*Fennec*
Her cries are inarticulate but sweet. I hear them like manna, like forgiveness. I know she loves me. She will forgive me. She is finding pleasure. For the first time since our betrothal, my heart is lightened by true joy.
“What do you want, Poppy?” I ask. “Tell me what you want.”
“I don’t know,” she sobs. “But, Fennec…”
“Yes?” I roll my hips forward into the cradle of her legs. My breath catches in my throat and I do it again, slow and teasing, and all the time my fingers play first with one breast, then the other.
She is trembling, those intelligent eyes of hers dazed with longing, her elegant limbs askew. I would bet the fortune I don’t have that all those milk-and-water misses she so envies would never look as delicious as she does right now. They couldn’t.
“You’re so bea
