Must Love Chainmail

by Angela Quarles

  A jolt shot through her as his finger made a query, and the need clarified. The need represented her desire for some measure of control. Control over her general situation. Control over her attraction. She answered with a gentle finger stroke along his calloused, warm skin.

  A sharp breath pierced the dark air. The need simmered along her skin, pooling heat below.

  His strong fingers threaded through hers and squeezed.

  Disappointment suffused her—this was a clear “thanks, but no thanks.”

  Then he wrenched his large body toward her and yanked their joined hands above her head. His scent washed over her: spicy, male, metallic.

  The slow flush flared hot. Oh. Oh God. His darker shape, barely visible, was poised just above and to the side. Did those flat eyes now stir with desire?

  Exposing her side with her raised arm felt erotic, electrifying, as if this marked a moment she couldn’t reverse. A moment that would plunge her into that spontaneous, chaotic life she’d both envied and feared. Envied for the promise of fun and freedom. Feared for the possibility of becoming lost.

  His warm breath, smelling of clean spice, stroked her cheek and ear. A thrilling shiver coursed over her, the wound on her arm only a minor sting. Then his lips—those full, sensuous lips—grazed her jaw and the soft spot behind her ear, the hairs of his beard brushing her sensitive skin. Her shivers locked her muscles tight. A bolt of tantalizing heat shot down her center.

  He leveraged closer, all that warrior brawn pressing hard against her side, linen rasping over skin, an exquisite feeling.

  Yes. This.

  She arched up, and his powerful hand clasped her thigh. Slowly, oh so slowly, he skimmed up and over her hip, her linen shirt riding along, whisking across skin. At the curve of her waist, a pause, and a glide upward until his fingers bumped the underside of her breast. All the while, he nibbled across her neck, jawline, ear.

  Oh God. She trembled and arched again. Yes. Please.

  Then, his mouth open and paused in a soft bite below her ear, he shifted and palmed her breast in one sure, possessive grip. He growled, the sound vibrating against her neck, chasing the searing heat coiling through her. She clutched the fur beside her.

  “Robert,” she blurted.

  On a sharp inhale, his beard brushed her cheek and his mouth captured hers in a hungry kiss. Caught in the same urgency, she parted her lips. Oh, he tasted dark, dangerous, with a hint of spice, and their wine. More.

  With her free hand, she groped for his chest in the dark and gripped a handful of his soft linen shirt.

  Closer. He needed to be closer. She swung up a leg and captured his, his leg hairs whispering against her skin.

  He moaned and trailed molten kisses down her neck, his hand doing wonderful, tweaky, massage-y things to her breast, driving her insane. She squirmed and gripped his shirt tighter.

  Forehead pressed against her breastbone, he paused, breath hot. His whole body stiffened, his muscles rippling with tension. On a torturous groan, he pulled away. “I cannot lay with an innocent,” he choked out, his voice rough, strained.

  Frustration warred with admiration for his scruples and control. But the need to taste that spontaneity, that chaos, still thrummed through her. She’d fought against chaos for so long, perhaps she should dive right in.

  No way was she stepping back from this moment.

  She trailed a hand down his muscled chest. In the dark, she found his fierce arousal, wrapped her fingers around, and squeezed. “I’m not a virgin,” she whispered.

  He gasped, shoved her hand away, and pinned it to the furs, and her heart--oh, how it beat at that.

  “I cannot marry you.” His voice, hoarse and rough in the close confines, echoed and teased along her skin.

  “I cannot—” she panted, and he released one of her hands and pinched her nipple, “—either.” Tension and promise tightened her muscles.

  His rough finger circled her breast, and she shivered. Any other thought in French fled. “A one-off thing it is,” she whispered in English. She dragged up his shirt and brushed her hand along the bumps, knots, and ridges of his muscled chest and back, the heat of his skin burning into her palm.

  He trembled and trailed his fingers down her side and across her belly. Her stomach muscles clenched, and she sucked in a breath.

  She gripped his muscled butt and struggled to free her other hand, which he still kept above her head.

  He mumbled something and captured her mouth in a punishing kiss. His tongue stroked hers, demanding she match his passion, his need. Oh. She’d comply. His hand, hot and heavy on her belly, skimmed downward, and she shivered in anticipation. One of his blunt, strong fingers slid into the short curls of her landing strip and found her already wet for him. He groaned into her mouth, and his kisses turned greedy. He circled a finger on her nub and dipped inside.

  Oh God. Oh God.

  She squeezed his butt—a very firm, muscular butt it was too, a warrior’s butt. She skimmed across his skin, over his hip bone, until his thick, hard length nudged her hand. She traced a delicate path up the underside to the tip, velvety soft against the pad of her finger. The power and passion he barely restrained sent a thrill through her, adding another sizzle of tension in the space between them. If this marked a moment to dive into chaos, she’d not hold back. Just this once.

  Their tongue-jockeying intensified—teeth bumping, breaths sharp—and she pinched the head. It jerked in her hand.

  “Christ, woman,” he choked out against her swollen lips, breathing labored. He pulled away and released her hand. Finally. She reached for his shoulder, desperate to have both hands in play, but his own were on her shirt, blocking her. He raised the cloth, the rough fabric skating past her now-sensitized skin, arms, and face.

  “Oh, I wish I could see you,” he whispered hoarsely.

  He gripped her hands in one of his, held them tight above her head, and rose over her. She squirmed as her sex began to ache for him—delicious, simply delicious, his hovering strength, her helplessness beneath him. His free hand brushed her face and trailed a pulsing heat down her neck, across her collarbone, as if tracing her shape in the darkness, as if layering into her skin more need, more of that pull, with each stroke of his powerful fingers. He feathered the tips around her breast, to her nipple. A pinch and, oh, and then his mouth, hungry and heated, sucked hard.

  Desire seared downward. She bucked against him, her other breast rubbing against the arm that pinned her. He scraped his teeth across her nipple, soothed it with his cool tongue. Another hot bolt shot down her center and pulsed her lady parts. She bucked, wanting her hands on him, wanting him inside her. Now.

  “Robert, please,” she whimpered. Oh, she was in chaos now. And she wanted all of it.

  She cinched her legs around his lean hips, arched up, and shuddered at the exquisite feeling of her aching center slicking against his thick, fierce arousal.

  He hissed in a breath, released her hands, and ground his hips into hers, his hard length hitting right where she burned for him, sliding against her wet, swollen folds.

  Yes. All her focus narrowed down to the absence that throbbed, needing him to erase it. Control still showed in the tautness of his muscles. If she was going to go all in and experience wildness for the first time, she needed him fully unleashed.

  Unleashed. God, just the thought of seeing him lose control—over her—filled her with such longing it scared her. She shoved that need aside. Before she could figure out how best to break his control, he shoved a hand between their bodies, gripped his length—the blunt tip exploring—and then, elbows planted on either side of her shoulders, he rammed into her in one sure, hot stroke.

  “Holy crap.” He filled her so completely, almost painfully, a wonderfully achey feeling of invasion. His broad chest above her, she scrambled for a hold on his back, savoring the throbbing fullness. On a groan, he pulled slowly out, the heat searing her again, his tip almost fully withdrawn—miss you already—and then
he thrust hard, her back rasping against the furs with the force of his possession.

  Oh, yes. She wanted it hard. Hard and rough. And when had she ever wished that. She gripped the nape of his neck and met each pounding thrust, desperate. Chaos swirled in her blood, fueled her frantic movements, and wound a coil of desire tighter and tighter where their bodies joined. She bit into his biceps, tasted the masculine, salty heat on his skin.

  The scent and sounds of their greedy joining filled the space, and oh God, his pubic bone hit just the right spot and, oh shit, wham, she broke apart so suddenly, it took her breath and stuck in her throat. Wave upon wave gripped and shattered her. She cried out, clamping down hard. The chaotic energy snapped and fizzled along her nerve endings, jerking her limbs in small aftershocks.

  His motions grew more urgent, fingers tightening in her hair, until he pulled out, captured her mouth on a shout, and shot his hot load onto her belly.

  He collapsed beside her, and they both fought to catch their breaths.

  Wow. Just…oh my, wow.

  Her heart pounded with her first taste of abandon. Why had she ever denied herself this? This was raw. This was primal. This was real.

  The chilly air caught her attention first, which made her realize she was coated in a thin sheen of sweat, another first. He stirred, grabbed one of the furs, and wiped her stomach clean.

  “You will be the death of me, woman.”

  He pulled another fur over them and nestled her up against him, his shirt a barrier, though, to his hot skin. She snuggled up, grateful he still had his wits, because she sure didn’t, and let her mind thump back into a drowsy blissfulness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “My soul,” said she, “who art thou?” “I am Peredur the son of Evrawc from the North; and if ever thou art in trouble or in danger, acquaint me therewith, and if I can, I will protect thee.”

  The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance

  A bird trilled, breaking through Katy’s sleep. She drifted into consciousness to find a muscled Norman warrior spooned hot against her back, hand possessively splayed across her stomach. Awareness prickled along her skin. His soft, even breathing said he still slept. She waited—any minute now, her inner self should be chastising. But…nothing. But…she should be shredded with guilt.

  Was it the bizarre situation? Even so, that didn’t excuse cheating on Preston. For she had cheated. She lay there, Robert’s warmth a solid presence along her back. Waiting. Waiting for her inner compass to spin, adjust, and make her feel wrong.

  But. It didn’t happen.

  She gripped the blankets and started to shove the whys into a corner of her consciousness with the other half-formed questions about her relationship with Preston, but stopped. Because—hell—this was the crux.

  Robert challenged. Robert made her want to step outside of her comfort zone. She quivered at the thought of being so exposed to the world without her artificial shelter of control. But, she’d dared spontaneity last night. She’d slipped into the chaotic stream and…the world hadn’t imploded. She hadn’t imploded. Well, okay, she had in a delicious way—hee. But…with Preston? No—their relationship hadn’t been satisfying. And not just in the sex department. He’d never made her question her need for that shelter.

  Sex. The hot, heavy coupling with her medieval knight flooded heat through her senses. Because that’s what it had been—a coupling.

  And she had loved it.

  And pulling out? Sweet and thoughtful, but unnecessary. She had a month left before she needed another birth control shot.

  Her hand lay inches from his under the covers. She could move, clasp his… No—Crap. Damn bladder. Instead, she eased his hand away and scooted out from under the covers. The morning air hit her bare skin, and she shivered.

  Over her shoulder, she lingered on Robert’s sleeping face, marred by a slight frown. The visual clashed with her body’s memory; having sex in the dark made it feel like it could have been someone else, not him. But she latched onto his starkly handsome face, at his bulky frame under the covers, and blended it with last night’s charged memories. It was those lips that… It was that strong hand that… Oh man. Arousal arrowed through her, flushing her skin.

  She snatched her mantle and one of the clean strips of cloth she’d gotten from the monks, shifted into a crouch, and shuffled outside and around a nearby bush. She relieved herself and used the strip for a makeshift tissue. She, who’d never been camping in her life. Squatting naked in the woods. Peeing. Who’d have guessed?

  Rustling sounds came from inside the lean-to. She threw her mantle around her and stepped into the clearing. He uncoiled from the doorway, and she gasped. The man was buck-naked and oh mercy, never had she seen anyone so built. Real muscles—earned from hard living and fighting, not from a gym or steroids—bunched and flexed over his formidable frame. A jagged pale scar ran down one bicep, and another white, puckered slash ranged along his rib cage, just below his nipple.

  Thick muscles corded his thighs and calves from years of steering a horse with his legs.

  And—her breath caught—he was hard, and it was large, jutting proud from a thatch of dark hair.

  Holy crap. This was the body she’d been with last night? Her gaze clashed with his. The heat and desire reflected in his hooded eyes shot through and clenched her lady parts. She tripped a couple of steps toward him. Then he was before her, his warm, strong hands clutching her shoulders. She swayed as everything around her slowed and narrowed down to this spot, this moment—the birds’ song muted and elongated, the swish and thumple as her mantle hit the ground, Robert’s slow, indrawn breath. She slow-blinked, slow-blinked. With an eerie inevitability, the dream of the warrior-saint, that feeling of connectedness, snicked into place as she fixed on the honey-brown eyes of the warrior, who was no saint.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered.

  His voice, thick and rumbly from sleep, threaded inside, tweaking nerve endings, which remembered its vibrating tones from last night’s sexcapades. His large hands, fingers strong and well-formed, smoothed down her arms, and his heated gaze darted from her breasts to her stomach, to a shoulder, to her neck.

  She took in the sights too. Fingers slightly shaky, she traced one of the scars on his side, then up across his abs to one of his pecs, his muscles twitching under her fingers’ path.

  Her nipples tightened in the chilly morning air, and she grew lightheaded at her body’s quick response, ready to again dive into the dizzying chaos of his passion.

  “This is crazy,” she sighed in English.

  Crazy and scary, and God, fast. This was so not her. A feeble voice wondered if she could step away, go back to the calm, ordered life she cultivated. She cast a glance downward. Robert’s hand crossed the short gap from her arm to her breast and reverently, gently, touched its peak. Oh, yeah, it firmed up at such a touch from that calloused finger. She shivered and pinched his nipple, unable to resist, unable to pull away, unable to deny herself.

  He groaned and, holy crap, fell to his knees. His strong hands grasped her hips and yanked her forward. He was so tall that, even kneeling, his mouth was level with her chest. He sat back and licked her belly button, and her stomach clenched, heat coiling and pooling below. She reached tentative fingers to grip his silky black hair, to feel it against her skin. She was mere inches from her goal, when he freaking lifted her, as if she weighed nothing, and brought her sex down onto his mouth.

  Oh God. She dug her fingers into his hair, wrapped her legs around his neck, and held on. His hands, tendons stark with strain, slid up until he gripped her just below her breasts, the muscles and blood vessels cording on his powerful forearms. His wet, warm tongue and mouth sucked and flicked and twirled and did all sorts of tingly things that really just made it hard for her to think.

  His tongue slipped inside her, and she cried out, her whole body shuddering under his onslaught. Overhead arched a stout, low-hanging tree branch. She slapped her hands to the rough bark and grippe
d tight, palms abrading. Finding some of her weight taken from him, Robert dragged a hand up and massaged her breast. He worked his wickedly talented mouth on her, his tongue rasping, sucking, flicking, adjusting as he read her reactions. Her legs shivered against his neck, his trim beard teasing her soft inner thighs. A delicious, insistent pressure built, tightening and spiraling and swirling until she panted and quivered like a needy thing.

  Dear God. Increasing his pace, he worked his lips and tongue, sucked hard on her aching nub. She clamped her legs against his face and screamed, a mind-blowing orgasm rocketing through her, coursing hot and wild through her veins.

  Fingers stiff, she let go of the branch, mind, body, heart reeling. He eased her to the ground, her knees still over his shoulders. Relentless, on a strangled shout, he thrust into her in one smooth motion, her crumbled defenses barely mustering a protest. She convulsed again with another orgasm as he pounded into her, thick and full, his movements jerky, out of control, his beautiful warrior’s body on display, muscles working in a synchronized pursuit of pleasure. She quivered, powerless, as another release built, on the edge.

  His whole body stiffened as if about to come, but he flew off her so fast she barely registered what happened. Her body trembling, dazed, she sat up, swayed, and caught a glimpse of his firm backside as he knelt into their lean-to. He sprang up and sprinted back to her, removing his sword from its scabbard with a rasping scrape.

  A rasping scrape that swept her heart in a tight swoop down into her stomach and then up to her throat. Where it frantically beat.

  Holy crap, what the—

  Then she heard it. Hoofbeats and voices. She grabbed her mantle and jumped up, swinging it around her, legs shaking. He seized her arm and shoved her behind him, backing up until she reached the entrance of the lean-to.

  Chapter Eighteen

  And thence they journeyed forward; and that night they came as far as that Commot in Powys, which also upon account thereof is called Mochnant, and there tarried they that night. And they journeyed thence to the Cantrev of Rhos, and the place where they were that night is still called Mochdrev.