by Zoë Archer
Tonight, the key gleamed in her hand.
“In my pack,” she said, “are some cloths.”
He retrieved them and stood in front of her within seconds. Already, his chest rose and fell with the speed of one who had been in full pursuit. Firelight carved him, the clean blade of his nose, the hollows of his cheeks, the sensual fullness of his mouth.
“Let me,” he said. He tugged her shirt from her trousers and began undoing the buttons. As her skin was revealed, each long finger gently brushed against it, creating fever bursts.
She glanced down. He had already removed his moccasins. Beyond that, he wore only the hide shirt and breechcloth—which, she noticed, already pulled tight against the growing hardness of his erection. She knew he wanted her, but to see corporeal evidence made her head light and her pulse erratic.
“I’m not used to being tended. I always…took care of myself.” Her skin prickled with sudden bashfulness, knowing that she spoke of more than removing clothing.
And he understood. He growled, “I will give you everything. Take off your boots.”
She raised a brow at his commanding tone. A bath had been her idea, after all. Still, with the hunger and raw need in his voice and eyes, echoing what she felt turning her bones liquid, she was willing to concede. Just this once.
So she pulled off her boots and socks and threw them aside. Both barefoot, he became taller, and she had to tilt her head back farther to look up into his eyes. She did not feel overwhelmed, yet there was a subtle shift between them, the delineated borders between male and female that served to draw them closer together, polarized.
He resumed unbuttoning her shirt, a frown gathered between his dark brow as he focused on his task. The loosening fabric brushed against her nipples, already beaded into sensitivity. She bit her lower lip at the sensation. Then the shirt was open, revealing a slim column of skin that ran, uninterrupted, from her throat to below her navel. He dragged one fingertip down this expanse, a line of fire.
Nathan peeled the shirt off of her, delicate but forceful in his movement, and let it drift to the floor.
“Ah, God,” he sighed, ragged.
She was bare now, from the waist up, and let him look his fill. And he did look. Not just at her breasts, but everywhere: arms, shoulders, the bows of her clavicle, her ribs forming arcs beneath her skin. She realized she was much thinner than fashion dictated, if fashions were much the same now as they had been four years ago. Life in the wilderness stripped away extraneous flesh. Pampered, soft women, of yielding, plush limbs could never endure. Only strength mattered here. So she was not ashamed as Nathan looked at her lean body, but proud that she had the mettle to survive.
What he saw, he liked. His rasped breathing and the straining length of his cock within the breechcloth told her so. And she was glad. She wanted his desire.
“Touch me,” she said.
But he gave his head a small shake, almost as if waking. She scowled. What was he doing? Would he just strip her and stare, letting her burn? She felt exposed, undefended, and fought the urge to cover herself. Let him see her. She must. For him. For herself.
He saw her struggle, and admiration showed in his face at her willingness to keep herself open to him. He took up one of the cloths and dipped it into the kettle of water. Then, with deliberate, unhurried strokes, he drew the wet cloth over her bared skin. Everywhere he touched grew warm, and not merely from the water. Starting with her arms, then, rotating her, over her back, and then he returned to her front and ran the cloth along her throat. She watched him. His eyes were black, black and sharp as obsidian knives, and he drank in the sight of her with a voracity that made her tremble.
He dipped the cloth back into the water and then, at last, drew it over her breasts. Warm, damp fabric cupped her, rubbed deliciously against her nipples. She did not try to stop her soft moan. Yet he did not linger there. Instead, he moved the cloth over her ribs and in circles over the top of her belly. Astrid wanted to curse in frustration at the methodical pace, which only served to build her need higher.
Then he cupped her breasts with his hot, capable hands, his fingers coming up to play over her nipples. She stiffened, arched, and when he bent and took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue lapping at it, she hissed and threaded her fingers into his hair, pressing him closer. Each lick reverberated through her and concentrated between her legs, where she sweetly ached. She could come from this alone.
The exquisite torture ended. He straightened as she made a choked noise of protest. His eyes were heavy-lidded as though to bank the conflagration within them, his lips wet from his ministrations.
“Now me,” he rumbled, handing her the cloth.
The fabric soft and damp in her hands, she realized he would bare himself to her as she had done to him. A show of trust. That he could allow her access to all of him.
His shirt was made without buttons or fastenings of any kind, for ease of removal when shifting forms. She let her hands drift underneath the soft hide garment and hover just over his skin. He growled. But it was a tactic she could not adhere to for long. She had to touch him. Her palms flattened against his flesh, and she allowed them freedom to explore the masculine topography they discovered. Everything she felt was burning hot, satiny smooth, and solid as faith.
More growling came from him, and did not stop as he watched her hands on him. She pushed back the hide shirt, and he helped by practically tearing it off. Then there were no obstructions for her to look and touch as much as she pleased. And she pleased. How completely male he was. With one hand, she ran the wet cloth over him, and the other traced patterns of desire over his skin.
Experimentally, she scraped her teeth over his pectorals, nipped lightly at the ridges of his twitching abdomen.
He snarled, then snatched the cloth from her hand. “Not so quickly,” he panted. “I want this to last.” As he dipped the cloth into the kettle, he said, “Take off your trousers.”
Her heart jumped as a surge of arousal filled her. “Aren’t you supposed to tend to me?”
“You have to do it.”
He would see her stripped entirely, in every way. Ensure they both savored each touch, each sight.
This was not the simple quenching of bodily desire. It was much more. She unfastened her trousers and pushed them, and her drawers, down past her hips, until she stepped out of them and cast them aside. Now she was entirely nude. She glanced up to see him watching her with an intensity that verged on frightening, if it wasn’t so exciting.
Reverential, he knelt before her and ran the cloth over her hips, down her legs, and back up again, his touch devotional and, she suspected, somewhat proprietary. She pushed that thought from her mind, focusing instead on the sensations he created, the demand in his eyes.
“Such incredible legs,” he murmured. “A huntress.”
“And you are my prey.”
“I’ll let you catch me.” He turned her around and ran the cloth over her buttocks, and the growl he made was loud and insistent.
A shocked laugh escaped her mouth as she turned back to face him. His growl wasn’t poetry, but she didn’t want flowered words or exotic metaphors. She wanted real desire. And she had it.
He rubbed the cloth over her belly. She began to shake as need built. The cloth dipped lower, over her mound, but only brushed it before going lower to the insides of her thighs. She could not tell if the warm trickling she felt there came from the cloth or her own devastating arousal, yet when she heard him draw in breath through his nose and curse his approval, as though scenting her, she had her answer. She widened her legs to give him further access.
Nathan rewetted the cloth and then finally worked it over her, between her cleft, through her folds. Against the fiery bud of her clit. She gasped and had to grip his tense, rippling shoulders to keep herself from collapsing.
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered. “Yes.”
“More,” he rumbled. With one hand, he gripped her buttocks, and the other hel
d her hip as he drew forward, bringing his mouth against her.
She…she screamed. There was no way to stop herself. Sound burst from her as pleasure decimated reserve. No hiding. His tongue dipped into her, discovered her, a living, wet creature that knew her most secret self. He teased, he adored, he consumed. She writhed as he held her fast in his hands, more and more noises of ecstasy being pulled from her like silken banners. Her fingers tangled in his hair.
She felt walls around her collapse. She wanted to flee, retreat, but his onslaught saw no cessation, no mercy. It was too much, this pleasure. It was not enough. Dimly, she thought, How can I protect myself? And the answer—she could not. He refused her withdrawal. Sensing her fear, he plunged onward. Sucking her clit into his mouth, stroking it with his tongue. And she arched into it, offering herself without regard for anything, including her heart.
The orgasm hit her so hard, it robbed her of sound. She could only bow backward like a supplicant as he held her upright. Awareness ebbed. All she knew was pleasure, the pleasure he gave her.
Her legs shook, yet she managed to remain standing. His breath feathered across her belly as he pressed kisses there, kisses that soothed as well as inflamed. She was torn between wanting to curl up into a protective ball and throwing her arms around him with murmured endearments. Who was she? What did she want? He kept chipping away at the barriers she’d flung up until she was left with the mystery of identity.
He started to draw her down to where he knelt, but she resisted. He wanted completion, the joining of their bodies. But if he devastated her, she would do the same to him.
Instead of joining him on the floor, she reached down and took back the cloth.
He looked up at her, surprised, disgruntled, and, yes, excited. Astrid saw that he liked the fact that she had enough strength to resist capitulation, that she could meet his force with her own. The angles of his face became even sharper. His breath came in quick, shallow bursts.
“On your feet,” she commanded.
He didn’t have to obey. The power of this man radiated out like the mountains. No one could make him do anything he did not want to do. Yet he chose to submit. To her. She could not fail to understand the significance of this.
Eyes locked with hers, he slowly rose. Waves of heat and masculine desire rolled off of him, and a subtle, spicy scent that brought to mind animals in the springtime, feverishly mating in celebration of the sun. She caught his scent and it played havoc with her senses. She thought herself satisfied after her climax, but fresh need slammed into her. A bond tightened, one that existed between her and Nathan alone.
Once he stood, it was time for her to act. She undid the breechcloth and it fell to the ground. Her attention was wholly riveted by the sight of him, naked, aroused, firelight sculpting him into the primal essence of man. When they had coupled before, on the banks of the rapids, she had been impatient and frenzied, hardly seeing anything but her own demands. Now she saw him completely.
His erect cock was…beautiful. Full and gently curved, stretching up toward his navel. It twitched with impatience under her gaze, which nearly made her smile, but she wanted him too much.
Astrid’s eyes climbed back up to his and he stared back at her. What she saw made her tremble.
Everything. Everything was there, in his eyes. He held nothing back from her. Not his desire, not his fear, not his heart. He had given it to her, whether she felt prepared for the gift or not. He was completely unafraid in his vulnerability, and this made him even stronger.
He is much more courageous than I.
She knelt down and, after dousing the cloth in the water, began to slowly bathe him. There was no superfluity of flesh on him. He was all sinew and strength. His skin glowed like polished copper, glistening, as she rinsed him. She followed the lines of his tense thigh muscles, the hard curves of his calves, up the back of his legs to his firm buttocks.
She moved back to face him, still on her knees, and ran the damp cloth down the length of his penis. He hissed, but she did not stop, gripping the shaft and stroking it with the cloth, then moving lower to gently cup his sac.
A string of curses from him, and then he could not speak, because she dropped the cloth and, without hesitation, took his cock entirely into her mouth. Almost entirely. He was too large to fit completely, so she wrapped her hand around the base. God and goddess, the taste of him…Musky and male. Exquisite.
She ran her tongue along the shaft, then teased over the perfect round head, where she tasted a pearl of salt. She began to dip her head down, to take him in farther, but he pulled away.
Astrid gazed up at him through hazed eyes. Why had he stopped her?
“I want,” he rasped. He quickly bent and took up the end of her braid. In an instant, he’d undone the plait and combed his fingers through her loose hair. It fell about her shoulders in golden waves, teasing the tops of her breasts, and he rumbled his approval. She became, suddenly, woman embodied. And also entirely herself, without the armor of her braid.
She took him back into her mouth, and lavished him with the gift of her tongue and hands. She was rewarded for her efforts with yet more hoarse swearing as he shook and tensed and gleamed with sweat.
Nathan cupped the back of her head, lightly but firmly guiding her. His hips moved as she sank down, then up, and down again. Again, she tasted it, the saline drop that proved he was close to release, and she sucked at it. She needed his climax, his surrender, as much as he did, even as renewed slick moisture gathered in her pussy. She could come simply from bringing him to orgasm. She would.
Then he pulled from her mouth and was kneeling before her, eyes afire, breath labored. “This. Now.” His hands still cupping her head, he brought them together in a kiss.
She clung to him as they savaged each other’s mouths. They were almost too hard with each other, scraping teeth and crushing lips, and yet it was a gorgeous savagery that they both needed. Their bodies pressed close, both slick with sweat, and at that full contact of skin to skin, they groaned into each other. His cock urged against the curve of her stomach, hot and thick. She cradled her hips into him. He found his way between her soaked folds, sliding between them. Never had she been so wet, so wanting. She had pried herself apart for him, and he had done the same. They could not hide from each other.
She gripped his shoulders, lifting her head to whisper, “Us, now.” She pressed him down, and he went willingly onto his back, legs stretched out, arms open to receive her.
Astrid took a moment just to look at him. This man who had roared into her quiet life, who had pulled her from her solitude through force of will and strength of heart. Lying on his back did not lessen his potency. He commanded from wherever he had positioned himself, and now he beckoned to her, a demand but also a request. This was her choice.
She was afraid. She wanted to leap. She hesitated, knowing that what they were about to do meant much more than their earlier, frantic lovemaking. Going back into the fortress she had constructed around herself would be impossible after this. And that meant inviting more pain.
“Brave,” he murmured. “You are brave, Astrid Anderson Bramfield.”
“I am,” she said. And she straddled him. Their gazes held as his hands gripped her hips and she braced her palms on his shoulders. Then she sank down onto him. They both moaned.
He filled her, filled her absolutely. Yet she could no more be still than hold back an avalanche. She had to move. She slid up and down, and each stroke caused more and more of herself to dissolve. It could not be possible for anything to feel this good. Yet, as he had proved many times, to him, there was no such thing as impossible. Because pleasure kept soaring higher and higher, as she rode him and he thrust up, and they were joined, deeply joined.
Astrid lost the power to hold herself upright. She draped herself over the hard length of him, and he wrapped his arms around her. With her head tucked into the curve of his neck, she gave herself over, freeing herself. Her release tore through her, viol
ent, merciless, and wonderful. She threw her head back and cried out, tightening around him.
He gave her a few breaths, only a few, before rumbling, “Everything, Astrid. I’ll give you everything.”
He pulled out, a devastating loss, and she found herself positioned on all fours, while his hands stroked everywhere over her slick body and she writhed. He was behind her, one hand again gripping her hips, the other pressed against her belly. He paused, the sleek head of his penis positioned at her opening. She tried to push herself back, to impale herself on him, but he kept himself just out of reach.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
She growled her frustration.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, voice hard with hunger. When she faltered, he would not show her pity. “This?” he rasped, stroking her with the head of his cock. “Is this what you want, Astrid? Tell me.”
“Yes,” she moaned.
“Tell me.”
“I want you,” she finally gasped. “I want you inside me. I want you to take me. Now.”
“Now.” Dark satisfaction. And he plunged into her. Again. Again. Hard, insistent thrusts that made her pant. The hand that splayed on her belly moved lower, so that his rough fingertips rubbed at her clit. His other hand drifted up from her hip to wrap in her hair. She felt her head tugged back, baring her throat.
Sounds came from him, animal sounds that thrilled her beyond reason. Against her back, she felt him cover her with his body, and then his teeth on her neck. Holding her as he marked her and made her his mate.
Impossibly, she came again. Moments later, she felt a sweet stab of pain as he bit her harder while emptying himself into her. Wracked with pleasure. His release went on and on. Then he was wrung out, panting, cradling her to him as he nuzzled her.
Slowly, they sank down to the ground together, so that they were cupped like shells. His hand pressed against her chest as if to feel the racing of her heart, the heart over which she no longer had control.
