Spy's Honor

Janto gathered her into his arms. He was big and warm and . . . big. Janto was not the tallest or burliest of men, yet compared to her, his size was substantial, and until he’d taken her into this intimate embrace, she had never been so aware of it. His erect cock rested against her thigh, and that too was intimidating. It was astonishing to think she would be taking that into her body. He stroked his tongue into her mouth, and her thoughts fell away. She wrapped her arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. Her breasts brushed his chest, sending a delightful tingle through her body, but mostly she wanted to get closer. She looped a leg over his, capturing it. Her breathing quickened.

He wrestled with her, chuckling as he broke her hold on his mouth. “Easy. I know what you want, but I can’t give it to you if you hold me so tight.”

“I need—,” she murmured, and, uncertain exactly what she needed except him, she captured his mouth again.

He broke the hold again. “Lie back.”

Reluctantly, she did so. She wanted so much to hold him, to be close to him, but to her disappointment he wasn’t moving in for a kiss at all. Well, at least she was initially disappointed. Instead, he was doing something with his tongue on her breast. That produced a wonderful shivery feeling that went all the way through her and made that unscratched-itch feeling more delightful and more unbearable at the same time. She arched her back, both from the torture of it and to shove her breasts closer to him.

“Rhianne.” He laughed. “You are an absolutely delightful lover.”

“I am?” She was surprised to hear it. “Well, you’re torturing me.”

“I’m not; you’re just very sensitive.” He licked her nipple and grinned at her convulsive shudder. “See?”

She stared back, nonplussed. How was she supposed to respond?

“Stay there,” said Janto. He moved farther away, down toward her hips, and parted her legs. She trembled a little. That part of her was so private, so intimate. He leaned down and licked.

Oh gods. That was what she needed. She was about to tell him to do that again, but there was no need. He was at it already, and she was awash in sensations she hardly knew how to process. She felt restless and uncertain, like there was something she ought to be doing except she didn’t know what it was. But Janto gripped her legs, stilling her. She let herself relax and just enjoy what he was doing with his tongue. The compulsion to press herself into him was gone, and she understood that he had been right; this was what her body had been craving.

His strokes, gentle at first, became stronger. Something was building inside her. It felt lovely, so she let it spiral upward, until the sensations became so overwhelming that her body was no longer her own. Her hips moved of their own accord, and Janto shifted to accommodate them. For a moment, she feared he would stop what he was doing, which was unthinkable, but he didn’t. He drove her on.

Then everything changed. Sweetness flooded her, so joyous, so luscious that she threw back her head with a cry. Her body shuddered in Janto’s grasp. Time slowed, and a languorous feeling seeped through her.

Janto returned to her arms, covering her body with his own.

“Am I ready now for the other part?” she said.

“You should be.”

She was afraid of the hymen-breaking, but it needed doing, and better Janto should do it than Augustan. She shifted beneath him, tilting her hips to meet his. He began to enter her, slowly and gently.

She shut her eyes. Pain. Searing pain.

His movement stopped. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” she said in a tight voice.

He remained still and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Just go in. I’ll be fine.”

“No. Let’s talk for a moment while your body adjusts.” He took one of her breasts in his hand, circling her nipple with his thumb.

She arched her back at the electric sensation. There was that unscratched-itch feeling again, just a hint of it. But she was sensitive, almost too sensitive.

Janto noticed and stroked her in less erotic places—her sides, her back. “You smell like orange blossoms,” he said. “It’s one of the first things I noticed about you. It reminds me of home. Do you use a scent?”

“It’s the baths,” said Rhianne. “Scented water. I always choose orange blossoms.”

“Tell me about the baths. Is it true you all bathe naked in a giant pool together?”

“Not at all,” said Rhianne. “The pools are divided by sex. Men in one, women in another. Most people have to share, but since I’m from the imperial family, I get a bath all to myself if I want it.” The pain was receding, and she felt herself beginning to relax.

Janto moved.

There was the pain again, sharp and piercing, but after reaching a crescendo, it began to recede. She felt Janto inside her. It was a strange feeling—a sense of fullness, and his body so close to hers.

He leaned over her, quite still, not yet thrusting. He cradled her face within his hands and kissed her. “I’m sorry to take you by surprise, but you were tense, and I needed you to relax. You’re not afraid any more, are you?”

“Should I be?”

“I don’t think so,” said Janto. “I’ll be gentle. If it hurts, say something and I’ll stop.”

She nodded and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him possessively close. He began to move, slowly, his eyes on her face as he sought evidence of pleasure or pain. There were a few twinges of pain—it was not gone entirely—but they were bearable, and she tried not to let the evidence of their existence show. The pain was not Janto’s fault; it was the natural result of her inexperience, and she feared that if he stopped now, he would go unsatisfied. Besides, as he built up a rhythm, pleasure began to overshadow those twinges.

The unscratched-itch feeling was back, but with less urgency. It was more a languid enjoyment of the sensations, a yes, that’s nice, keep doing it feeling rather than the insatiable longing she’d experienced before. She entwined one of her legs with Janto’s, and he accelerated his rhythm. It was so wonderfully intimate, him inside her body, taking pleasure and giving it. Janto groaned. She worried at first that he was hurting. Then she realized it was the opposite. He stiffened and drove against her, spilling his seed.

He withdrew and dropped onto his side, looking spent as a rained-out thunderhead. A light sheen of sweat covered his body. He grabbed his tunic and draped it over them to prevent chills, then pulled her into his arms. “Are you all right?”

“More than all right,” said Rhianne. “But do you think . . .” She hesitated. “Will it hurt next time?” That was a stupid question. Next time would be with Augustan. Why even bring this up?

Janto didn’t answer right away. “Every woman is different,” he said finally. “It probably won’t.”

She’d given Janto her virginity, and she would never regret that choice. She could not have asked for a kinder, more considerate lover. But did it really have to end here? If next time wasn’t going to hurt, why not spend that next time with Janto instead of Augustan? She couldn’t send him home to Mosar anyway, not if Florian intended to “purge” the Mosari ruling class. “Will you meet me again tomorrow?”

“No,” said Janto. “I have to leave the country, or somebody will turn me in to the authorities.”

“Stay one more day, and I won’t turn you in.”

Janto turned to her. “Why? Because you want to sleep with me?”

“No.” Gods, was she that transparent? “Well, maybe. Look, this is important. When you leave the country, where are you going to go?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you,” said Janto.

“Must you be like this?” She toyed with the hairs on his chest. “I ask because you can’t go back to Mosar. You’ll be killed. Augustan plans to murder the entire Mosari aristocracy.”

Janto stiffened beneath her fingers. Clearly the news was a shock. But he said nothing. At least he wasn’t denying he was part of the aristocracy.

Rhianne nudged him. “Are you listening? You can’t go back to Mosar.”

“Where would you have me go?”

“Sardos or Inya. As a refugee.”

Janto sniffed. “You insult me. I would never abandon my people.”

“Janto!” she hissed. “If you go back, you’ll be killed!”