Run Wild

by Shelly Thacker

  She felt alive. More alive and whole than she had for as many months as she could remember. She nearly sobbed with the joy of it. She must have made some sound, because he broke the kiss and lifted his head.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. Neither of them did. They just stood there, clinging to one another in the dark, breathing hard. The heat between them was so tangible it felt as if the furnace had been turned on, full blast.

  After a second, the sensual fog that he had spun around her cleared a bit. “Wait,” she whispered. “I-I can’t... I mean, I don’t—I’m not—”

  “Nay, do not pull away.” He lowered his head, nibbled at her lower lip, then nudged at her chin, urging her to tilt her head back. “You are all I could wish, little flower. You are fire and softness and you taste of a sweetness beyond any I have known. Stay with me,” he asked. “Touch me. Let me touch you.”

  “Please, I-I think I should tell you... I mean, no matter what my sister told you, I’m not what she... I’m not...”

  “Not what?” he urged.

  “I’m not...”

  “Not this?” He kissed her again, more powerfully this time.

  A moan escaped from Celine’s throat at the feel of that hot, deep joining of his mouth and hers, the rough stubble of his beard abrading her sensitive skin. The feelings radiating from deep within her, the pent-up yearnings, the wild fever, all constricted into an ache, focused in the center of her body. Her hands grasped his rock-hard arms and she grasped wildly for reason as she felt herself tumbling over the edge. I can’t do this! It’s insane! I don’t know this man! I can’t even see him!

  But when he finally raised his head and ended the sweet torment he was lavishing on her, she slumped against him. He held her easily, gently.

  “My God,” she whispered.

  “Heaven,” he promised.

  “But... I don’t even know your name.”

  “Gaston.” His mouth claimed hers again, demanding her response with a kiss that sent the last shreds of sanity whirling away. His name barely registered, except for a brief, fleeting thought that it was old-fashioned. Uncommon. A name not heard much anymore.

  His hand stroked upward, his fingers tracing over her back, her shoulders, and the silk and lace and spaghetti straps of her teddy. “Saints’ breath, but ‘tis strange, this garment,” he murmured against her mouth. “This land of yours, this ‘Chicago,’ must be a far place to have such wonders as this that I have never seen. You must tell me of your home.” He kissed her again, laughing. “Later. For now, let us greet the new year properly.”

  Celine was surprised that he had never seen a teddy before. She also meant to ask how it could be that he had never heard of Chicago, but instead found herself sighing in agreement. “The new year.”

  He nipped a hot rain of little kisses down her neck. “I can think of no better way to celebrate the dawn of the first day of a new century.”

  Celine’s mind was spinning, but not so much that she missed what he had said. “New century?”

  “Aye, the first day of the year of our Lord 1300.”

  Celine stiffened.

  Her heart pounded so hard she couldn’t breathe.

  The darkness, the cold, the strange furnishings, the straw on the floor, his unusual speech, his old-fashioned name—

  “What did you say?” she sputtered, pulling out of his arms.

  “Chérie, mayhap it is you who drank overmuch last night, if you have forgotten already the reason for the feast. This day is the first of January, 1300.”

  Celine stumbled away from him, barely aware of the pain in her ankle, gasping for breath as she felt her way to the far wall, over to the left, to the window.

  Or where the window was supposed to be.

  She found a pair of wooden shutters.

  “Are you unwell, chérie?” Gaston asked, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice.

  Celine tore open the shutters. The stained glass was there. She yanked it inward on its hinges and a blast of cold air poured into the room, along with a spill of silver light. The moon above looked normal, clear, full—

  But the city was missing.

  Celine stared, opened her mouth, couldn’t utter a sound. Cold dread knotted her stomach. The town of St. Pol had vanished! Where there had been buildings, paved streets, people, motor scooters, neon, noise—there was now only silent forest.

  Her gaze fell on the courtyard below. The Mercedes and Bugattis and Aston Martins were gone. The neatly plowed circular drive was gone. The guest villas. The tennis courts. The swimming pool. One entire wing of the chateau was missing!

  There was only the stone keep. A smooth blanket of new-fallen snow. The moat. The wall—which didn’t look crumbling and ancient, but solid and new.

  The first day of January, 1300.

  It couldn’t be!

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Buy this book now at your favorite ebook retailer:

  Forever His: A Time-Travel Romance

  Bonus Content:

  Excerpt from HIS FORBIDDEN TOUCH

  (The Stolen Brides Series, Book 2)

  She may never reach her royal wedding if she can’t resist the rugged mercenary assigned to protect her.

  Disgraced ex-knight Royce Saint-Michel was banished from his homeland because of an impulsive act that cost him all he held dear. Now, he has the chance to reclaim his birthright – if he escorts the lovely Princess Ciara to her royal wedding and ensures that she arrives untouched. The two set off alone on a treacherous journey through snowy mountain passes, but forbidden desire soon proves even more dangerous than the assassins on their trail. With the fate of two kingdoms hanging in the balance, will Royce and Ciara do as honor and duty demand... or surrender to the longing in their hearts?

  “A fun and erotic 14th-century romp... loaded with non-stop adventure.” — Publishers Weekly

  He was in love with her. With this sweet innocent who had drifted into his life like an angel on a beam of morning sunlight. Princess Ciara. The King’s daughter. Daemon’s betrothed. A lady who belonged to everyone else but him...

  He swore he could hear each drop of water as it glided down her body.

  Seated on a stool in front of the hearth, his jaw clenched so hard that it hurt, Royce kept his back to Ciara and his gaze on the untouched trencher of food in his hands. And fought a desperate battle to ignore the liquid, sensual sounds just a few paces behind him.

  He should have told the innkeeper and his assistants to take the hot bath away. The fire and the fur had clearly been enough to revive Ciara. She was in no danger.

  But after all she had endured this day, he had found himself unable to deny her a few moments’...

  Pleasure.

  The word made his entire body go taut with strain. He realized he was sweating. The chamber that had seemed so cold just minutes ago now felt much too hot. Sultry. Confining.

  Every splash of warm water caressing her naked skin made his heart beat harder. Each barely audible sigh that escaped her lips made his blood pound through his veins. He could not even draw a complete breath, longed to get up and pace—but that would mean turning around.

  And seeing what he was hearing.

  He grabbed a haunch of roast meat from his trencher and sank his teeth into it, struggling to remember that a great many lives depended on him doing what was right and honorable.

  Including his own.

  Wolfing down his meal, he resisted the urge to steal a glance over his shoulder... and tried to keep his mind off the large, soft bed in the corner.

  At least the arrival of the tub had spared him one bit of torture: having Ciara tend his injuries. He had seen to his own cuts and bruises while she had prepared for her bath.

  The thought of what her tender ministrations might have been like, of her fingers moving over his bare skin...

  He gnawed the last bit of meat from the mutton bone, unable to forget the way she had looked at him when he had stripped off his tunic and tu
rned to face her. The wonder in her gaze, and the unexpected, unmistakable arousal, had hit him like a punch to the gut, reminding him of the sweet, feminine passion he had tasted so briefly at Bayard’s castle.

  The passion that he had no right to taste or to take.

  “Royce?”

  He almost choked on his food. “Aye?”

  “Could you... mayhap hand me something to... to dry off with? Please?”

  His heart thudded. Her tremulous voice revealed that she was just as affected as he was by the heat sizzling through the room.

  His gaze slid to the stack of linens on the table to his left. He wished fervently that she had thought of this before getting into the tub. “Of course.”

  He tried to say it casually, to act as if he had beautiful, naked women bathing within five paces of him every day.

  Setting his trencher aside, he picked up some of the clean linens and moved as close to her as he dared, keeping his gaze averted. He placed them on the floor within her reach.

  But he did not move away.

  He heard her breath catch. For an instant, just one instant, he lingered there. Wishing...wanting...

  Then he forced himself to reclaim his place before the hearth.

  Water sloshed over the edge of the tub. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You are welcome.” He glared into the flames, felt beads of sweat slide down his temple, his neck, into the matted hair of his bare chest.

  Neither of the tunics he had pilfered from the stable boys fit him, both too tight to get past his shoulders. He could only hope one of the garments would fit Ciara.

  The wish became a prayer a moment later as he heard her stand. He had to shut his eyes to banish the image painted by the sounds: water sluicing off her naked body. The little rush of breath between her teeth as the night air touched her wet skin.

  He imagined her nipples tightened to hard pearls, imagined them a perfect, dusky pink.

  Next he heard the crunch of the rushes beneath her feet as she stepped from the tub. And the quiet rustling of the linen as she rubbed the soft cloth over her smooth, wet curves.

  Then silence.

  Every muscle in his body tightened. He remained still, not trusting himself to move. Knowing that if he so much as dared draw breath, he would have her in his arms and on the bed before either of them could say a word.

  He blinked once, slowly. Waited.

  “Royce?” she whispered tentatively.

  “What?” His voice sounded rough and hollow.

  She hesitated a moment. “What am I to wear?”

  The chamber seemed to grow smaller and even hotter around him. He waved a hand over his shoulder, motioning her toward the corner near the door. “See if any of those fit you.”

  He listened while she padded barefoot over to the pile of stolen garments. She could not put her ruined gown back on. The few bits of cloth left intact after their escape today had more or less shredded when she had disrobed for her bath. The task of getting undressed had apparently been difficult with her hands bandaged. And he had not dared to offer help.

  Nor did he offer any now, as he listened to her wrestling with the homespun garments in an attempt to fit them over her curves.

  She made a sound of frustration. “I do not think these will work. My hips are too... and my... my...”

  He did not need an explanation. His imagination provided a complete, vivid picture.

  Gritting his teeth, he whispered an oath and flicked a glance heavenward. Was it not enough that he had to spend the next few days alone with her in this room? Did she have to be as naked as Eve the entire time?

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Buy this book now at your favorite ebook retailer:

  His Forbidden Touch

  Bonus Content:

  Excerpt from TIMELESS

  (The Stolen Brides Series, Book 3)

  She’s swept away to a hidden island paradise filled with pleasures... and secrets.

  Abducted from a trade fair by a mysterious warrior, Lady Avril de Varennes awakens on Asgard Island, an enchanted paradise cloaked in mists and mystery, kept secret from the world for centuries. Against her will, Avril weds her arrogant captor, Hauk Valbrand—even as she vows to escape. Hauk believes himself beyond the reach of love, until his fiery captive bride begins to melt his heart of ice. But soon he must reveal the stunning truth about Asgard and its people—and Hauk and Avril must choose between love and honor, duty and desire... now and forever.

  “An utterly absorbing read! With its richly drawn characters, powerful conflict and vividly imagined setting, TIMELESS is a romantic fantasy lover’s dream. When it comes to sweeping, sizzling historical romance, Shelly Thacker is a shining star!” — New York Times bestselling author Lara Adrian

  “Five hearts (highest rating). An involving, beautiful story. I thought about the characters often at work, at the grocery store, in my car—wherever I was until I could get back to the book. A definite keeper.” — TheRomanceReader.com

  The glitter of steel on the wall caught her attention. Along with hunting trophies and strange sculptures and artifacts, the owner of this place had a number of weapons on display.

  How foolish of him, Avril thought with a grim smile of satisfaction, to leave them within easy reach. She walked over and selected a double-edged blade that was long enough to use as a sword yet light enough to throw, if the need arose.

  When her abductor returned, he would find himself with more trouble than he had bargained for.

  Gripping the weapon in one hand, she was about to renew her search for an exit when a sound from the dark, distant corner of the chamber startled her—the sound of a key turning in a lock.

  Her pulse racing, she retreated a few steps, away from the hearth and the open window, trying to conceal herself in the shadows. She raised the sword in front of her and peered into the blackness.

  A door creaked open. A massive, heavy portal from the sound of it. It closed an instant later with the clatter of an iron latch. Avril heard a footfall. Another. Then naught more.

  Naught but the pounding of her heart.

  “Milady?” a deep male voice called after a moment, speaking quietly in French. “There is no need to hide from me. I mean you no harm.”

  She did not reply, edging silently along the wall. Now that she knew the general location of the door, if she could tiptoe her way around him...

  “You cannot hide forever.” He walked farther into the room, his tone becoming impatient. “And there is nowhere to run.”

  Ha, she thought, moving faster. That was his opinion. Once she reached the door, he would discover why she had always won footraces when she was a girl—

  Her next step carried her straight into a small table and sent both her and whatever had been on it crashing to the floor.

  She landed hard and yelped in pain as she bruised her hip on the hard stone and cut her hand on a shard of glass. Cups and platters and a shattered goblet littered the floor around her.

  Uttering what sounded like an oath, her abductor closed in on her, a massive shadow looming out of the darkness.

  “Stay back!” she shouted, grabbing the sword she had dropped. “I have a weapon. And I am skilled enough to use it!”

  The threat stopped him, at least for the moment. “A blade will avail you naught more than shouting yourself hoarse at the window did.” He sounded annoyed rather than concerned about his safety. “You cannot harm me, milady.”

  What arrogance! Shaking her head, Avril got to her feet, careful of the broken glass. “Come any closer and you will discover precisely how wrong you are.” She tried to judge the distance to the door, took a cautious step.

  And felt surprised when he moved away from her, toward the window.

  “I do not doubt your skill,” he said dryly. “I saw you demonstrate it in the marketplace.”

  He stepped into the pool of moonlight that poured through the open shutters.

  Avril gasped, staring at him in open-
mouthed astonishment. “You!” she choked out. “You are the trader who ran into me at the street corner.”

  Her pounding heart seemed to fill her throat as she gaped at him. It was unmistakably the same tall, heavily muscled rogue who had collided with her. The same fierce, rugged face. The same bronzed skin and sun-colored hair, utterly at odds with the moonlight all around him.

  “As I recall,” he said sardonically, one corner of his mouth curving, “it was you who ran into me.”

  Avril felt a rush of dizziness, just as she had in Antwerp—mayhap because he seemed familiar, in a way she could not explain. There was something about his deep, quiet voice. Something in his gaze.

  He had eyes of the palest blue, like a clear, cool lake reflecting a summer sky.

  And as he regarded her silently, the unnerving sensation she had felt upon first meeting him shimmered through her once more—a dazzling heat, as if the sun had tumbled from the heavens to fill every fiber of her being. The impact swept over her so suddenly, so powerfully, it robbed her of breath, voice, of her very senses.

  Even as she struggled to give the feeling a name, she sensed, somehow, that he felt it, too. Which only mystified and unsettled her all the more.

  Shaken, she managed to tear her gaze from his, and realized that he no longer wore the homespun tunic and cloak of a trader. He was garbed in naught but a pair of close-fitting brown leggings, leather boots, and a gold armband encircling one thick bicep. A sheathed sword and knife hung from his belt.

  Every hard plane and angle of his shoulders and chest and powerful arms was exposed to view. From his unyielding stance to the blunt tips of his fingers, he looked as strong and solid as the rocks that sliced up the sea below his keep.

  He moved away from the window, and a moment later the center of the room flared with the glow of fire, as he used flint and steel to light the candles in an iron candle-stand. The golden warmth flickered over his back and arms, casting every muscle and sinew in sharp relief.

  “Put the weapon down,” he said without looking at her.

  Avril shivered. It was not a suggestion but a command. He spoke in the same way he moved—with an air of authority. As if he owned not only this place, but everything in it.