by Renee Rose
Though he didn't look, he felt her staring at him.
“Come. I must bind your wrists so we can sleep.”
Chapter Three
He woke in the morning with the memory of their kiss, his erection pressing into Danewyn's lovely soft bottom. He was just about to pull his hips back away from her when she pushed firmly back at him. His sluggish pulses began to quicken even as his mind struggled to rein in the desire. She was an excellent actress who'd spent years tricking men into believing she wanted them. He was not going to fall for it, no matter how much he may want her. Because, as Phillip had pointed out, this woman already meant something to him, in which case, he would not be satisfied with a simple roll in the hay. He would want to keep her as his own. And no woman would accept a man like him—certainly not one as special as the beautiful Prince's Seer.
“Nay, little flower. I'm not going to—” Ah, God. His entire body shuddered as she took his thumb into her mouth and sucked hard on it. He groaned and shoved his cock against her again. His mind was telling him to stop—that she couldn't possibly really want him—that this was a ploy of hers to win favor. But his body didn't care. He reached down with his free hand and pulled her skirts up, finding her silky curls. She shivered when he touched her warm sex, and he was surprised to find it was slick with her nectar, ready to be taken. “You do want it,” he murmured in surprise.
She frowned over her shoulder at him.
He shook his head and shut his mouth before he ruined the moment. He pulled her skirt up to her waist and grasped her hip, positioning himself at her entryway. She pushed back at him again. The encouragement was too much—he thrust into her without any further foreplay and plowed her slick warm channel. He groaned—she felt so good.
She took his thumb into her mouth again and, like a squire having a girl for the first time, he started to lose control almost immediately. He grasped her shoulder to brace her as he drove into her with more force and speed, driving to climax before the poor girl ever had a chance to find pleasure herself. He held her tightly in his arms, enjoying the pleasant ripples of enjoyment that rolled through him. “Come 'ere,” he grunted, and untied the rope from his hand, leaving her wrists bound. “Sit on my face.”
Her eyes widened and he wondered, suddenly, whether, in her profession, anyone ever bothered to show her pleasure. Well, at least that was one thing he was able to give her. He saw desire burning in her eyes as she climbed over him and slowly lowered herself over his face. He grasped her luscious thighs and held her in position over his mouth, making circles around her pearl of pleasure with his tongue, sucking the little nub, then penetrating her with his tongue. He repositioned her and licked a circle around her arsehole, then made long strokes of his tongue from her sex to her arsehole and back again. She was rocking her hips and panting with need, making little cries of pleasure that reawakened his own desire.
“Sit on my cock,” he instructed and she repositioned herself, still holding her bound wrists in front of her, helpless to use them. He grasped her hips and helped her ride him, watching her face as her head fell back and her mouth opened. The little cries began to sound quite pained, and her hips started to grind purposefully into him on each upswing, catching her pleasure point until she cried out and squeezed him tightly with her thighs, her climax rippling through her beautifully. He had another small climax watching her, and then he laid his head back contentedly.
His hand stroked up her side, then pinched her nipple rather hard. She didn't seem to mind—in fact, she smiled lasciviously at him. He took his time to slowly unravel the rope binding her wrists, rubbing the red marks that were there, despite the linen he'd used underneath the knots.
“I liked ravishing you with your hands still bound,” he mused. “It made me feel like a marauding Saxon or something.”
She looked for a moment like the wind had been knocked right out of her, and he realized his mistake too late.
“Oh shite, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Danewyn. You're probably a product of one of those rapes, aren't you?”
She didn't seem able to recover her breath, and he saw her tongue was moving inside her mouth as if she were choking on it. He pulled her down and pressed her head against his chest, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “Little flower, I didn't mean to make light of such a thing.”
She tried to pull away but he wouldn't let her. “Say something, Danewyn.”
“Let me up.”
“No.”
She struggled futilely for a moment before giving up with a heave. Then she pulled his chest hairs.
“If I could stuff your ears with wool, we'd get along just fine,” he said wryly.
She picked up her head to give him a quizzical look.
“I always say the wrong thing to women. It's the second reason I can't ever get a woman to my bed—save when I bind her to my body.”
Danewyn rested her chin on his chest and gazed at him. “The first being?”
“What do you think?”
“Your scars?”
“Aye.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged. “Fire, we think. Or some kind of burn. I was abandoned in your foul London as a tot. I was dressed in finery, so they brought me to the Duke of Umbria, who was staying there at the time. He took me home to foster.”
She stared at him, unsuccessful at masking her horror. She swallowed. “Well,” she said shakily. “I rather like them.”
He tried to snort as if he didn't believe her—as if he didn't care what she thought about them.
“I do. They suit you. They make you look tough. Or mayhap rugged is a better word.”
“You have to say so,” he said, trying to sound light. “You're my prisoner—bound and trussed to my body all night, forced to sit upon my face in the morning.”
She giggled. “I was under the impression I had a choice. Did I not?”
He stroked her silky hair and grew serious. “I would never take you against your will. I pray you realize that.”
She nodded her head, suddenly serious. “I didn't think you would.”
“And you don't owe me this. You didn't have to—” he stopped, noticing her hands had clenched into fists and her blue eyes were flashing. “What?”
“Is that what you think? I'm still trying to curry favor?” she demanded. “You felt it for yourself—I wanted you.”
He blinked at her and his hand involuntarily went to his scars. “I can't account for that,” he muttered.
* * *
She'd enjoyed having sex with Sir Ferrum that morning, despite his belief she was offering it as a commodity. She'd wanted it and actually enjoyed it—mayhap for the first time ever. She hadn't faked her pleasure, as she always had at the tavern if the customer cared about her climax. And that kiss the night before… Sir Ferrum didn't believe she could be attracted to him. He was ashamed of his scars. She'd seen the way he'd covered them when they'd talked about it—the way he'd pulled away when she touched them. She didn't mind the scars—nay, she liked them. They suited the rough warrior. And seeing his insecurity over them made her want him even more.
Not that she was staying. It had been impossible to escape under the knight's watch, but the opportunity came mid-morning that day when he entrusted her to the care of another knight—a man named Sir Godfrey.
“Don't let her out of your sight,” Sir Ferrum warned him.
“I can handle a wee little woman like her,” Godfrey had winked, which solidified Dani's intention to leave on his watch.
She waited until Godfrey was distracted by conversation with his squire, and then she slipped away into the woods as fast as she was able to go. The trouble was, she quickly became lost. It would have been impossible to take a horse unnoticed, but now that she was trudging through the forest without the slightest idea where she was, she realized her folly. She had no food or water, not even her eating knife to help her forage food. The soldiers had been camped near a river. She needed to try to find the river again,
and surely following it would lead her to some village where she might beg for food or sell her body for coin.
She had a rising sense of panic, though. Supposing she never found the river. She might die of thirst before she ever found her way. Or be killed by wolves. She didn't like being lost in the woods. Not at all. A sudden movement right in front of her made her scream and jump back, and as she turned to run, she barreled headlong into a giant chest.
Sir Ferrum. He caught her and steadied her.
“It was just a doe,” he said mildly, as if she had more to fear from the wild animal than she did from him. He released her after he steadied her, apparently completely confident in his ability to catch her if she tried to run. He looked neither angry nor even perturbed.
She gaped at him. “Have you been following me this whole time?”
“No, I tracked you here. I only just caught up.”
“I—I didn't hear you.” She seemed only capable of saying inane things.
He gave a slight grin that didn't reach his eyes. “Hard to believe a giant ogre like me can be so quiet, isn't it?” He seemed proud of the fact. Which, she supposed, he should be. She had no idea how he tracked her here, when she had run willy-nilly through the forest.
He handed her a skein of wine and a chunk of bread wrapped in a piece of cloth. The gesture was so unbelievably generous considering the situation, and her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” she choked as she took them from him.
“Come, eat as you walk. We were supposed to be moving camp today, so everyone's waiting on us, and there's still your punishment to deal with before we get there.”
Though she hadn't forgotten his warning of the first night for a moment, she felt like her legs had dropped off her body, and she tripped. He caught her arm and easily righted her. She stole a glance at his scarred face. It was blank, as usual.
“I'm sorry,” she ventured.
“I doubt that,” he said matter-of-factly. “But I imagine you will be.”
The surge of fear that ran through her almost tripped her again. “Well I was sorry,” she said sullenly, for lack of anything better to say. “It was not my brightest move. I was completely lost and hungry when you found me.”
“Aye,” he said knowingly, as if it was how he'd expected to find her. “You should've stayed close to the river,” he said.
“Aye, I had just realized that, but finding my way back to the river was the problem.”
“You actually walked in a half-circle. We're not overly far from it now.”
She continued walking, feeling the strangeness of their perfectly civil, ordinary conversation, considering she was his prisoner and in imminent danger of the whipping of her life. They passed by a large felled tree, and Sir Ferrum caught her arm and stopped. He threw his cloak across the enormous log and pointed at it.
“I'll punish you here. No sense in the whole camp hearing it.”
She felt her limbs go weak and stood rooted to the spot. He came to take her arm, guiding her to the log and bending her over it where his cloak was laid. She spared a thought, wondering again at the kindness of the cloak, but then lost her concentration as she felt him dragging her skirts up so her bottom and legs were completely bare. Her belly was a mess—she suddenly wished she had not eaten the bread because she felt quite sick. The hammering of her heart was so loud she could almost hear it echoing against the log.
Sir Ferrum walked to a tree and cut several switches. She plucked at his woolen cloak with her trembling fingers, waiting in her humbled position as he smoothed the bark off the switches and returned to her side. There was no lecture or preamble. She heard the whistle of the switch as it glided through the air and then felt the cutting sting on her backside. It created a dreadful burn. He brought it down over and over again in rapid succession, and she found herself trying to crawl over the top of the log to escape it.
“Hold still, Danewyn,” he said in the mildest of tones.
But she couldn't hold still. She squeezed her bottom and kicked her legs and clutched at his cloak, not believing how stingy a little branch could feel on her bare skin.
“Please!” she gasped, though she knew it would do her no good. He continued until the branch broke, then picked up another. “Wait, please!” she cried out and was surprised when he did. She reached back with one hand and rubbed at her welted cheeks, the tears starting to flow. Her flesh had already swelled so the weals stood up in crisscrossed lines.
He gave her another moment, then gently took her hand and gave it a squeeze as he lifted it behind her back, out of the way. He kept loose hold of her hand in his large one as he started to switch her again, and she screamed and squeezed his hand, realizing vaguely it must have been why he'd offered it. She was writhing in pain again after just a few strokes, but Sir Ferrum seemed to have no intention of stopping. He switched her over and over again, until she moved to the other side of panic, into a space where she lost track of all else but the sensation he was creating on her backside and the sense of nothingness. She dimly realized he had stopped because he muttered the warning, “I'm not finished yet.”
She simultaneously hated him for not being finished and loved him for giving her the warning so she might try to stay in the zone she was in. “Go on,” she sobbed, not really wanting a break.
“Aye?” he asked, surprised. He picked up one of her legs and pulled it up over the log, spinning her so she was now lying parallel to the log, straddling it, her bottom open and presented to him in the most humiliating way imaginable. The change of position had jerked her rudely back to reality, and she started to panic, searching for the place in her head where she had just been floating.
“Wait!” she croaked, reaching back again as if to shield her bottom from his switch.
“Aye,” he grunted.
Pain was surging through her in waves, making her sweat and shiver at the same time. Her bottom was literally ablaze, and as she ran her hand over her swollen cheeks, it felt like the skin was raised in places. She wept into Ferrum's cloak, biting the scratchy wool in her anguish. Ferrum took hold of her hand again, and she tensed up and tried to pull it away. He grasped the wrist instead and bent the arm behind her back and she immediately wished for his hand. She twisted her wrist and reached with her fingers to touch his hand, and he slid his grasp to her palm, understanding. He gave it a quick squeeze and then struck her again.
She jumped at the change in sensation—he had abandoned the third switch and was using his belt this time. Mayhap he was showing mercy. It was still agonizing on her already smarted flesh, yet somehow the dull slap of leather was a relief after the sharp bite of the switch. She started into her full sobs again, jumping and flinching as he worked his way up and down one side. The vulnerable position he'd placed her in made it easy for him to catch her thighs and she screamed at the pain and humiliation of it. He moved to the other side and gave it the same treatment. Fear started getting the best of her, and because it was hard for her to wriggle or even tighten her bottom in the position she was in, she pulled her hand away and covered both her ears with her hands, rubbing her face on the cloak, desperately seeking the void she'd found before.
The strapping continued steadily and she let out one loud, unending scream, trying to drown out the pain. When her breath ended, the scream tailed off, and she realized the spanking had stopped. Ironically, she had just found the floaty space in her mind. She rested her cheek on Sir Ferrum's cloak and wept, closing her eyes and remaining in the place of no thought.
She had no idea how long she was there. When reality drifted back to her, she realized Sir Ferrum was sitting below her, whittling a piece of wood with his back resting against the log. She felt empty—completely devoid of any fear or anger or resentment. She thought of all the whippings she'd received at the hand of her mother or whatever man had taken on the role of father that day, and though this was had been the worst, she felt almost content now that it was over. Her body was heavy and relaxed and her mind still had t
hat floaty quality. She ought to be angry at Sir Ferrum for both the pain and humiliation of the punishment, but she was not. The care he'd given her, even as he'd punished her, had somehow felt more tender than any touch she'd ever been offered. But she'd sensed that about him from the start. In a surge of warmth, her hand trailed down from her log perch, and she wound her fingers in his long shaggy brown hair. He looked up, surprised. He reached for the skein of wine next to him and handed it up to her.
She drank deeply from her prone position and passed it back. She couldn't even think about moving. The idea of peeling herself off the log seemed impossible. Sir Ferrum got to his feet and seemed to realize it, because he picked up one of her knees and slowly swung it to meet her other leg, bringing them both to touch the ground as she hissed. He tossed her skirts down, and she winced at the sensation of the fabric on her delicate skin. She shifted from foot to foot, wondering how she would walk. She was stiff and still in more pain than she'd have thought was possible.
Ferrum picked up the cloak and wine and then shocked her by scooping her into his arms without ceremony and walking briskly. She hesitated, then twined her arms around his neck and laid her head down on his shoulder, not understanding the sense of closeness she felt with this man, but not denying it either. Before long she heard the sound of the river, and Ferrum placed her softly on her feet.
“You'd best walk into camp on your own,” he said. Every step felt stiff and pained, but she walked the remaining way into camp, where the carts were loaded and the men were sitting around looking as if they all were waiting just for her.
The Prince approached them. “Nice tracking,” he said to Sir Ferrum, and the knight nodded in reply. “Come,” the Red Fox said to her, holding a hand out.
“I've already punished her,” Sir Ferrum said preemptively.
“So I see,” the Prince said mildly, and she wondered what he saw. Probably it showed on her face. She placed her hand in the outstretched one he offered, feeling strangely like he was treating her more like a lover or a sister than a prisoner as he led her away from the other men. He stopped and eyed her. She shifted, her bottom too uncomfortable for her to stand still. “He is terribly good at punishing, isn't he?” the Prince asked without any hint of mockery. “Most pages he whips don't ever step out of line again.”
