bent to suck gently on the slippery head of his cock.

“Ah gods,” he breathed.

Hesitant at first and unsure of herself, Imogen soon set to her task, sucking him slowly and then with greater speed, lips curved around his shaft. His bollocks tightened in her hand, and his fingers tangled in her hair.

“Imogen,” he gasped. “If you don’t stop, I’ll come in your mouth.”

She paused in her torture of him, remembering the feel of him inside her, the hot stream of seed he pumped into her, the slippery sensation as it dripped down her thighs in thin streams. The memories built a molten pool in her lower belly, and she sucked him harder, deeper. Cededa gasped out her name and succumbed to the sensations overtaking him.