“Because, ye see,”—she pointed helpfully—“the woman is on her knees, and her head bobs like a swan. I believe the hand on her head isnae mandatory, but this is the position I’ve been most curious about.”
His forehead fell against her shoulder with a little curse. “Ye’re killing me, lass.”
“Excellent.” She squirmed around in his hold so she could face him, her own pelvis pushed against his, his gaze vaguely bemused as he peered over her shoulder. “If ye’re dead, Pherson, ye’re more likely to give me what I want.”
“And that’s what ye want? Ye want to put my cock in yer—“
“Oh, aye,” she breathed as he trailed off. And grinned at his expression of hopeless lust.
“I suspect, however, that we might start with something simpler.”
“Simpler,” he repeated incredulously.
She twisted again, so she could remain pressed against him while able to reach the pages of her manuscript.
“The Auld Furry Weasel,” she read as she flipped. “The Falcon and the Donkey, while likely interesting to ye, based on the name alone—see how ye’d be required to perch?—I dinnae want to retreat to the kitchens and ask my sister to borrow a butter churn. She would have questions.”
He groaned, and she grinned again.
“I’ve been curious about The Hairy Comb-over, but I cannae see how that could be comfortable for the male. Look at the way his lower back is bending! No support. I would worry about yer coccyx.”
“There’s naught wrong with my coccyx.” His voice sounded strained.
She grinned, knowing he couldn’t see it. “Ye dinnae ken what yer coccyx is, do ye?”
“I can guess.”
“It has naught to do with yer—yer reproductive organs.”
His hips flexed forward again, his breath warm against her skin. “Cock. Ye can say it, Wynda.”
When his arm snaked around her middle, pulling her flush against him, Wynda forgot about teasing him. She licked suddenly dry lips. “Cock,” she murmured.
“Say it again,” he commanded. “Ye’ve written about more than a few of them. This is what ye wanted, aye?”
“Aye,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering closed, her thighs pressing desperately together. “I want yer cock.”
“Good,” he growled. “Show me how.”
Well, that was simple enough. She forced herself to take a deep breath and find her spot in the manuscript once more.
“This—this seemed a good one to start with—The Invasion of Brussels—but I’ve changed my mind.”
“About my cock?” His voice sounded strained.
“Dinnae be silly. There’s always call for further research, and now I have ye here, now that I’ve experienced the pleasure ye can give me, I’m no’ about to back away.”
This time, his groan sounded like surrender, and his lips found the back of her neck.
“I’ve changed my mind about this position,” she gasped, her hands fumbling for the pages, her body feeling as tightly strung as Robena’s harp, “because the Gray Lady has finally—finally!—shared her final position.”
Proudly, she flipped to the last page, and the paragraph—and illustration—of the last of the Gray Lady’s life work.
Pherson straightened and bent forward over her shoulder. The position pushed her against the desk, forcing her to support herself with her palms, and reminded her very much of The Soldier and the Crucible.
But while his hardness rested against the cleft of her arse, he seemed more interested in the illustration before him.
“The man’s…lying atop the woman? Between her legs?”