Long enough that other inputs began processing—his bare skin, the smell of him on her and all around her, the feeling of being wrapped in the safety of his strength.
She slowed her breathing so that she could savor every warm strong inhale of him.
He stilled further at her movement, his own breath going shallow as hers went deeper.
Wrung out, not even a lifetime of lessons and inhibitions were enough to overcome the powerful tide rising in her now. She had shown him her full self, and he had affirmed her right to be and think and feel just the way she was.
Like love, he made demands of her, but unlike love, when he pushed her, it was into bravery, into being more fully and authentically herself. He wasn’t trying to mold her; instead he affirmed time and time again that he wanted her because of exactly who she was.
And if he’d affirmed that what they’d told her about love might be wrong, could he not do the same for sex?
If love did not always have to coerce and demand, then perhaps sex didn’t either. Perhaps it was possible to be two people committed to caring for each other, enjoying each other’s bodies. Perhaps it was okay to simply feel good.
Wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her face deeper into his neck, she squeezed.
Above her, he groaned, the sound like something in him giving up, and his arms closed fully around her, trapping her now whereas before he had merely held the space for her—as if he held something precious.
Twisting in his arms, she rearranged her body, maneuvering into a new position in order to assuage the urge that demanded she get closer still. Straddling him, lifting her arms up to wrap around his neck where her fingers could dive into his thick, silky hair.
He did not squander the opportunity that their new position offered, either, tightening his hold on her so that her breasts pressed against his chest and her core against the rigid hardness at the apex of his thighs, ushering in a rush of liquid heat at her center.
He brought one arm up the middle of her back to cup her skull and slowly tilt her face toward the sky, gently exposing the column of her neck.
When his lips pressed against the tender, delicate skin there, a fireworks explosion of sensations went off inside her.
Never before had another person’s lips touched her in such a way, and she marveled at the pliable pressure that masked the insistent demand of his mouth against her.
Here and there, his tongue darted out, taking tiny tastes of her, leaving her tingling and breathless.
He kissed her shoulders and collarbone through her suit, drawing her attention to those and countless other sensitive places she’d never been aware of.
Working his way up her neck, he left a trail of stirring kisses, soft warm breaths, and teasing bursts of cool air pushed out through pursed lips.
When he reached her jawline, his hands joined in the action, trailing up the sides of her body to cup her face, cradling it as he placed long, soft kisses at the outside corners of each of her eyes, her temples and earlobes before coming back to kiss the spot between her eyebrows with the same deliberate tenderness.
Pulling back only slightly, he caught Rita in the mesmerizing fire that was his gaze once more. “Do you want me, Rita?” he asked, tension in every word.
“Like I have never wanted another,” Rita breathed.
His pupils dilated at her words, understanding what she said beneath them—it was what she had meant when she’d told him that she was from an old-fashioned family before, that she had never been intimate with anyone else—and then he was kissing her, their lips meeting in a dance older than the ruins they sat upon.
She hadn’t known what she expected him to taste like, but it hadn’t been honey and cardamom, a sweet thickness she could gladly lose herself in.
Nipping his bottom lip, there was no timidity in her exploration of her prince.
When she ran her fingers down his neck, scratching the bare skin of his shoulders and trailing down his back, he groaned, pulling her closer and pressing her hips to grind against the hard shaft of his erection.
The tender, sensitive buds of her nipples hardened further, raking against his bare chest, the only thing separating them the thin high-tech material of her clothing, which was barely a separation at all.
And at the same time, it was unbearable.
Her body cried for the freedom to feel, skin to skin, the hands that caressed her up and down, that gripped her bottom and spread her thighs to press her molten core closer against the hard plane of his abs.
Suddenly, she was bitter for the excellent quality of her clothing.
If it had not been sealed so well she would already be as bare as her husband, already have achieved the further closeness her body knew was possible and strained for.
With a dry laugh, Jag whispered in her ear, voice strained, “Slow down, my sweet, sweet wife, this is no race. I’ve imagined savoring you like this, like the NECTAR you so aptly named yourself, so many times, I would be shameful to rush.”