A Musketeer's Heart - Chapter Ten

She looked at his mouth, and Aramis was lost.

With a groan, half-pain, half-gratitude, he lowered his head, and captured her lips with his. But there was no urgency, no need to rush, no need to devour. It was a slow exploration of pressure points and taste. Then she sighed, parting her lips, and he accepted the invitation, sliding his tongue into her mouth.

She was delicious. Sweet, warm, and tender as he tasted her, running his tongue alongside hers. He was no stranger to kissing, he loved kissing, he appreciated kissing, but this was different. Although she stood naked in his arms, his for the taking, he felt no rush to claim her. He wanted to take his time. He had no intention of abandoning her sweet mouth anytime soon. Her sighs were driving him insane, her wicked, little tongue made him imagine how it would feel elsewhere on his body, yet he lingered.

Long, slow, drugging kisses, interspersed with playful nibbles on her lower lip and invitations for her to follow his tongue into his mouth, while feeling her fingers clench and unclench in the hair matting his chest. Then he tilted her face upward, turned his head, and plunged deep, a prelude to what he could and would do to her body later, and she lifted her arms to circle around his neck, a moan escaping her throat.

And Aramis knew there would be no stopping tonight. Not anymore. He could’ve stopped before, if she’d pushed him away, but it was too late now. For both of them.

He plunged one hand into her hair, banding the other around her waist, pulling her flush to him, front to front. The feel of her breasts against his chest, the pebbled nipples, made him groan, his cock hardening to the point of pain against her soft stomach.

He needed to have her. Now. Immediately.

Tomorrow she’d be lost to him forever. He didn’t delude himself that she would profess her undying love and devotion to him. Her heart lay with the Englishman they were rescuing. There was only one reason a woman cut her hair and pretended to be a man to save another. Love. She might be Reynaud’s cousin, but she was this Englishman’s lover. Maybe wife.

Aramis gathered a fistful of Alexandra’s—such a lovely name—hair in his hand, plundering her mouth with barely restrained violence. No matter what she felt for the Englishman, she was his tonight. She was in his arms, she was kissing him. For this moment, she was his. He was determined she would remember being his.

One hand firmly in her hair, he ran the fingers of the other down her back, brushing the cleft of her bottom with one fingertip. She shivered, and he smiled against her lips. He brushed his hand over her thigh and around to the front, tangling his fingertips in the coarse curls at her mound.

She made a sound as if in protest, but he wouldn’t let her speak. He nipped her lower lip until she moaned, and then deepened the kiss once more, his tongue brushing against hers, as he ran his index finger down over her curls to find the little nub above her entrance. She shuddered, and moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair.

Yes. Oh, yes.

He brushed his fingertip over the nubbin. Once, twice, three times, until she writhed against him, kissed him with a ferociousness that made him fear he’d spill himself before he even entered her. He inserted one finger inside her, and it was his turn to shudder. She was wet, and hot, and so tight he had to exert every ounce of control not to end it then and there.

He worked his finger in and out of her slowly, and she moaned, and pressed closer to him, her nipples leaving a trail of fire on his chest. Wanting nothing more than to plunge inside her, he tortured them both, by inserting a second finger in her, and pumped a little faster, feeling like a king, when she groaned, and plunged her tongue into his mouth.

Oh, God, yes.

Her hips were undulating and he knew she was close. She had to be close or he’d die tonight. He plunged his fingers deep, pressed the pad of his thumb against her nub, and she went up in flames. The walls of her channel milked his fingers the way he wished she’d milk his cock, shudders wracked her body, and the moans emerging from her throat were sweet music to his ears.

He couldn’t wait. Not if he hoped to survive. He had to get inside her, he had to take her in the most complete sense of the word. He cupped her bottom in both his hands, lifted her, and impaled her in one thrust.

She released his mouth, her head thrown back, her lips parted on a silent scream, her fingers biting into his scalp. She didn’t move, and who could blame her. Aramis couldn’t move as well, frozen to the spot at the sensation of being buried inside her. She sheathed him like a tight glove, the feeling somewhere between pleasure and pain. He never wanted it to stop.

She finally looked at him, moisture glistening in the corners of her eyes, and moaned his name. And Aramis’ muscles finally unlocked. He lifted her, then slowly impaled her again. She moaned.

He lifted her a little more, until just the tip of his cock was inside her, then slowly thrust back into her to the hilt. She locked her ankles behind his back, her arms around his neck, and moaned his name again.


It sounded like a prayer. A plea. A promise. And he felt his heart crack a little. Where has she been until now? Why couldn’t he have found her sooner? Before her heart belonged to another?


He gritted his teeth at the feel of her in his arms, at the sound of her voice calling his name, at the friction of her on his cock. He couldn’t wait anymore, he couldn’t take it slow anymore. He had nothing left. Fingers biting into her skin, he plunged inside her over and over again, her moans keeping the rhythm of his thrusts, driving him slowly, inexorably insane.

She was so hot, so tight, so fucking perfect as she threw her head back, voicing her release to the Heavens on a keen cry. And Aramis was lost. With one last thrust he joined her, every muscle in his body drawn taught as his own climax roared through him.

Deplete of strength, he lowered them gently into the water, muttering his protest when she tried to unlock her limbs from around him. Feeling her arms tighten once more around his neck, he sighed, and buried his face against her neck.

Her name was a contented sigh, as they drifted.

Later, he wordlessly carried her ashore, dried her up, and helped her dress, kissing the welts in her skin as he bound her breasts. He helped her tie the laces on her shirt, buckle her breeches, and button her doublet, and Alexandra felt tears threaten to spill.

She never cried, she’d learned from a young age that tears didn’t help, but this time, with this man, in this moment, she felt like crying. Because she knew he was saying goodbye. There would be no more nights like this, no more kisses, no more moments of passion. If only he wouldn’t be so tender, if only he’d left her there and strode away.

Why did he have to be so gentle? And why didn’t he say anything?

She wished he’d say something. Anything. It wasn’t every night that a girl lost her virginity. It wasn’t every night a girl gave herself to the man she loved in the moonlight with only stars for company. Words should be said. Questions asked. Or maybe he didn’t know. Was it possible he didn’t know she was, well, had been, a virgin? Maybe he had known, and was just trying to diffuse the situation, pretend it didn’t happen. Or maybe he didn’t care.

Then why was he so gentle? Why did he have to make her want to cry?

She turned away, sniffled, blinking hard to keep the tears at bay, and picked up her false beard. But suddenly he grabbed her arm, turned her, plunged his fingers into her hair, and kissed her. A long sweep of his tongue, a hard press of his mouth, then he was gone.

Alexandra looked down at the faux beard. A few more days and it would all be over.

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