Wicked

by Jill Barnett

  He shifted and pulled her across his leg. “Put your arms about my neck, so you don’t fall off.”

  She slid her arms up and locked her hands around his neck, then wiggled a bit and finally settled her bottom between his legs on the pommel.

  After a moment or two, she leaned her head against his shoulder and she began to cry.

  They rode back into the inn a short time later. Sofia could see some of Tobin’s men waiting, and when they rode into the courtyard, the men saw her and dismounted.

  “Go inside and order some food. We’ll follow.” Tobin dismounted and reached up and grasped her waist, then lifted her off the saddle and set her down, his body pinning her between him and the horse.

  A stable lad came running and took the reins, then led his mount away. Tobin grabbed her hand and pulled her with him and shoved her inside the inn.

  A blast of hot air hit her in the face along with the strong scent of greasy mutton and the sharp yeasty tang of spilled ale. With his hand firmly on her back, he guided her across the crowded tavern room to a table where some of his men sat. They looked at her with odd looks she could only describe as half-annoyed and half-pitying.

  She did not need to be pitied. She did not want their pity.

  Tobin pulled out a chair and shoved her into it.

  She turned and gave him a glare, but it did no good, for he was not looking at her. His eyes were on a barmaid, a big blonde with an udder chest and fat hips. Well, not fat, but bigger than hers so she liked to think of them as fat, especially when the woman’s eyes were all but eating Tobin up.

  She strolled their way, a tray filled with hot food and foamy drink propped on one shoulder. Her free hand was on her hip, which swayed and rolled more than the boats on the Thames.

  Sofia glanced back at Tobin, who was still looking at the woman when she bent between them and set the tray down on the table and her pink breasts in Tobin’s face.

  “You came back.” She said in a breathy voice.

  “Aye, sweet.”

  Sweet? What is he doing? He calls me sweet.

  For a moment, all Sofia could see was the woman’s plump, round bottom, right in her face. So she wedged her way in front of the woman, so the back of her head was between the woman’s breasts. Sofia grabbed the rim of the table and she pushed back.

  The woman grunted and took a step back.

  “Hmmm, stew! I am ‘bout starved.” Sofia scooted her chair next to Tobin’s, then grabbed a dish of stew and a hunk of bread and began to stuff her face.

  The barmaid ruffled Sofia’s shorn hair. “Game, lad, he is. How is yer head?”

  Sofia scowled at her and muttered, “Fine.”

  But the maid was not paying attention. She only had eyes for Tobin. “Tell me, Sir Tobin. Is he your little brother?”

  Sofia choked on her food.

  Tobin patted her on the back while she coughed and he handed her a tankard of ale.

  She hated ale; it tasted like water and old moldy bread.

  “The lad is my . . . groom.”

  Sofia glanced up and gave him a pointed glare.

  Tobin flashed her a white grin. He was enjoying this. Damn him!

  “Aye, the boy does smell of the stables.”

  Tobin clamped his big hand on her thigh under the table and kept her seated. “We’ve taken your rooms for the night. Send up a bath to my room and I’ll see that the lad rids himself of the smell . . . ” he paused. “And the nits.”

  She would like to nit him.

  “Anything you desire, Sir Tobin. Your room is the one on the end, right? The one with the biggest bed.” The barmaid winked, then sauntered away.

  “Sit,” Tobin said into her ear. “The way you are dressed, and with that hair, you will stay a lad until I return you to Edward.”

  Sofia looked at him. “Go to the Devil.”

  He gave her a long stare, then laughed and said, “I think I already have.”

  Chapter 17

  “I will not take my clothes off with you in the room.”

  Tobin was stretched out on the plump feather bed, his feet crossed at the ankles and his arms resting behind his head. He was chewing on a witch hazel twig and watching Sofia pace in front of the steaming tub. “Then I will do it for you.”

  “You will not.”

  He started to get up.

  She raised her hand. “Stop! Do not.” She reached around and undid the closure on the back of her tunic. “At least turn your back.”

  “I am quite comfortable as I am.”

  She stopped. “Fine.” She dropped her arms. “Then I shall undress in the hall, where all your men can see me.”

  “Checkmate,” he said. His Sofia. She was a worthy opponent when it came to this kind of byplay. “I will close my eyes.” Then he did.

  “Give me your word. On your honor that you will not look.”

  “Aye.” Was all he said. He would give her no words of a vow he intended to break. He waited, then opened his eyes enough to watch her.

  She turned her back to him and grabbed the hem of the tunic, then pulled it over her head. She had bound her breasts with a piece of linen and she began to untie the knots and then slowly unwind the cloth. ’Twas one of the most erotic moments he could ever remember, waiting for her to finish unwinding that cloth.

  When she finished, she bent slightly to pull off one boot. He caught a glimpse of a full pink breast. She tried the other boot. It was stuck and she had to hobble in a circle to pull it off. Her breasts jiggled and he could see the nipples grow hard and pointed.

  She glanced up once, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  He had closed his just enough to fool her.

  She waited.

  So did he.

  Unfortunately for him, she managed to pull off the boot. A shame, he would have liked to see her hop like that again.

  She spun around almost as if she read his thoughts, but he had shut his eyes again. He moved the twig to the other side of his mouth with his tongue, then sucked on it and began chewing again. He could hear her pad lightly across the room.

  She stood by the bed. He could feel her watching him. She waved her hand in his face a few times.

  “My eyes are closed, sweet.”

  “Then how can you tell I’m here?”

  “I can feel the air from you waving your hand in front of my face.”

  “Oh.” She paused, sounding disappointed, then she said in a curt tone, “I do not want you to call me that anymore.”

  “What?”

  “That name. Sweet. You called that barmaid ‘sweet.’ “

  “Jealous?”

  She sniffed. “Hardly that.” Then she went back to the tub. “Humph!” she muttered and tossed a ball of soap into the water. “Me . . . jealous of some fleshy tavern wench who walks like a ship under full sail.” She strolled around the tub in a circle, mimicking the maid.

  “Anything you deeee-sire, Sir Tobin,” she said in a throaty voice as she swung her hips from side to side and wiggled her bottom.

  He wasn’t certain what he wanted to do more, laugh at her or lie with her.

  She peeled off her braies, still circling her hips around and mumbling about how many men the maid must have lain with. How a shrewd person would be wise to fear some rotting disease. Apparently finished, she stopped wiggling and muttering and stepped into the water.

  She eased down into the wooden tub and gave a long and luscious moan. “This feels so good.”

  Sweet Mother, but she was a beautiful woman. And a handful. ’Twas not easy to look at her like this and truly believe she was his, finally, this spirited young woman of seven and ten. They were young, the two of them. But it seemed like years ago when he first saw her.

  It was years ago. Five long years.

  He would be one and twenty at Michaelmas. How many years would they have together? Fifty or more? A lifetime. Sweet Mary and Joseph, he hoped it was a long one.

  She had her back to him as she washed and scrubbed.
Her skin was soon glistening in the red glow of the coal brasier, and he watched her slide under the water to dunk her black hair. When she did, her long white legs came almost out of the tub and he caught a glimpse of the shadow between her thighs.

  Lord, but his action this night, lying there unmoving like he was, should keep him out of Purgatory forever. A true test of strength no tourney could best, for no man could possibly lie there as he was and do nothing. So he watched her, drank in his fill of her. He wanted to get up and pull her from the tub. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to lick the water from her body. He wanted to strip off his clothes and join her. God’s blood, but he wanted to join with her.

  He waited, then gave up the possibility of going straight to heaven after he died and stood quietly, covertly, pulled his linen undertunic over his head and began to untie his chausses. He pulled the points aside and stripped out of them, then untied his loincloth and let it fall to the floor.

  Before she could turn about, he was kneeling on the wooden floor behind her.

  “Tobin!” she shrieked and crossed her arms over her breasts! “You have no honor! You gave me your vow.”

  “Not truly. All I said was ‘aye.’ I did not say aye to what.”

  She frowned at him from over her pale shoulder. After a moment her eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

  “Washing your back.” He ran his hands over her damp back, over the soft, soft skin and he leaned down and kissed the nape of her neck, then her shoulder and her spine. He reached lower, until his hands were on her buttocks and he rubbed them, then squeezed them, kneaded them.

  She stiffened for a moment when he first gripped her there, but soon she moaned a soft and quiet kind of moan, the kind that was the same as saying “do it more and more and more.”

  He gripped her by the bottom and picked her right up out of the tub and stood, holding her in front of him.

  She shrieked, but it was too late, he stepped into the water and sat down with her in his lap. He released her. She spun around and almost killed him.

  “Careful, brat!”

  “Let me up.”

  He shook his head and grasped her wrists and pulled her forward so her palms were flat against his chest. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Wash me.”

  “Do I look like your servant?”

  “A hundred years ago and it would have been your duty and honor to bathe visiting knights.”

  “Aye, we women have come a long way.”

  He laughed and took her left hand. He placed the ball of soap in it, then put her hand and the soap on his chest and began to rub over the coarse, curly black hair there until it was lathered and foamy.

  He opened his eyes to find her staring at her hand and watched as she raised the other one and began to rub through the lather, to play with the foam and draw small circles with her fingertips.

  “You learn quickly.”

  She gave him a wicked smile, then grazed her fingers over his nipples.

  He grasped her wrists and pulled her forward, so they were breast to chest. He looped her hands around his neck and lowered his, then held her by the waist and slowly moved her upper body so the lather was between both of them and their bodies moved in slick sliding motions.

  Soon they were both moving on their own and he moved his hands to her head and clasped it, then pulled her mouth to his. He gave her soft, nipping kisses, on the corners of her mouth, along her lips. Then he flicked his tongue over her lips and she opened her mouth with a deep sigh.

  Then they were kissing each other, deep, long and wet kisses, where their tongues played together and taunted and drew the other’s into their own mouths. He sucked on her tongue and she did the same to his.

  She mimicked his every move, as if she wanted to be taught the ways of loving, all the ways. He took the soap and her hand and moved both lower and made the same foaming lather there as he had done on his chest. He took the soap and lathered the shadowy hair between her legs, kissing her mouth the whole time and swallowing her weak protests when he touched her between her legs, when his fingers drifted over her.

  He moved their bodies again, sliding together and up and down so they both could feel every inch of skin, every soft or hard muscle, every rib against rib, every plane of their bodies against the other.

  The water was growing colder now and the room was fast chilling. He pulled her away from him and placed a kiss on her nose. “Come, the water is cold.” He held her as he stood, then grabbed a towel and ran it quickly over their bodies and scrubbed her hair dry before he did his own.

  Small black curls were forming around her face and her eyes looked huge and dark and intense, as if he could step into them and lose himself there and never find his way out again.

  He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed, jerked back the coverlet and placed her on the linen sheet, then he crawled under with her and began all over again. The touching, the kisses, the soft words.

  “Touch me . . . Touch me . . . ” he said and placed her palm on him. He moved his hand to her body and stroked her from her shoulder to her knee, long soft strokes where he barely touched her soft skin, just drew his fingers over her again and again.

  “You are so soft. Your skin is so soft,” he murmured, then he moved his mouth to her ear and asked her to stroke him.

  Her hand moved tentatively at first.

  “Harder,” he whispered. “Harder.”

  And she did. She pressed the palm of her hand against him and began to move.

  He groaned, “That’s it . . . that’s it . . . Don’t stop.”

  Then he kissed her deeply, their mouths locked together until he moved to her neck and her ears, where he tasted her with his tongue and breathed into her ears and waited for her to shiver in reaction.

  “Tobin . . . ” she said on soft breath.

  He lowered his mouth to her breasts, tasted them, sucked on the tips and rolled his tongue around them. He moved downward, his mouth on her ribs and he followed each rib with his tongue slowly, as if he were drawing them on her body.

  He pressed his lips to the soft dip under her ribs and kissed the softest and whitest skin he’d ever seen. His head dipped to her navel and he tongued it, then sucked on her soft belly until he made a love mark there, and another—one on each side. He buried his face there, taking in her scent and nuzzling her belly until she gripped his head in her hands and sighed.

  His mouth traced the bones of her hips, the line of her hip and thigh. He shoved back the covers and ran his tongue along the inside of one thigh, down, down until he was near her ankles. He moved his shoulders between her legs and he kissed up the other leg, stopping at the knee.

  He shifted her legs and kissed the backs of her knees, wet them with his mouth and blew on them. He licked upward, slowly, drawing damp lines along the skin on the inside of her thighs.

  Until he reached center of her. He blew his warm breath on her there, knowing she was wet and could feel the chill of his breath there.

  She gasped and called out his name.

  Then he kissed her there, that place for lovers only.

  She cried out to heaven and tried to shift away.

  He gripped her buttocks and kept on, deepening his kiss from lips and breath to the stroking of his tongue, the sucking of his mouth, until she was crying and moaning and telling him not to stop.

  She was so close, her pleasure was but a touch away. He could feel it in the quiver of her legs, in the new taste of her. She was coming. She was coming.

  One more flick of his tongue and she cried out and spasmed, pulsing against his mouth and gripping his head tightly in her clenched hands.

  She kept swearing to saints, pleading to Mary and saying she was dying. Finally, she was finished, her breath hard, labored just a moment before it began to slow and ease. She just lay there.

  He shifted, crawled back up her soft body. She slowly opened her eyes and looked into his.

  The wonder he saw there almost broke him,
almost pulled him in to a place from which he could never escape. He could not look at that look very long, so he drew her legs up and settled between them and he began to move, slowly at first, just rubbing against her, hard against soft, moving and shifting so he was against her most sensitive spots.

  When he was certain she had the rhythm down, he slid his hands upward and cupped her breasts and then drove his fingers into her hair and kissed her, still shifting and moving only against her.

  Their kisses grew hotter and more intense. They moved faster and then he shifted his hips, stopped, and changed angles, then just barely entered her, only slid the tip of him inside. “Can you feel me?”

  “Aye, Tobin, You feel so good.”

  “So do you. You taste so good. You smell so good. You are so wet and hot.” He slid inside a bit more, then shifted out a little, just small, inching movements. “Wrap your feet around my back.”

  She did and he lifted her up a little higher, then dipped a little deeper. He moved in and out, still not touching her virgin’s wall. He would not breach it, not yet. Not this night.

  He shifted positions and sat back on his heels with his legs folded, his knees spread wide. He grasped her hips and pulled her slowly over his legs to his cock. He inched inside again, in and out, a little deeper each time, in and out, a little deeper, in and out, a little deeper.

  He set the rhythms. He moved her to their pleasure. She was tight and hot and he wanted to go inside as deeply as he could, but he held back, just the heavy wide tip of him was filled with all that sensation. He tilted her up higher and sank inside some more, until he felt the thin wall that told him no man had ever had her.

  He did not go any farther, but pulled slowly back, then dipped inside again, and slowly back, over and over, building the rhythm and feeling her response. She lifted her hips higher, she moaned and twisted her head from side to side. He kept pumping in and out until he thought he would explode.

  He pushed once, twice; she quivered and her legs shook in violent little tremors. One more thrust and she came hard, pulsing around the tip of him and crying out his name.

  Letting her finish was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But he waited, gritted his teeth together and recited the names of the saints in Latin, then again in French.