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“What is wrong with you?” Trevelyan’s whispered shout carries across the gardens towards Cullen, whom she just managed to catch up with.
The ball gown’s corsage keeps her heaving chest in a tight grip as she catches her breath, taking a look around the now-deserted greens. As busy as it had been with the afternoon reception, as tranquil does it sit now. Perfectly cut rose bushes sit beside ornate stone benches. The beginning sunset draws patterns on the lawn and the pebbled path dividing it.
Cullen meets her glance as it settles on him. His shoulders are hunched, caramel eyes narrowed. He’s been waiting to have her full attention before launching into the outburst she knows is coming.
When he does speak it’s in that dreaded hiss which never fails to make the hairs on her neck stand up.
“Here we are”, he begins, “at yet another pointless soirée, one more celebration these people throw of nothing but themselves. What’s tonight’s occasion again? The inauguration of the new fish pond? Or the Marquis’s son’s graduation after Maker knows how many attempts?”
His voice is rising in tone and volume, laced with venomous ire.
“And how are we spending our evening? I’m on display, being courted by these tipsy dames whilst watching you dance with one lusty old fool after another. I’m bloody sick of it!” The bitter admission tugs her heart, and her mouth opens. But Cullen’s eyes remain hard, not permitting interruption.
“What are we doing this for? And don’t give me this It’s important nonsense. We’re well beyond the point of having to rely on people’s generosity- so why are we here?” A snarl now, his jaw protruding and tone sharpening. Trevelyan’s hands ball into fists as she braces herself for what follows.
The small step he takes toward her bathes his face in flaming crimson, a perfect complement to his rage. When he speaks again it’s barely louder than a whisper.
“What has the Inquisition turned into?” Another half-step. “What happened to everything we used to represent, what good people died for?” And another, hot breath on her skin now. “What’s become of the Herald and her Commander?”
It’s those last few words that sting- his slur of that unwanted name, of the fate she never chose. She’d been about to respond, ready for feeble justification. Now her lips press together, bloodless and spiteful.
Hurt breeds anger, as with each of their rare fights. It materialises in a sour coil in her gut, in heat rising to her chest, blood pounding in her ears.
Her long stare forebodes the contempt of her words. “What has become of me? I’ll tell you what’s become of me- a wet nurse for all you precious children and your moods! Sera I understand, Blackwall I can deal with, but you? Storming out on the Marquess like that? My supposed advisor, my…,” a parched swallow, “…my chosen?” Pain bubbles up again, weakening her voice. It brings a miniscule crack in Cullen’s façade, a softening of his gaze.
But she keeps her upper hand for now, maintaining a stern expression. “Do you ever stop to think how I feel in all of this?”
Trevelyan only notices her own shrill pitch when Cullen glances towards the mansion, where thankfully no figures have appeared at the windows.
Unpleasant silence ensues. Tired eyes search each other as the darkening sky casts shadows on tense features.
Then Cullen’s shoulders soften, his strained posture opening up. Regret finds its way onto his face, into the way he cocks his head, rubs the back of his neck. It’s not quite an apology, and she isn’t ready to give in yet.
Trevelyan sighs. “So what do we do now?”
Another change in his demeanour now sees a familiar smirk appearing, accompanied by the raise of a brow and a tell-tale glint in his eyes.
Dumbfounded realisation surprises her mouth into falling open. “Cullen?” A carefully unspecified question, its answer obvious. “Here? You’re not serious!”
Cullen takes her hand, bringing it to his crotch, to the thick bulge that fills her palm so nicely.
“Does that feel serious to you, Lady Trevelyan?”
Of course he means it. It’s his outlet for the lingering anger that was never aimed at her but them. He wants to show the whole party what he, what they think of them- stick it to these pretentious idiots.
And how could she deny him? Those eyes, blazing with hunger. His lips, supple and half-open. The familiar engulfment of his warmth, both comfort and temptation.
A whimper escapes her as he pushes forward. Something solid hits her shins, but he catches her before she can even begin to fall onto the low bench.
Cullen groans as his gaze devours her over-spilling breasts. When their eyes meet again the utter greed in his draws a mewl from her, muffled by a kiss that’s sighs, tongues and ire turned brazen lust.
His mouth claims hers but his hands aren’t idle, making quick work of her corset’s front laces. As soon as it gives way large palms lift her bosom out of its confines. He weighs up her breasts, running curious thumbs over stiffening peaks.
They break for air, or so she thinks- immediately Cullen’s face disappears into her chest, launching right into an eager suckle. A careless peek at the stately home confirms they haven’t been noticed. Not that she’d care when his lips tug at her nipple then blow a shock of cold on it.
“Turn around,” he orders with his mouth full before he stands. A hand on her back bids her to bend over the seat, and Cullen all but yanks her skirts up.
Cool evening air hits her legs, followed by the tickle of searching hands traversing upwards.
A dreaded pause in his caresses as fabric rustles, buckles click and boots are tossed. His body returns, arms wrapping around her, bare masculine strength. She can smell his sweat, his want, dizzying and intoxicating.
Trevelyan’s knees dig into soft grass as she stretches out her backside in desperate invitation, taking faint note of her shoes slipping off. She hums when he parts her legs. Flinches as her smalls come apart with a piercing tear. Howls when his face descends on her.
She moans, loud and wanton, as Cullen’s slick tongue roams across swollen flesh; licking, fucking, drinking up her nectar like the finest of wines.
A look ahead reveals an almost-black evening sky - and lanterns not five feet away on either side of them.
Could there be guards hiding in the growing shadows? Trevelyan wonders if someone’s prying eyes might be on them right at this moment, witnessing every ounce of pleasure Cullen knows so well to give her.
From the front a silent spectator could get a good view of her breasts hanging heavy and plump from her dress. If watching from behind, however, they’d be presented with a nice glimpse of Cullen spreading her cheeks, giving those deliciously torturous laps. They might even catch that indulgent hum he only makes when devouring a honey roll or sipping a cup of hot cocoa. Or when eating away at his love’s quim.
The mere notion of someone lurking, taking a secret part in their scandalous little encounter, makes her wetter, moan louder, grind harder into Cullen’s face. He grins against her dampness.
Cullen’s thumb replaces his mouth, dipping inside, swirling up moisture. The digit then glides past her slit, settling on her other opening. Trevelyan hisses when he draws teasing circles before pushing in, breaching her. A sharp sting sends prickly shivers all over her arms and legs as a hundred hidden pleasure points come alive all at once.
Then his wicked, delightful tongue dives right into her, alternating between lazy dips and hard prods, mimicking what she so needs from him. He’s thoroughly claiming her, and she’s all at his mercy- ripe, soft and ready.
And of course he’s a step ahead of her, for his tongue traverses towards her nub, hanging plump and needy. Then his lips close around it, and he sucks. Draws the bundle deep into his mouth then flicks it. Chuckles when she begins trembling as lust and honey spill from deep inside her.
Trevelyan’s moan stretches into a cry when Cullen enters her as she’s coming, his thick shaft a stretching her.He hisses, resting one hand on her side as he starts pounding into her still-quivering depths. She can’t tell when her hair came down, only notices the grip of his fist, pulling just hard enough.
When his hips still she knows her cue to move, sliding back and forth on his shaft. His ragged exhale tells her he’s watching how she fucks herself on him. When he slaps her bum after every other stroke she knows he’s struggling for control at the sight, at the sounds they make as her body swallows him up.
He doesn’t last long, retreating only to slam back into her. Another slow withdrawal followed by a raw, hard thrust.
“Do you think they can hear us?” He’s breathless, huffing into her ear, hot and salacious. “The Comte, the Marquis?” Thrust. “All of the illustrious party?” Thrust. “I want them to hear this.” Thrust. “And this.” Another mighty thrust.
Trevelyan wails yes and fuck me, pushes back and faintly wonders how she ever went without this man in her life. She, too, wants the world to witness the play of their bodies, to know all about them.
Anger and frustration evaporate, don’t stand a chance against what they have. His lips find her neck, covering it in pecks and bites, sloppy tokens of love and lust.
Two clever fingers grasp her tiny shaft, tugging and rolling. She’s strung tight as a bow now, they both are. A few more pushes and she’s there again, heat coursing through her as she utters a stream of half-words, thought and reason evading her. Cullen’s body stiffens, his length swelling inside her. He comes with a grunt, raw and forceful. Trevelyan is still panting when he spills, smiles at those dear little twitches.
When climax releases its hold she sinks down, knocking Cullen over and landing on top of him in a giddy heap of flushed skin and heavy limbs.
The music has stopped, and now there are shadows at the window. As they’re catching their breath she shoots him a questioning look, only to break out into a giggle. Cullen shrugs then wraps his arms around her, joining in her laughter. Together they sit on the lawn, a sticky, dishevelled mess, cackling away.
When they’ve calmed down the lovers share a few more kisses; slow, deep and sweet. Reluctantly they stand, clean up, help each other back into their clothes- not without more smooches and tickles.
Trevelyan holds up her torn, useless knickers. “What will I do with these?”
Cullen’s smile is wide and full of mischief. “I’m sure, Lady Inquisitor,” he purrs as his arm wraps around her waist and they start walking, “that will make for some rather interesting conversation.”