“Well, maybe ‘demonstrate’ would be a better way of putting it,” she told him, and then added, “With description.”
Tamsyn could actually hear him swallow, and she smiled in the dark.
“Back home,” she said, scooting just the littlest bit closer, “I have all sorts of toys for this.”
“Toys,” he echoed, his voice like sandpaper, and Tamsyn nodded, her breath speeding up as she slid one hand up her thigh.
“Mmm-hmm. Really good ones, too. And all different types.”
“Types?”
He sounded like he was actually choking now, and Tamsyn nearly purred as she curled her toes, sliding her hand away from her leg to cup one breast, her nipple hard against her palm. “You know,” she told him, even though she was pretty sure he didn’t. “The kind that slides inside. The ones that vibrate. I even have this one shaped like a flower that I sometimes use in the shower.”
“Shower,” he echoed, and Tamsyn laughed, even though the sound was a little strangled as she tugged at the tip of her breast.
“You just going to repeat everything I say?” she asked, and he shifted closer, his foot nearly brushing hers.
“There’s no blood left in my brain, Tamsyn,” he told her, and she chuckled.
“And that’s a big brain,” she answered, letting her hand drift back down her stomach.
“You should see my cock,” he replied, and she would’ve laughed again, except now she was the one whose throat seemed to go tight, her legs clenching together, every part of her lit up with desire.
“I want to do a whole lot more than see it,” she told him, finally letting her hand settle between her legs, pressing hard with the heel of her palm. “But I’m the one showing you, remember?”
“Well, hardly seems fair,” Bowen said, and she heard him moving in the darkness, imagined him sliding one of those rough, able hands into the waistband of his pajamas.
He groaned then, and Tamsyn moaned along with him, letting her fingers start to circle. She was wet, wetter than she’d maybe ever been, and the sound would’ve embarrassed her except for the damn near worshipful sound that came out of Bowen’s mouth.
“God in heaven, I’d give anything to taste you right now,” he panted, and she could hear his hand moving now, feel the slight shuddering of the mattress.
Closing her eyes, Tamsyn arched her back, her fingers sliding, little cries slipping from her lips, and he was right there with her. She could feel him even though they weren’t touching, couldn’t even see each other, could only hear and imagine, and holy shit, the things she was imagining.
Bowen’s mouth between her legs just like he said, his beard damp with her, his lips and tongue voracious, and her hips bucked against her hand as across the bed, Bowen made a low sound deep in his chest.
He was saying something, something that at first she thought was some kind of spell and had her tipping even closer to the edge—Sex Magic with Bowen was another pretty powerful fantasy of hers—but then she realized he was just saying something in Welsh. She didn’t know what it was, but she made out her name.
Tamsyn had heard Bowen say her name a hundred times, but never like this, never in a voice so wrecked, his accent gilding every syllable, and it wasn’t just how he said it, but everything she heard behind it.
This gorgeous, powerful man—this literal magical being—was, in this moment, completely in her thrall, and that was enough to tip Tamsyn over the edge, her face turning into the pillow as she cried out, her thighs shaking, her fingers soaked, her whole being somehow turned inside out just from her own touch.
She heard Bowen’s own cry, low and deep, and it sent another tremor shuddering through her, her breath coming out in gasps now, and she whimpered, letting her hand fall back to the sheets, her chest heaving.
Next to her, Bowen was still breathing like a bellows, and she wanted so much to be able to see him right now, see the darkness of his eyes, the hunger she knew would be in them.
But she was equally glad not to look at him, because she also knew that he’d see what was in her eyes right now, too, and there would be no hiding it with a quick joke, no mask to wear, just the naked vulnerability of how much she liked him—and oh god, she was going to have to admit that this was way bigger than like at some point—and Tamsyn wasn’t ready for that.
After they got home.
After Y Seren.
Not now.
Now, she turned her head in his direction and said, “So. Do you feel sufficiently educated in what I do when I think about you, Bowen Penhallow?”
He made one of those grunt-huff laughs of his, and Tamsyn’s heart swelled in her chest.
“What I feel,” he said, sitting up to strip off his pajama top and, Tamsyn assumed, clean himself up, “is the same thing I felt the first night I ever saw you, Tamsyn Bligh.”
“Which was?”
Bowen paused, and Tamsyn felt the air move near her face, knew he was reaching for her, but he didn’t quite touch her, and she didn’t move any closer so that he could, because she knew that whatever he said next was going to go straight to her heart, and it would be that much harder if he were touching her when he said it.
“From the moment you walked into that pub,” he said, “I knew you’d be the making and the ruin of me all at once, woman.”
And Tamsyn realized she was right—that did go straight to her heart—but wrong at the same time. Because touching her, not touching her, none of it mattered. Bowen didn’t have to touch her to make her love him.
She already did.
The bed curtains were open when Tamsyn woke up the next morning, watery gray light filtering in the thick glass windows, and she sat up, her head immediately swiveling to the other side of the bed.
Bowen was already gone, which was a good thing. She wasn’t sure she was ready for waking up beside him, seeing his curls rumpled with sleep, his face soft and relaxed. Last night had been earth-shattering, but she could put it in a box, thinking of it almost like a dream. They hadn’t touched each other, hadn’t kissed, hadn’t fallen asleep with their arms wrapped around each other.
It had been . . . a stress reliever. A fun way to pass the time now that they found themselves in a magical fuckup of pretty serious proportions. Wasn’t that normal? Like the way people wanted to have sex after someone died because it reaffirmed life or whatever it was.
Right. That’s all last night had been. Orgasms as coping mechanisms.
