Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) by Thea Atkinson Read Free Book Online

and that he
was a mere commoner, more common than she. The night's moon had pulled a thin
veil of clouds to protect herself from damp, allowing only a hazy, kind of
opaque light to shine through. Only the faint rustling of leaves wafted through
the still air. And the smells, how they excited her; pine, and moss, sweet
acrid scents of nature. And mingled with them, his scent, more exciting than
all the rest. But it’d been his kiss that made her heart race faster; deep,
probing, demanding. She’d returned it with the same urgency, the same need. She
wanted to eat him, the way she would a strawberry—to savor and enjoy it. She
couldn't taste enough of his mouth, of his tongue. And in the quiet glen they’d
found, she let her hands cup his neck, pulled him closer.
    Before she realized it, his hands were on her breasts, hands
that were rough and cracked. The calluses on his palms were dry, and scratched
lightly across her nipples as he caressed her. Such gentle caresses for such a
hardened man, such undeniable pleasure came with those strokes, fueling an
urgency within her that she’d never felt before. And to know that same urgency
was in him, that he wanted her as much as she did, made her stomach flutter.
Maddening, his exquisitely soft, slow caresses on flesh that screamed for pressure.
She ground against him, her hips met his with a pressure that surprised her.
His hardness intensified her desire—and told her of his. But he remained cool,
and quiet. The sound of her own moans excited her. His hands traveled from her
breast to her stomach. Her nipples were exposed; cold and hard. And then, as
his hands traveled to her hip, he pushed her away.
    "What's wrong?" she asked confused, thinking that
maybe he’d changed his mind, that perhaps her lack of experience repulsed him.
    "I can’t believe someone so beautiful could want me so
badly." He shrugged, looking at her lips.
    She thought he must be crazy; he was as beautiful as any
court statue, was intricately carved and hardened. She knew she would never
look at another full figure carving without thinking how pale it was, without
life or suppleness.
    "You're mad." He kissed her again, slow and
thorough.
    "Very mad," he said into her mouth.
    With a start she realized he’d slid his hand beneath her
skirts. She wanted it there she also realized, beneath her gown, close to her
hip, heating her flesh. She couldn’t understand what compelled her about him,
didn’t know if it was the moon or the wine or his breath sounding ragged and
needing. She knew she needed him. Wanted him to touch her because he shouldn’t,
that she shouldn’t allow it. She squelched the fleeting guilt that what she was
about to do was a sin. Priests and bishops knew nothing of passion—how could
they school her on it?
    At first his touch felt cold, but her flesh soon warmed his
hand. Throughout his caresses he kissed her, whispering into her mouth, " Cherie ..."
and the words tasted sweet. The warmth of his hand and her flesh joined between
her thighs, and oh, the joy in that touch. His fingers probed. Her breathing
grew short.
    "That's it, Cherie ." She heard him say.
    "Relax, enjoy." He paused long enough to guide her
fingers to his member, used his own hand show her how to touch him. A thousand
ants had invaded her stomach, scurried this way and that. Excitement choked off
her breathing. He released her hand, satisfied that she would continue. One of
his fingers flicked gently at her opening, quickening and slowing; stroking and
rubbing. Then very gently, it slid in, just a bit, and she gasped. She heard
him moan.
    "Ah Mon Dieu, ma petite . I must be mad." He
withdrew his finger and returned it to the flesh he’d left, rubbing ’til she
ground against him in desperation, unable to remain composed. Within moments,
she felt her muscles tighten. Before long, her entire body convulsed beneath
him, and she clung to him shamefully. The most beautiful shame she’d ever felt.
    "You are happy, Cherie