"No—" Her voice had dissolved into something barely held together. "God — no — please—"
Whether she was pleading with him or with her own body was difficult to determine. His thumb found her tiny nub and pressed.
Livia's fingers dug into his arm. The orgasm broke over her without further negotiation, her whole body convulsing against him. She came apart in the arms of the King of England in the middle of the Thames, which was not something she had anticipated when she'd woken that morning.
"There you go. There's my queen." His fingers stilled, staying gentle, staying present. "Always so beautiful when you cum."
Livia focused on breathing. Was this what they meant? She thought distantly, still catching her breath. The men at Beaumont's — the ones who'd called the women wenches. Is this what they meant? Unable to fight the want even when fighting was the only right thing to do. Even when everything reasonable and self-preserving demanded it.
