Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 106646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
It is for me to worry about such things, not her. It is my task to make her cunt slick and full of sweet juice, my task to make her feel so good that she climaxes. If I cannot do this for her, I am indeed a worthless mate. "You will," I reassure her. "You will come so hard that you will squeeze my tongue and I will share every bit of your pleasure."
Br'chit moans, her eyes fluttering shut, as if she wishes to savor this picture. Her breath comes in short, jagged pants.
I cup her teats one last time, sliding my thumb over the tips. "Say 'Yes, A'tam, I want this.'"
"Yes, A'tam," she breathes, and then opens her eyes to look at me as she answers. "I want this."
I have been doing a decent job of ignoring my own body's responses until this moment. Now, however, as she speaks those words, my cock twitches, my sac tight and drawing up against my body, as if I will climax immediately. That…cannot happen. Tonight, I must woo my mate as I have never wooed her before. I must think about something else other than her loveliness, or the way she watches me with such trust.
I will think about something annoying, I decide. The faces of the other males in the joined tribe flash before my eyes, but I reject those. I do not wish to think about other males while I pleasure my mate. I must think about something else, instead. I press a kiss to my mate's knuckles and then lie flat on my back in the furs. As I do, I catch a glimpse of a woven basket made with dried reeds that has lost its shape, the side sagging.
Pottery, I decide. I will think about pottery and how frustratingly awful it is.
Br'chit sits at my side, her legs tucked under her fluffy skirt. The uncertainty flashes across her face again, and I realize I am giving her too much time to think. Pottery, I chant to myself as I pull her in for another kiss. Pottery and all the shards that come out of the fire. Pottery that slides into nothing when it is dried. Mud coating Br'chit's arms as she leans over and works the clay.
That last mental image sends a bolt of pure lust through my body. No thinking about mud on my mate, then. Just pottery and pots and bowls. Broken things. Things that make me angry and frustrated. Certainly not Br'chit smiling up at me as she works on another coil of clay that looks thick enough to be—
"Face," I growl. "Sit on it."
Br'chit's eyes widen. She sucks in a breath, and hesitates, looking at me. Her khui is singing louder than ever, so I know she is interested, yet I cannot scent her arousal. It should be perfuming the air around us, and I suspect she is too nervous for her cunt to get wet.
If she is not wet, I do not think we will be getting very far at all tonight. I need her to be hot and slick and ready.
"Can I sit on your chest for a bit first?" she asks, nervous. "Maybe work my way up?"
I nod. Whatever it takes to get her to participate. I hate that she is uncertain. There should be no certainty greater in life than giving a resonance mate pleasure. So I pat my stomach—if she so much as brushes my cock, I will lose control—and give her an encouraging look.
Br'chit slides one leg over me and sits just atop my navel, her teats jiggling as she adjusts herself. She still looks uncertain, but I like the press of her skin against mine. I can feel the warmth of her thighs, the tickle of the curls between her legs, and I can look up at her beautiful face. I can admire her bare teats and their pretty tops. Her nipples are erect, and I brush my fingers over them, trying to distract her. She is thinking far too much.
She makes a soft sound in her throat, and her thighs clench against my chest.
Pottery, I remind myself. Pottery shards. Pottery fragments. The frustration of watching my mate lift broken pot after broken pot from the ashes.
"Am I too heavy?" she asks.
"Never."
Br'chit lightly runs her hands along my chest, tracing the lines of my muscles. "I like touching you. I like how strong you are, but how your skin feels like velvet. I bet you feel nicer to touch than I do."
"I bet you are wrong," I manage. Pottery shards. Broken bowls. Her disappointment.
She traces a circle around one of my nipples. "Are these sensitive? They feel harder than mine."
I flick one of hers with my thumb and am rewarded with her little gasp of pleasure. "I do not have to nurse anyone with mine," I point out. "I like yours soft. I like all of you soft." I roll her nipple between my fingers and am rewarded with her throaty moan.