by Kira Morgan
So she needed help getting into the tub, did the wee tease? Oh, aye, he’d help her.
Without a word, he whirled about and stepped forward. Ignoring the breathless expectation in her eyes and the desire parting her lips, he reached forward as if to embrace her. But instead, he clasped her about the waist, lifting her bodily, and deposited her, chemise and all, into the warm water.
Florie’s mouth fell open in outrage. The breath escaped her on a huff of indignation, and her eyes flashed with disbelief. For an instant, his mouth twitched with amusement as he shook the water from his forearms.
But he should have left while he had the chance. For as soon as the water soaked through her thin chemise, making her appear as if she wore nothing at all, his mouth went dry, his humor faded, and his better judgment fled, along with his good intentions.
Chapter 16
When Florie recovered, sputtering from the shock of being dunked in the tub like a flea-ridden cat, she saw that Rane had unwittingly achieved for himself what she could not. His eyes, hooded with desire, had darkened like a stormy sea, and his nostrils fluttered as if he detected the tantalizing scent of prey.
’Twas not quite what she’d intended. She’d meant to slowly rekindle the fire they’d banked yesterday, to slip the chemise from her shoulder, to win him gradually with a tenuous touch, a kiss here, a caress there. Instead, ’twas as if he’d just set a torch to bone-dry tinder.
Faith, she might as well be naked for the modesty her drenched garment afforded. And when he regarded her with that burning gaze, his lust almost a tangible thing, she had to fight off the potent instinct to cover herself.
But she wasn’t afraid. Not truly. She remembered how gentle Rane was, how adept, how patient. Nae, ’twasn’t fear. Indeed, noting the way he clenched his fists as his chest rose and fell with a deep draught of air, she felt most empowered.
She could see him mentally weighing his choice to remain or walk out the door, the same kind of indecision she’d seen countless times on patrons’ faces in the goldsmith shop. In the shop she’d do her best to display the gems in a favorable light. Maybe ’twas no different here.
Though she trembled at her own boldness, her eyes locked with his, and she reached up to slide the chemise from her shoulder. She slowly revealed the swell of her bosom above the water as the fabric rasped sensuously along her arm, low on her throat, and over one breast, catching on the taut peak. She sighed, imagining that Rane’s hands did the deed.
Modestly covering her breast with one hand, she used the other to slip her chemise from the opposite shoulder. With her arms crossed over her bosom and her face burning with a delirious blend of shame and lust, she still found the courage to peel back the linen to bare her breasts fully to his view, relishing the contrast of the warm water and the cool air as the tiny waves lapped at her nipples.
Rane’s mouth was tense now, his eyes dark and fierce. His fists were white with strain, and every breath he drew made his nostrils quiver. Still he came no nearer. But neither did he depart.
Her pulse palpable in her throat, she eased the chemise down farther, past her waist and the hollow of her belly, over the bones of her hips, rising slightly to free her buttocks from the swirling white cloth. The water plashed softly against the wood as she drew the chemise slowly up and over her bent knees, then slipped out her feet. With a surge of water, she lifted the saturated gown out, dropping it onto the flagstones. And then there was nothing to block his view.
But though he scowled into the water as if to boil it with his stare, still he didn’t move from his spot. She could see the blatant manifestation of his lust, straining at his braies like a huge warhorse eager for battle, yet he held back his desires with a firm rein… just like a patron stubbornly unmoved by her shop full of tempting wares.
When in Stirling a patron was so intractable, Florie would make a great show of polishing the jewels till they shone like irresistible fire.
With trembling fingers, she groped atop the linens for the soap, almost knocking it to the floor. Capturing it in her palm, she wet the fragrant cake in the bath. Then, with luxuriant sloth, she began to run it over her skin. The cake glided along her throat, over her collarbone, around her shoulder, and down the length of one arm, making a slippery trail over her flesh.
Peering obliquely up at Rane, she saw her movements were having some effect. His jaw was no longer tight. Indeed, his mouth had parted slightly as he watched the path of the soap beneath lust-heavy lids.
Encouraged by his attentiveness, Florie repeated the sensual pattern over the other half of her body. Then, dipping the cake into the water again, she placed it high against her bosom and, unable to keep her eyes open for this most brazen of gestures, slipped the soap further downward. Her face hot, she proceeded to make lazy spirals around her breasts, rubbing the cake gently over her awakening nipples. Then she slid the soap down to her navel, and she flushed even hotter, remembering the way Rane had touched her. Sweet Lord, she longed to feel him there again, in her most secret of places.
But as Florie labored to breathe under the weight of her longing, the soap chanced to slip from her hand. Before she could catch it, it coursed with unerring aim betwixt her legs.
Her eyes flew open.
Rane’s hands were no longer clenched. His fingers were splayed now like a warrior’s in readiness, awaiting only the command to fight. His chest heaved with great breaths of air, and his eyes focused with such intensity upon her body that she feared he might sear her with his gaze.
Her first instinct was to go after the soap. But something in Rane’s eyes, some silent command, immobilized her. She could do nothing but watch as he loosened the laces of his jerkin, pulling it off and casting it aside. His steady gaze riveted her as he methodically rolled back the sleeves of his shirt, baring his muscular forearms, for what purpose Florie shivered to imagine.
The sly smile to which she’d grown accustomed was missing now. Rane’s expression was one of reluctant duty, almost as if he prepared to mete out stern punishment for her wanton act.
Only when he started forward did she begin to comprehend the consequences of her boldness. Rane was a hunter, and Florie had become his prey. He was as pumped full of male energy as a charging boar. There was no turning back. What she’d begun, he would finish. Here and now.
Yet as Rane towered over her, his shadowed eyes raking down her body, taking in every inch of her, still she felt no fear, only desire. And when he dropped to one knee beside the tub, trailing his fingertips across the surface of the water, she bit her lip to silence her own whimpers of anticipation.
Without a word, he placed a finger at the spot in her throat where her pulse throbbed, sliding it down along her breastbone. Moving slowly downward, he stretched out his massive hand so that it encompassed her whole bosom, his thumb and last finger grazing her nipples. Florie moaned, tipping her head back until it rested upon the rim of the barrel, closing her eyes to relish the yearning.
When he reached her waist, beneath the water, his hand reversed, his fingertips now leading the way over the plane of her stomach and lower, dipping briefly inward at her navel, toying with the beginning of the fine black hair that shielded her nether parts from his view.
“Open your eyes,” he bade her softly.
She resisted his command. Though it had been easy to expose her body to him, to lay her soul bare was another matter.
His free hand touched her jaw. “Look at me, Florie.”
’Twas nigh impossible, so heavy with wanting were her lids. But she managed to pry them slowly open.
“’Tis a thing to be shared,” he whispered.
She gulped as his hand delved deep into the water betwixt her legs, searching. When it came up, ’twas slick with soap. He drew the cake up her abdomen, sudsing circles about her breasts in the same languid manner as before, staring into her responsive eyes like a hunter studying his cornered quarry.
Her nipples tingled now, slick with soap, roused by ru
bbing, stiffened with cold. And a searing flash like lightning seemed to bolt through her body, connecting those two prickling points to the sharp ache betwixt her thighs.
But she could see Rane meant to soothe her pain. The soap glided down over her nest of curls, and she clutched at the edges of the tub, arching up with a moan to meet his hand.
“Shh,” he said, placing his finger across her lips. He ran the soap along the insides of her thighs, and though she tried to remain still, ’twas almost impossible when her body knew so clearly what it wanted.
Finally he slid the soap betwixt her nether lips, touching upon the core of her need, and she squirmed and cried out with the ecstasy of it. For a moment he held his hand there, letting her adjust to the white heat. His other arm came about to cradle the back of her head, and she buried her face against his shoulder.
Then he moved the soap. Slowly at first, circling and gliding and laving her delicate places with tender care until she felt as if she floated in some sensual dream.
But very soon she began to crave more, panting her wordless desire against the linen of Rane’s shirt. He let the soap slip away then, replacing it with his fingers. His strokes grew firm, the pace quickened, and she couldn’t help answering the beckoning of his fingers with the arch of her hips. A deep longing built inside her, less insistent, but more profound, a need to draw closer to Rane.
Clutching the fabric of his shirt in one desperate hand, Florie gasped as a huge wave of sensation built within her like an ocean wave gathering mass to break upon the shore. His arm pulled her close as his fingers played expertly upon her, summoning her release, demanding her surrender, drawing forth her most secret passions.
Suddenly something within her stilled. Like molten metal poured onto snow, she stiffened, one hand caught in Rane’s shirt. Her back arched, and her forehead creased with blissful torment, while the desires within her yet roiled with increasing violence, bubbling up to the surface toward escape.
Her release came on an explosion of sound—a deep groan wrung from her chest, a great surge of water as she thrashed, out of control. Rane’s growl of impassioned empathy as he held her safe was her only anchor in the storm of her emotions.
Rane shuddered as Florie sobbed out in surrender, as if he’d soared alongside her on her erotic flight, as if his soul had mingled with hers, and together they’d taken the journey. Indeed, he’d enjoyed her release almost as if ’twere his own. Almost.
There was still the matter of his bulging staff, angry with need, thick as a lance with unrequited lust.
Florie collapsed against his chest, and he pressed his trembling lips softly to the top of her head. Never had he felt so torn, caught between satiation and hunger, between blissful relief and burning need. He’d fed well on her passion, and yet he craved more. Like an arrow cocked at the ready with no prey in sight, he waited tensely.
After a long, torturous moment, Florie made up his mind. She turned gracefully to her side and, curving one dripping arm up over his shoulder, pulled herself into a more intimate embrace. Her breasts, warm and wet from the bath, seemed to steam through his shirt, and his nipples hardened against her. Her mouth closed upon his neck with grateful kisses, and he shivered as she moved higher, her breath singeing his ear.
“Lie with me,” she whispered, so softly that he thought he’d imagined her voicing his own wish.
He waited with bated breath, unable to believe what he’d heard.
“Lie with me, Rane.”
He closed his eyes as the dulcet sound curled into his ear, whirling his thoughts like an accomplished caress.
“I pray ye,” she murmured. “I know what I’m doin’. And I trust ye’ll be gentle. Please.”
’Twas all the convincing his starving body needed. Let Florie claim him, he thought. Let her own him. Later he’d sort out matters of the heart, carefully, tenderly. But for tonight, he’d let her possess him, heart and soul.
In one drenching sweep, he pulled her from the bath, naked and slippery in his arms. While she clung to him, he quickly wrapped several linens about her against the chill. His gaze swept the perimeter of the sanctuary, seeking a place for their coupling. By the fierce raging in his braies, he’d be content to take her against the door of the church.
But he was neither beast nor berserker. A church was no place for trysting.
Nae, he’d take her into the forest and lay her upon a soft bed of moss, amid the sweet scent of spring clover and bay, beneath a thousand star candles. Their cries of release would be muffled by brush and branch, fern and leaf-fall.
Stopping to gather several plaids for warmth, he carried her from the church, finding his way in the shadowy night with the unerring instincts of a woodsman.
He found a place not far into the trees, a small clearing where the three-quarter moon shone softly down through the leafy elms and the grass grew thick and lush. Spreading the largest plaid, he knelt to lay Florie gently upon the forest bed, hovering close above her to keep the chill away.
’Twas tempting to take her swiftly. His body was primed for the hunt, and ’twas clear her desires were likewise inflamed. But Florie was not a milkmaid to be quickly tumbled in the hay. Nor was she a worldly noblewoman accustomed to hurried trysts.
So he took a deep, calming breath and willed himself to be patient.
She shivered once beneath him.
“Are ye frightened?” he whispered.
“Nae, only cold.”
Her words were sweet invitation. “Let me warm ye,” he murmured. Bracing himself on an elbow, he peeled back the layers of damp linen from her one by one until she lay naked in the moonlight. Then he dragged one of the plaids over her so that the soft wool caressed her bare skin. He quickly removed his boots, untied his hose, and pulled off his shirt, stripping down to his braies. The cold didn’t begin to pierce his fiery Viking hide, but, not wishing to frighten Florie with the sight of his engorged staff, he ducked beneath the plaid before slipping his braies from his hips.
He felt the heat of her before their flesh even touched, like the radiance from a glowing iron set by the hearth.
“Let me warm ye, Florie,” he breathed again.
Then he stretched atop the full length of her until their bodies kissed in the most intimate of embraces. Everywhere their flesh touched, warmth bloomed between them, petals of fire opening and spreading and bringing instant heat to the cool spring night.
Florie released an impassioned sigh, and he sucked it at once between his teeth, hissing like hot steel plunged into water. ’Twas a painful ecstasy, like searing flame in the midst of snow, yet he reveled in the fiery torment of her silken skin, urged on with nearly unbearable restraint to seek the deeper heat waiting within her.
“Ach, Florie…” He cradled her head in his hand, then let his own drop weakly beside hers.
As if the mere heat of feminine flesh upon him were not enough to tempt him to incaution, Florie began to move beneath him, luxuriating in the delicious friction with innocent impatience.
“Oh… aye,” she gasped. “Aye…”
At her words, Rane’s thoughts bolted like a wild beast, and ’twas all he could do to harness them. Yet somehow he managed, despite his fell frenzy of desire, to think of her needs first. He parted from her long enough to insinuate one hand between them, seeking out the soft, damp curls guarding her maidenhead. She moaned, instantly arching up to welcome his touch.
“Aye… aye…” Her voice was sultry, beckoning, irresistible.
“Nae.” He needed to prepare her. She was such a wee thing. Marry, if he hurt her again, he’d never forgive himself. He needed time to ease the way.
Yet she gave him none.
“Aye,” she insisted, thrusting her hips upward until his fingers trespassed into the sleek folds of her womanhood.
He groaned. Ah, faith. He’d intended to moisten her swelling lips, but she was already wet, slick with lust. His fully roused cock, drenched in that same nectar, surged in anticipation.
He slipped one finger within her, letting his thumb circle over the delicate bud above. Then, slowly, he inserted a second finger, stretching her passageway with utmost care. ’Twas the hardest thing he’d ever done, keeping his desires at bay while he prepared her to receive them. But Rane was not, as Florie had once accused him, a man with no finesse. He could be gentle, even under such enormous pressure.
What he hadn’t counted upon was Florie’s eagerness and her unpredictability. As he pushed patiently inward, she suddenly thrust her hips up, plunging his fingers deep within, impaling herself on him with a sharp cry.
Silently cursing, he did the only thing he could—remained very still, waiting for her to adjust to the invasion. “I’m sorry, love,” he breathed, though indeed ’twas not his fault. After a moment, in the hopes of distracting her from the pain, he resumed pleasuring her with his thumb.
Very soon her gasps sweetened, breaking softly against his cheek. And when he finally moved within her again, she arched tentatively counter to his slow thrusts, looping her arms up around his neck in forgiveness and welcome.
“I’m not sorry,” she murmured.
Her gaze rested upon his mouth, and he answered her wordless request, lowering his head to bestow a kiss upon her trembling lips.
Then he withdrew his hand to guide his aching staff where it most longed to go. As he at last slid within her warm, snug, velvety womb, she groaned in a slow ecstasy that echoed his own. And then he was lost…
Florie had thought it couldn’t get any better, but this… this union, this perfect melding of flesh with flesh like two metals blending, made her feel as if she touched heaven. He was so large within her that she should be torn in two, and yet somehow she accommodated him, stretching to a sensual tautness that left her even more sensitive to his movements. The momentary pain had vanished now, and there were no words to describe the sense of completion, of wholeness, of homecoming she felt as he gathered her against him, touching her everywhere, pulsing rhythmically into her as if ’twould make their hearts beat together.
