by TJ Bennett
Günter shook his head to clear it and scrubbed a hand down his face. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager. Alonsa would begin to suspect his feelings for her might not be as casual as he pretended.
He put the thoughts of tossing his bride over his shoulder and carrying her away out of his mind. For now.
“Nay. Free beer is free beer.”
He felt suddenly happy. He lived, he had married the woman of his dreams, and he did not have to pay for his drinks. Sometimes life was good, he decided, and he led the little group back into the inn.
Wrested from a sound sleep, Alonsa jerked upright in the bed when something heavy skidded across the floor followed by the sound of a loud crash. From the entryway came a slurred string of curses in four different languages.
“Who the devil,” Günter muttered, “put a table in front of the damned door?”
Alonsa leaned back on one elbow, allowing her breathing to return to normal before she answered her husband, who swayed slightly in the open doorway.
“It was not in front of the door. You walked into it because you are as drunk as a pissed-faced goat, and you cannot see two feet in front of you.”
Günter blinked at her slowly, then rose to his full height, indignant, and closed the door behind him.
“I am not drunk,” he said very carefully. “I am merely”—he waved his hand in the air—”happy.”
She harrumphed.
He frowned. “I am never drunk.” He made his way to the bed, where he sank down with a heavy sigh. “Hardly ever, anyway. Bad for the reflexes.”
Alonsa moved over to avoid being crushed.
“Well, you have managed to accomplish it, even so. You have been downstairs with Fritz and your new friend forever.” She sniffed and punched the pillow, wishing it were him. “And on our wedding night, too.”
He sighed. “I’d planned to stay for just one or two beers, but …” He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “How was I to know there is a tradition here that the groom cannot leave without every man present toasting to his potency? By the time I shook free, you had gone.” He reached over and stroked her hair. “Why did you leave?”
She jerked away and glared at him. “The idea of singing ‘Helga Toss Your Skirts High’ for the twentieth time lost its appeal. Moreover, I thought one of us ought to be sober enough to lead the party to Genoa in the morning.”
A stubborn expression passed over his face. “I told you, I am not drunk.”
“Most assuredly,” she huffed. “And the sun will not rise in the morning, and I am not your wife!” Incensed, she shoved him out of the bed. The only reason she managed it had to be due to the great amount of beer he had already consumed.
Günter landed on the floor, the surprise at finding himself there making his features slack. He shook his head.
She flung out a hand. “See! Drunk!”
“Well. Mayhap I have had a little too much beer.” He leered at her. “But not too much to fulfill my marital duties.” He leaned over the bed, reaching for her. “Come here, my lovely.”
She smacked his hand, hard. He drew it back with a yelp.
“What was that for?” He looked bewildered.
Her eyes stung with tears, but she refused to cry. “Go find a barn to sleep in. You will not touch me tonight.” She turned up her nose at him and folded her arms across her chest.
He stared at her. “You are denying me my rights on our wedding night?”
“Sí.” She pinned him with a steady gaze. “Just as you have denied me mine by putting yourself in such a state.”
He grew very still. “Are you saying I am … unable?”
She snorted and turned away, facing the wall, silent tears leaking from her eyes.
Suddenly, she found herself flat on her back with Günter sprawled atop her. He was already hard.
“If you think a few beers are enough to keep me from satisfying you—” he said, then stopped. “You are crying.” He seemed horrified at the prospect. “Cease.”
She let out a sob, despite all her efforts to resist it. “Why should I? I am a woman. I am allowed to cry when my husband has ruined our wedding night! After everything I have done, all the trouble I have gone to—”
She broke off, unable to go on, and burrowed her head into the pillow, embarrassed at her display of emotion.
He patted her head awkwardly. “What do you mean? What did you do?”
She raised her tear-streaked face to his.
“Look!” She swept her hand toward the table he had upended.
He turned and for the first time seemed to notice the broken bowl of dried scented flowers lying on the floor, the sweetmeats, cheeses, and herbs in a heap nearby, the wineskin on its side, the candle whose wick had long ago burned out.
His gaze moved around the room, and she thought he could not help but see the filmy strips of linen she and the innkeeper’s servant girl had laced above the bed; the delicate petals scattered across the blankets; the sheer chemise Alonsa had purchased from another woman patron visiting the inn. She had cinched the gauzy fabric up around her breasts to accentuate them—the other woman was a little rounder there—and it clung to her, revealing more than it hid.
It was to have been her wedding night with the man she loved, and even if he did not love her, she had intended to make the most of it. Instead she had waited, tense and anxious, for him to appear until she was so exhausted she had fallen asleep despite her best intentions.
“Now you have ruined everything,” she sobbed, as if he could read her thoughts.
He remained silent for long moments. Finally, he cleared his throat.
“Alonsa, I apologize. I did not realize …” He sighed. “I did not think. I should have insisted on leaving sooner, but I had no wish to insult the other men.” He stroked her arm. “Should have worried less about them and more about you,” he mumbled to himself.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You will have to be patient with me. I am a soldier, used to the company of rough men, not fine women. It may take some time before I learn how these things are done.”
His words started her crying all over again.
“But what if we do not have time?” she wailed, and threw her arms around his neck.
He made a noise of exasperation and pulled back to look at her. His eyes filled with an emotion she did not understand.
“Listen to me. That blasted curse of yours is—” He stopped abruptly, and it was as though a shutter drew across his face. Whatever he had planned to say, he had obviously changed his mind. He took a deep breath. “The curse is no problem for us.” He slid one hand along her hip, his expression careless. He lowered his voice until its rough appeal skimmed dangerously across her tingling senses. “You know it. And as for the drinking … I am a Landsknecht. I have drunk men twice my size under the table and still pleasured two wenches at once for the entire night. Surely I can handle a little thing like you.”
“Oh!” she sputtered, and shoved hard at him. However, he was ready for her this time. He merely laughed and caught her hands between his.
“Come, sweeting. Let me prove myself to you.” The corner of his mouth tilted up, and he moved his hips against hers. His ready hardness pressed between her legs.
Despite the promise of paradise so close at hand, she gave him her most scornful look.
“If you believe that is all I require, then you can just—just go and find some puta in a back alley to satisfy your needs!” She turned her head away, and a thought occurred to her. She turned back. “And if you do, I will hunt you both down and stab you with your own blade!”
He leaned back, astonishment in his eyes.
“Jesu, woman,” he said, “I believe you would.”
He frowned, and she could practically hear him thinking.
“Ah, I understand. You want romance, seduction. Very well.” He stood up and briefly steadied himself. “Give me a moment to wash up and clear the taste of beer out of my mouth, and you s
hall have it.”
She eyed him as he went to the table, turned it right side up, and began to retrieve its fallen contents. Though he had been drinking, he did not seem as inebriated as she initially believed. It was true his capacity for spirits was probably greater than most men’s. Still … she would not have a drunken sot laboring over her for hours, unable to complete his duties and angry with her as a result. She had had enough of that with her first husband. She shuddered at the memory.
“Günter, never mind—” she began, but he shushed her with a finger to her mouth.
He found a basin filled with water and, after disrobing, carefully washed himself. He was obviously aroused, and she could not fail to notice.
It reminded her of the other time, and the memories sparked a tightening of anticipation in her breasts and between her thighs despite her attempts to ignore him. She had wanted him badly then but could not admit it for fear he had fallen in love with her. She had quickly discovered, of course, he had not.
He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing out the dark-blond locks, and for the first time she realized he had taken the time to shave before he came to the room. She was amazed to discover he had a subtle cleft in his chin. It made her want to stroke her finger, or perhaps her tongue, along it.
She shook herself and watched him as he chewed on bound sprigs of mint to freshen his breath.
“Hmm. What have we here?” he murmured.
He knelt on the floor, sorting through the sweetmeats and petals to find several treats that had fallen on a cloth and so were still clean. He tasted one and looked at her with a delighted smile.
“Federigo’s pastry cook is the finest. Here.” He carried it over to her lips. “Try this one. I believe it is after the French style.”
He held up a bit of sweet. Honeyed syrup glazed the delicate nutmeat pastry, and the tantalizing scent of it drifted to her nose. She opened her mouth without thinking, and he popped the treat in. However, when her lips closed over it, he did not remove his finger at once, but instead slid it slowly out of her mouth.
She tasted honey and him. Her lips clung. An intense throb of desire pulsed between her thighs. She shifted on the bed to quiet the sensation.
His gaze noted the movement, and he smiled. His eyes glowed a brilliant green, and he held up another treat.
Did he know what she felt?
“Try a little more,” he urged. “You look … hungry.”
As he slid the second treat, along with his finger, into her mouth, she realized she was hungry. Ravenous, in fact, but not for food. Her sudden, easy desire for him embarrassed her, and she pulled away.
“Enough. I am not …” She shook her head, licking the honey from her lips. “Enough.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “No more?”
He shrugged and moved his sticky finger to his own mouth. He licked it clean, his eyes never leaving hers. She squirmed again, trying to quiet the growing heat at her center.
His heavy-lidded gaze studied her for a moment. “Mayhap you are thirsty.”
He located the wineskin lying on the floor, released the stopper, and tilted her head back with one finger beneath her chin.
“Open for me.”
She licked her lips, unsure of his intent. His eyes lingered on the small movement, and though he did not repeat his request, she obeyed. He raised the wineskin close to her mouth and squeezed. A thin stream of deep red liquid spurted out, its warm, salty-sweet taste spreading across her tongue as he drew the wineskin back and up.
He stopped squeezing, and she swallowed.
“Again,” he whispered, his lips curved in a smile of pure anticipation.
Obediently, she opened her mouth again, only this time the stream spilled across her skin and dripped from her chin down to her breasts. She made a surprised noise and pulled back.
“Oops. How clumsy of me.” He gave her a lazy smile and set the wineskin aside. “Let me clean that up for you.”
He leaned over, placed his hands on either side of her, and slowly licked the wine from her skin with indolent, swirling motions of his tongue. She shivered and moaned as his tongue slid into the dark valley between her breasts, and she let her head fall back while her hands came up to grasp his shoulders.
“Stop.” She gasped the word in his ear, and his husky laugh did not surprise her.
“I will … eventually.” He reached for her chemise, moving it off her shoulder to expose her skin to his mouth.
He bent his head to her once more.
He used his teeth on her this time, dragging them along the sensitive path between her neck and shoulder. He bit her there, and she moaned. Sensation raced from her breasts to her center, and she pressed her lips together to prevent another moan from escaping.
He began sucking hard on the place he had bitten, the steady, drawing pressure nearly bowing her body as she arched toward him. She knew when she looked tomorrow his mark would be there, branding her as his. She groaned aloud, unable to withstand such exquisite torture.
“Oh, please stop.”
He lifted his head and looked at her, a question in his gaze. “Do you really wish for me to stop?”
She could not answer. Shame and desire mixed within her, and she lowered her head to hide her face. She did not want him to stop. God, please do not let him stop. She’d forgotten why she had even said such a foolish thing.
Oh, yes … she was angry with him. For … for coming to her drunk. And late. Yes, that was it.
“You will have to tell me if you want me to go on,” he murmured. “I will not be accused of forcing you against your will again. However, I believe it is important to make an informed decision. So while you are considering your answer …”
He lowered his head to the ridge of her collarbone and, using the tip of his tongue, licked the tender flesh there with quick, playful strokes.
Her toes curled. He slipped one hand beneath her and lifted her to him. Her head fell back, and he nibbled along the column of her neck. When he reached her earlobe, he sighed into her ear, the sound one of pure satisfaction.
“I love your taste. It is like no other. Like peaches in summertime.” One hand reached up to stroke her breast through the fabric of the chemise, and she felt his palm burning her flesh through it.
“I like best how you taste here, though.” He replaced his hand with his mouth, wetting the thin fabric thoroughly with his tongue and then sucking on her through it until the rosy aureole could be seen beneath the damp cloth.
Her fingernails scraped his back, the pleasure he gave her so intense as to be nearly unbearable. Finally, he lifted his head and stared at her with hot eyes.
“Did you decide?” he asked.
“Wh—what?” she panted, having no idea what his question referred to.
“Shall I taste you all over, sweetmeat, or shall I go find a hayloft to sleep in tonight? The choice is yours.”
How dare he? How dare he make her say what she wanted when it had to be most obvious to him? Her pride made her clench her teeth and refuse to speak, afraid if she opened her mouth she would be reduced to begging for his touch.
He pulled back with a frown.
“You have to ask,” he said, his jaw set in stubborn sensual command. “Tell me what you want, or I’ll get up and walk out of this room.”
When she did not answer, he nodded his head.
“Very well.” He released her and rose from the bed, listing a little to the left before righting himself. He padded over to where he had dropped his garments and gathered them up, not bothering to put them on. He reached the doorway before she finally cried out, unable to prevent herself.
“Wait!”
He turned, his expression unreadable. “Why?”
“I—I want you to stay,” she said softly.
He crossed his arms over his chest, one hand still holding his clothing as he leaned against the door. He tapped his foot impatiently as though he waited for her to say something else.
“
Please stay,” she offered.
He watched her with an intent gaze.
“Why?” he prompted again.
She shook her head, unable to confess her desires so openly. He turned to go.
“I want to feel you,” she said hastily. “To touch your skin. To have you touch mine.”
He looked at her over his shoulder. “Go on.”
His deep voice was like a hot caress against her yearning flesh.
She lifted up on her knees, the chemise still clinging to her breasts, the wet mark growing cool in the chilled night air. Her hair brushed across her bare shoulders and tumbled down her back. She had begun; she would not turn back now.
“I want to hold you, to feel your hardness as you slide into me, to welcome your thrusts at the deepest place of my body—”
A flicker of surprise showed on his face. He dropped the clothing and moved as though drawn to her by a string. His eyes filled with a carnal desire growing more focused with each step he took.
“Yes?”
The single low word revealed the intensity of his attention and gave her the courage to continue.
“—to wrap my legs around you and lift up to meet your every thrust—”
He reached the bed and stood over her, his face etched with need. “And?”
“I want to taste you in my mouth, to have you here—” she lifted a trembling hand to her lips, “and here—” she moved her hand down to her woman’s mound.
He jerked her to him, his jaw clenched. His eyes burned like green fire; his breath came hard and fast.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him as he had taught her, thrusting her tongue inside his mouth, swirling it, tasting him, rubbing her breasts against his naked chest, then separating her lips from his just enough to whisper, “I want to kiss you everywhere—”
“Alonsa, for God’s sake shut up,” he rasped, and followed her down onto the sheets.
He tried to place her beneath him, but she threw her leg over him and rolled so she lay on top.
He had wanted her to confess her desires, to show him how much she wanted him. Well, then, she would do it, and he would know her as a woman who could not be toyed with so easily. As a woman who would not be forgotten when she was forced to leave him behind.
