Slowly he eased up from her, and his hand skimmed the slippery curves of her waist and hips. Her head dropped and she gazed, mesmerized, along the length of her body to where Gawain spread her intimate folds and continued to tease her swollen clit.
Oil dripped onto her bottom and slid with sensuous intent across her flesh. Gawain palmed her arse cheek and then rubbed in a circular motion, the heat of his hand and slide of the oil warming her buttock with delicious promise.
Each rotation brought him closer to her crease and when the tip of his finger slid into the valley between her cheeks, she gasped and jerked involuntarily.
“Relax.” Gawain didn’t sound relaxed but his finger continued to stroke and the sensation was beyond anything she had ever imagined. “Don’t think, Antonia. Just feel.”
She drew in a shuddering breath. How could she relax when Gawain teased her pussy without mercy and lubricated her rear with his oil-coated finger?
Surely she could not hold out much longer. “I need to come,” she gasped.
“You will.” It sounded more like a threat than a promise and as he dipped into her wet sheath, he worked one finger into her tight anus.
She bucked in shock and he instantly stopped his invasion. “Antonia?” It was a rasp in the charged air and she sucked in a strangled breath as her body accommodated his penetration.
He had fingered her there before. But this time he was behind her. This time he was watching. And knowing that he watched as he pushed his finger inside her body was unnerving. But although she tensed, cream trickled from her core. She wanted this.
“I’m all right. Don’t stop.”
A second finger joined the first. “I have no intention of stopping.” He tweaked her throbbing clit and pushed his oiled fingers into her.
She panted, fisting the bedcovers, her muscles rigid. The burning sensation was not too bad. Through glazed eyes, she watched him continue to tease her core, dipping into her cleft and coating her juices over her pussy lips. A low moan vibrated through her body and it took a moment for her to realize the moan did not originate from Gawain.
“That’s it. Let me hear you, sweet Antonia.” Gawain’s growl stoked her passion and she backed into him, wanting more. He rotated his finger and she shuddered, lost in sensation, and when he withdrew from her, she gasped in protest.
“Wait.” He sounded rabid and with her head hanging down she watched him, from between her parted thighs, lubricate his magnificent shaft. “I’m going to fuck your tight virgin arse, Antonia. I’m going to make you mine.”
“Yes.” She wanted him to fuck her. She wanted to belong to him. Most of all she wanted to tell him but coherent words were beyond her. “Yes.”
Gawain gripped his cock and slid the swollen head into her luscious valley. Her erratic gasps filled his mind and the shudder that claimed her ricocheted along the length of his shaft in torturous delight. He nudged, felt her stretch around his penetration and she went rigid.
His breath came in harsh pants, his blood pounded in primitive need. He slid his arm around her, held her close, found her silken, swollen clit.
“Antonia.” It was all he could manage but she gave a jerk of her head as though she understood.
“Yes.” Her voice was hoarse. It was the most erotic sound he had ever heard. He teased her clit until she squirmed, her beautiful bottom rubbing against his engorged length. He pushed in a little farther, and the tight clamp of her muscles expanded, granting him entry.
A groan seared his throat. She held him in a mind-shattering vise, her tunnel so tight and hot the urge to thrust and possess splintered his reason.
The gods only knew how he held back. How he remained motionless while her body adjusted to his invasion, to his size. Her uneven breath stoked his lust, and the vision of his cock embedded in her sweetly puckered arse caused every fantasy he had ever harbored to crumble to dust.
He forced words to form. The hardest thing he had done in his life. “Still with me?”
For answer, she slowly raised her hips, adjusting her position, and his cock sank deeper into her tight embrace. “Fuck.” It slipped from him, unintentional. “That feels so good, Antonia.”
“Take me.” Her words were jagged and she backed against him a little more, forcing him farther inside her. “Make me yours, Gawain.”
Air hissed between his gritted teeth. She was his. She would always be his. He pushed two fingers into her wet slit and teased her clit with his thumb as he thrust into her, and his balls slammed against her vulnerable pussy.
His other hand cradled her breast. She fit so perfectly into the palm of his hand. He pinched her erect nipple and her ragged gasps and seductive little moans licked across his senses like molten fire. His beautiful Roman noblewoman, so reserved in public, was on her hands and knees. Impaled on his shaft. Her body undulating with lust, her hair wild and abandoned.
Then she contracted around him and the sensation sent lightning splintering along his cock, into his balls and deep into his groin. Primal demand thudded through his veins, glazed his vision. All he could see, all he could feel, was Antonia as she writhed beneath him; every movement an exquisite lesson in uninhibited pleasure.
He abandoned her breast and gripped her hip. Still she writhed, still she whimpered, her choked moans stoking him beyond endurance. He fought to go slow. But his body rode her the way he needed to ride her, and her tight tunnel gripped each possessive slide of his cock with eager submission.
Her back was arched. Her body slick with scented oil and sweat. Her tangled hair tumbled over her shoulders and his grip on her hip became brutal.
Crimson ribbons streaked his world as everything but Antonia faded to black. He cupped her sex, pressed his finger against her clit and tried and failed to avert the inevitable.
The pressure built. From the base of his spine, the dark pit of his soul. Primal need thudded. He fucked her virgin arse and the feel of her body constricting his cock pushed him over the edge.
A guttural roar tore his throat as he buried himself deep inside and came with frenzied need. As he irrevocably made her his, her hot cream spilled over his fingers as Antonia’s climax entwined with his, and they became one.
Chapter Eighteen
For long moments, Gawain held Antonia close, his body enveloping her back, his head against her shoulder. Her uneven breath and the erratic thunder of her heart cocooned him in a false sense of serenity. A haven of bliss, where nothing existed but the two of them.
Only when her legs began to shake with fatigue did he finally, reluctantly, withdraw from her addictive embrace. She whimpered and he nibbled kisses along her damp throat. He might have left her body but he had no intention of leaving her.
Not just yet.
He draped a sheet around her and they lay on their sides, facing each other. He brushed her tangled hair from her face, winding the stray curls around his fingers. His gaze never left hers. “Was it how you imagined?”
Her smile was tired, but dazzled him all the same. “It was beyond my wildest imaginings.”
With her hair enmeshed between his fingers, he stroked her flushed face with his knuckles. “Something you would like to do again?”
She gave an exhausted laugh and flattened her hand against his chest. “Very much.” She stroked him with the tips of her fingers, and it was oddly comforting. “But I am not sure I could manage that again this night.”
He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. He’d had no intention of doing any such thing. “Another night, then.”
“I shall look forward to it.” She shifted, and a fleeting frown marred her brow.
“Are you uncomfortable?” He propped himself up on his forearm. He hadn’t intended to finish so brutally. But her ragged gasps, her seductive writhing and the way she had clenched around him had all served to shatter his self-control.
No excuse. She had been a virgin. He should have taken more care.
She trailed her fingers along his jaw and across his mou
th. He resisted the urge to suck her finger inside.
“Why the glower?” She traced the outline of his lips and then sighed, as if resigned that he had no intention of bypassing the question. “I am not uncomfortable, Gawain. I feel pleasantly,” she hesitated for a moment and then shot him a sultry glance from beneath her lashes, “fucked.” Her blushed deepened but a smile teased her lips. Enthralled, he could not tear his gaze away. She truly was an enchantress. “But I must confess. I am relieved I don’t have to spend all day tomorrow in the saddle. I fear my bottom would violently protest.”
“Next time I will not ride you so roughly.”
“Oh.” Her breath feathered across his hand as he cradled her jaw. “I was hoping that next time you might lose control earlier.”
Speechless, he stared at her. Despite her enchanting blush, she did not drop her gaze. She knew exactly what she meant and the knowledge that she did not consider herself a fragile piece of spun glass caused his cock to thicken in delicious anticipation.
His beautiful Roman might not be a warrior but she was far from the pampered, spoiled patrician he had first imagined. Hadn’t she told him, the first time they had made love, that she wasn’t made of spun glass? But it wasn’t only her sensibilities that were tougher than he’d first assumed.
A satisfied smile curved his lips. “Beware of what you wish for, Antonia. Are you sure you could handle me if I lost control?”
She tugged him down beside her once again. “There is nothing about you that I could not handle.”
He threaded his fingers through hers and pressed their hands against her heart. Her words touched him but it was a bittersweet sensation. Antonia might think she could handle anything that concerned him but what would she do if she discovered he was a Druid?
Gods, what was he thinking? There were some things that could never be shared.
They lay in companionable silence, content to merely look in each other’s eyes. When was the last time he had done this?
Never. Not even with Morwyn. Yet he could not bring himself to move, to bring this strange sense of harmony to an end. Instead he traced a finger over the bracelets that adorned her wrist. They were of exquisite quality, but he expected nothing less from a family as wealthy as hers.
The gold locket around her throat drew his attention. Whenever they had met her earrings and bracelets had complemented her gowns but her locket remained constant. Idly he picked it up in his free hand and examined it as it lay on his palm. Antonia didn’t say anything but he felt her tense, as though he had just crossed an invisible and incomprehensible barrier.
He met her eyes. She stared back; oddly defiant. Intrigued by her attitude he didn’t allow the gold chain to slide through his fingers as had been his original intention. “This is a beautiful piece of craftsmanship.”
For a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then she sighed and broke eye contact. “Yes. My father gave it to me on the day of my birth.”
He knew there was a genuine bond between Antonia and her father, but her reaction did not ring true to him. His thumb grazed the clasp and once again she stiffened. Why was she so alarmed at the prospect that he might open her locket and see what secrets she kept within?
Memory stirred. At the praetor’s insufferable feast, Antonia’s calm façade had cracked when Maximus had defended his daughter’s honor. Gawain knew Antonia had been pregnant in the past and from her reaction earlier this night, he guessed she had at least one daughter. Was it her children’s portrait she kept close to her heart? Had she been forced by her despicable former husband to leave them in Rome?
He allowed the locket to slide from his fingers and once again nestle between her breasts. Just days ago it hadn’t interested him one way or the other whether Antonia had children, or how many. But now it mattered. He wanted to know. Because whether they shared her life now or not, they were still a part of her.
She stared at his chest, deliberately avoiding his gaze. He lifted her chin with one finger and made her look at him. There might be secrets they were forced to keep from each other, but this was not one of them.
“Would you allow me to look on the faces of your children, Antonia?”
The blood drained from her face and she stared at him in what looked abject horror. What had he said? Had he made a terrible mistake?
“What?” Her voice was barely audible and she clutched at her locket as though she imagined he might snatch it from her. Unease snaked through his gut. This was far from the reaction he had expected.
Why had he asked her? Why did he want to see her children? It could mean nothing to him. And yet it did. They were hers, and he wanted to know everything about her.
That realization did nothing to calm his rising unease.
“You do have children, don’t you, Antonia?” Why was she being so evasive? Why didn’t she want him to know of them? Most of all why did her reluctance to share something so important with him sting?
“I—” Her voice was husky. With a stab of shock, he realized she was vibrating with fear. “I conceived five babies. I lost my two sons during the sixth month of each pregnancy.”
Horror crawled along his spine at what she had suffered, and the crass insensitivity of his invasive questioning. Words were inadequate but he tried regardless. “Antonia. I’m sorry.”
She licked her lips and her fingers gripped his in a punishing vise, yet she seemed unaware that they still held hands. “I lost my daughters during the fifth and seventh months of pregnancy.”
Ice froze his veins. He had imagined her daughters had survived. But she had lost them all. Not only lost them, but had been forced to go through the hazard of childbirth each time knowing, in her heart, they had no chance of survival.
Gods. No wonder shadows haunted her eyes. No wonder she wrapped herself in a façade of aloof detachment.
He stared into her lovely face and saw grief etched into every curve and shadow. How had he not seen it before?
He tugged her rigid hand up and kissed her knuckles. She hadn’t mentioned her third daughter and he did not have the heart to ask. It was clear what had happened. Her former husband had kept her in Rome.
“My last child was also a daughter.” Her voice was barely audible but at least she no longer trembled. He tightened his grip on her hand, trying to infuse her with his strength. Trying to let her know, without the need for awkward words, that he was there for her. “I carried her to term.”
She was the child whose likeness Antonia carried against her heart. He still wanted to see her, but knew he would never again ask. By his thoughtless questioning, he had forced Antonia to relive the worst thing a woman could imagine. Yet those tragic events, that he could not even begin to comprehend, had shaped her into the woman she was today. The woman he could not shift from his mind.
The gods, no matter who they were or which people worshipped them, were cruel, callous and entirely self-serving. What harm had Antonia ever done that she should be so brutally punished?
“She lives in Rome?” His voice was hushed and while he was certain she did, there was always the chance Antonia had brought her to Britain. Perhaps, after all, her daughter did live with her.
Antonia expelled a harsh breath and once again he felt her body tense. “When my daughter was presented to her father he turned his back on her and ordered her death.”
Chapter Nineteen
Something dark and ugly twisted deep inside Gawain’s chest. There could be only one reason why Antonia’s daughter had been condemned to die. It happened in his culture too. He didn’t have to like it to acknowledge that it happened. Such decisions were never taken lightly. Who was he to judge another in such a matter?
But for Antonia to have lost four children, only to have her fifth born with such severe deformities that death was considered a kinder option, sickened him to the bottom of his soul.
There was nothing he could say to make her feel better. There was nothing he could do to wind back time and prevent
him from asking the question in the first place.
“The gods play vicious games with us at times.”
“The gods had nothing to do with it.”
Something in her tone pierced the fog of recrimination that gripped him in a wraithlike vise.
“It was not your fault, Antonia.” Was that what her bastard of a husband had told her? Blamed her for their child’s frail clasp on mortality?
She stared at him. “My fault?” She sounded confused, as though his words made no sense. He resisted the urge to wrap his arms around her and seduce her into forgetting this excruciating conversation. He had started it. He would not dishonor her pain by pretending it did not exist.
“That your daughter was…” The words lodged in his throat. In the past, before the invasion of Cymru, he had counseled his people in times of need. But that had been different. They had not been Antonia and their loss had not clawed through his guts the way Antonia’s loss did now. But still she stared at him and somehow he forced the word out. “Damaged.”
The silence after his words thundered between them and for a moment, he thought he’d gone too far. That he had pushed her beyond her limits and she would crumble before him. But even as the thought formed, it disintegrated. Because she wasn’t looking at him as if she was about to fall apart. She looked at him as though he spoke in the sacred language of the gods.
“My daughter,” she said, and there was a fierce and terrible pride in her voice that unaccountably caused the spirits of his ancestors to drift over his arms. “Was perfect in every way. Her only flaw was that she was not a boy. My husband refused to acknowledge her existence to spite me, Gawain. To punish me for the sons I had lost.” Disbelief seared him, yet he knew she spoke the truth. She bared her teeth and for one eerie moment looked like a Celtic warrior going into battle. “As if their deaths do not haunt me every moment of every day.”
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