by Karin Tabke
With feather lightness, he swept his blunt fingertips across her nether lips, and Tarian thought she would die of shame. But the emotion was hurried along with an unbridled desire for more. He gave her more. He rubbed the tip of his thumb against her hardened nub; the action caused her body to jerk against him, as a hot stab of desire shot to her womb. She hissed in a long breath, and slowly exhaled.
Deliberately he moved his fingers slowly back and forth across her puckered flesh, and in the wake of his salacious caress, she felt herself moisten. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to relax more. A soft moan escaped her lips when he pressed his fingertip more firmly against that wanton piece of her, and she gave up all control. Wulfson’s lips made a hot wet trail from each of her breasts to settle into the deep cleavage there. “You have bewitched me,” he murmured hoarsely against her skin, and once again Tarian felt something move inside of her. He craved her. Who she was, what she was, did not matter any longer. This man touched her as no other had.
As the words left his mouth, his finger slid into her wet opening, and she knew a sublime sensation she had never imagined existed. The slick hot folds of her body clenched around him and she thought she would die of pleasure. She grabbed his shoulders, arching into him, her nails digging into his skin. He hissed in a breath just before his lips latched onto a nipple as he moved his finger in and out of her in a slow, delicious slide. Helplessly, she clung to him, and with a will of their own, her thighs opened wider wanting more of him, all of him, to fill her. But he made her wait. He made her body sizzle and burn as his fingers and lips tortured her flesh. He pushed her to a place she had never imagined, and though she felt as if she stood on the edge of precipice and wanted to jump off and fly with the eagles, she hung there suspended by wild intense longing.
He whispered words she did not understand in hoarse encouragement. His hips ground against her thighs.
“Take me now,” she gasped, trying to gulp air.
He rose from her, his eyes locked with hers. “Now,” she whispered between forced breaths. His finger slid from her body and she cried out. He gathered her close to him and with no help from her, the thick hot length of him slid into her. She arched into him and gasped. More in shock at the alien feeling of him penetrating her body. Then she cried out in pain. Quickly she bit her lip and did all that she could to muster her body to relax. She would give her inexperience away. But it could not be helped. He was too big for her. Her virgin body was unprepared for him. He stopped his penetration, his hips and arms quivering as he held himself off her yet still inside her.
She opened her eyes to find him staring at her in some confusion. Dread swirled around her. He would know she was virgin if she continued to act as one, and then all would be lost. Taking a deep breath, she sank her fingers into his hair and pulled his lips down to hers, and opened herself wider for him. “Come to me, sir knight, fill me with your glory.”
His lips crushed into hers and her cry as he pushed through her maidenhead was lost in his kiss. “Jesu,” he moaned against her lips. And once the barrier was broken he thrust deeper into her. Her body stretched to accommodate his width, and despite the pain and her shock, her body moistened more to help his penetration.
She held back the sudden onslaught of tears, not understanding her emotion. She would not allow herself to question what she had just done. Instead, she wrapped her arms around the man who took more than her breath away, and allowed him to carry her off to uncharted territory.
She relaxed as much as she could, closed her eyes, and let her body respond as nature intended it to. And when her body finally moved in time with his, giving what he took and taking it back from him, she could not say it was unpleasant. Indeed, the fire that he had sparked earlier burned hot inside her again.
The power of him, as his hips undulated and swirled against her, took any vestige of resistance away. He was the incarnation of every maid’s dream. And for this night he was hers. She did not want to think of what the morrow might bring.
His lips swept hers, picking her up and setting her to flight. Her body moved to a new level of sensation; a storm built inside her, and try as she might to push it to rain down on her she could not. She felt the quickening in his body: his thrusts became shorter, more intense, more focused. She clamped her inner muscles around him and arched. He cried out, his voice thick and full of passion as he came in a wild ravenous burst, the force of it so powerful she felt his seed warm inside her. He hung suspended above her, the tight planes of his face taut, his jaw tight, his great body jerking as hers milked every bit of his fluid from him.
The deed done, he collapsed against her, their slick bodies heaving as they each tried to recapture a normal breath.
Tarian lay still as her body cooled, and felt oddly unfulfilled. Wulfson rolled from her and lay on his back, his thigh touching hers. Slow moments dragged by. Time now was her enemy. The longer she stayed, the more time his body had to dilute the potion. She needed to leave him, and take all traces of her person from the room. Yet beneath his great body was her chemise. The warm stickiness of his seed mingled with her blood, dried between her thighs, and still he did not move. Finally, his deep, even breaths gave way to slumber. And for some unknown reason, she wanted to pound his chest and demand to know how he could forget her after such a traumatic experience.
She shook her head. He did not understand, and even if he did she doubted he would care. Men rarely did. ’Twas best this way. No emotional entanglement that they would regret.
As Tarian pulled away from him, she was stopped short by a sharp tug of her hair. She turned to fend him off but saw that ’twas her hair caught beneath his shoulder, not his hand that stayed her. Carefully she pulled the dark tresses from beneath him, but scowled when she saw the bloodstained fabric of her chemise crumpled beneath his thighs. ’Twould not be as easy to extract.
He dreamt again of soft thrusts of flared hips moving against him. The full breasts of a goddess pressed against his lips, demanding his attention. Soft cries of pleasure tickled his ear. His cock filled instantly, the heat and weight of it full against his hip. He smiled and reached for the warm body so close to him. He came up with only air. In an instant, Wulfson sat up in the bed to see the nymph slipping from his side. “Nay,” he softly said, and pulled her back amidst her distressed cries. He wanted his dream to continue.
Spurned on by something more than his ardor, Wulfson swept her up into his arms and tossed her back onto the bed. His eyes searched hers. They were oddly familiar…. He blinked back the sudden cloudiness in his vision.
“Please, sir knight, I beg you, let me go.”
He pressed her back into the pillows, his body by no means sated from one tumble.
His eyes raked her slender form, resting on curves that were meant for a man’s pleasure. His rod filled to hurting. He slid an arm around her waist and brought her to his lips. Her back arched and those sweet creamy globes quivered. The rose-colored tips were wide and round, the nipples puckered in reaction not to the chill in the room but to his assault.
“Nay.”
“Please,” she begged.
He caught the urgency in her husky voice, but the urgency between his thighs took precedence. He pressed her back into the pillows. “One more time, my sweet dream princess.” He sank his teeth into her creamy neck. She arched into him, her soft rose scent sending his senses reeling.
Her arms slid around his neck and Wulfson smiled against her. He raised his head to look into her odd crystalline-colored eyes. They glittered with tears, making them sparkle like precious gems cast against the white beaches of Dover in the afternoon sunlight. Her breasts heaved in her disheveled state, but he knew there was more to it than that. She did not completely find his rutting distasteful. Nay, she fought some other demon; he was not the culprit.
“Do you fear me?” he softly questioned.
Vigorously she shook her head, no.
He pressed his lips to her bare shoulder and nibbled her
soft skin. “Then why do you cry?”
“I—I know not.”
He closed his eyes and pressed his nose to the soft place where her neck met her shoulder, and laved his teeth down the thick vein of her neck. “Stay here with me. I would not hurt you.” His fingers trailed along her arms up to her shoulder, down her throat to the high swell of her breasts. He watched in silent wonder as her skin pebbled and her nipples hardened. He reached down to a nipple and suckled it. She moaned and moved beneath him.
In a slow movement, he rolled her over to her belly, even though she protested. “I will not harm you, princess. You will weep with pleasure.” His hands swept down the delicate curve of her back. He scowled as he traced a fingertip down what appeared to be the scar of a lash. His finger traced it down to the ripe swell of her bottom. Several more faded scars crisscrossed the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to one full cheek.
Her hips pressed into the mattress and her muffled moan of pleasure encouraged him. In long sweeping caresses, his hands smoothed the scars. His lips trailed along her back. He slid his arm under her belly and brought her up on her knees. He felt her body tremble. “Easy, princess,” he whispered against her bottom. Her musky essence as he parted her thighs wafted up to him and he inhaled her deeply. ’Twas not a scent he would likely forget.
He pressed his lips there and she gasped, pulling away from him, turning over wide-eyed. “’Tis not decent!” she cried.
He smiled and pressed her back into the pillows. “There is nothing indecent about a man loving all of a woman’s body.” He looked down at his burgeoning shaft, then speared her with his gaze. “Touch me as I have touched you.”
She moved back deeper into the pillows until the headboard stopped her. Wulfson chuckled, finding her innocence a breath of sweet fresh air. He took her hand and pressed it to him. He sucked in a harsh breath at the sight of her delicate fingers wrapped around him. His eyes caught her surprised ones.
“You are warm.” She squeezed, and had he not been on his knees her gesture would have brought him to them. “And soft.”
He scoffed. She smiled. “Like velvet.” He closed his eyes and pressed into her hand. Slowly she maneuvered her hand up and down, his hips following her movement. Soon he was on the verge of eruption when she stopped.
He opened his eyes, searching her face, and found only silent awe. “Do you still want me to leave you be?” he asked.
She rose up on her knees facing him. “Nay,” she breathed, her soft breath tickling his lips. His blood quickened, and if it was possible he swelled even more in her hand. At that moment he could not remember ever having to exercise such rigid self-control. If she did not yield to him soon, he would not be able to keep himself from her. “There is time yet.” She slid her lithe arms around his neck and pressed her body full against his. “I will not deny you what you seek. Take me.”
Sliding his arm around her waist, he slung her around and into the pillows, where he followed, and sank his throbbing cock into her warm moist folds and nearly came that instant. Never had he had such an urge to mate as he did at that moment. She cried out, but he felt the quickening in her blood as he moved inside her. “Come with me this time,” he murmured against her breast. He could not get enough of her sweetness. She was all things carnal. Her skin was as soft as silk, her fragrance that of roses in a spring shower, but her essence drove him mad. And the treasure between her thighs was tight, and hot, and pulled him incessantly down into the deep dark abyss that was pure paradise.
Seven
Wulfson woke to the thundering sound of Rolf filling the brazier with coal. “Cease that racket!” Wulfson hissed between clenched teeth. His head felt as if Turold stampeded through it, his mouth was as dry as the deserts in Africa, and his cock was swollen to painful. He grasped the throbbing member and flinched. He was full, but he was also tender.
He squeezed his eyes shut and remembered a vague dream of a princess coming to him in the night, offering herself to him not once but twice. He rubbed his aching head and swung his legs over the side of the bed, thinking the headache was worth the dream.
“Sir Wulfson?” Rolf asked quietly. “How may I attend you?”
Wulfson shook his head and waved the boy away. “Begone from me. I will see to myself as I did last eve.”
The boy, nay, young man, reddened and shuffled his feet. “Milord, I—”
“Silence! Begone.”
Never one to question his master’s command, the squire was gone in a twinkling. Wulfson lay back on the bed and pressed his right hand over his eyes. The soft scent of a woman filtered beneath his nose. He opened his eyes, and despite the pounding of a thousand hammers in his head, he grinned. While he could not remember the details, he was no fool. The essence of a woman clung to his hand, and he grasped his cock again. Yes, definitely used. His other hand reached across the bed, smoothing across the rumpled linens to the pillow and grabbing it. He pressed it to his nose: a rose scent clung to it. His dream woman wasn’t as immortal as she would lead him to believe.
“Milord?” Rolf called from the doorway. “Lord Alewith and his train have arrived.”
Wulfson scowled and tossed the pillow to the bed. “Did you send a woman here last eve?”
Rolf’s face crinkled in confusion. “Sir?”
“A woman, the opposite of a man, did you send one to me last eve?”
“Nay, sir.”
“Did my brothers?”
“Not that I am aware, sir. They saw to their pallets directly after the meal.”
Confusion reigned in his head. This place was casting spells on him. He dismissed the notion. “Fetch me hot water, and send Rorick to entertain them until I descend.”
Rolf bobbed his head and hurried to his chores.
Used to mustering under the direst of conditions, Wulfson took his time. He had given Lady Tarian enough time to recover. He’d waited a fortnight for this day. Now, she could await him, for he would not appear anxious. But as he tried, he continually found himself biting at the bit to go below, and with an anticipation that likened to the thrill of battle he felt the same sensation in his eagerness to come face to face with the enigma that had haunted him these last fourteen days. Strapping his sword belt around his waist, and his double scabbard across his back, then securing it at his chest, he strode from the room, wanting to get the meeting over and done with. The English were a sullen lot who would just as soon cut him where he stood as wait until he found slumber to stab him and his men in the back. He would welcome the sunny shores of Normandy over this moldy wet blanket of an island any day.
As he strode down the narrow passageway between the few chambers above the hall, Wulfson caught Gareth’s tall form hovering outside the lady’s chamber. Thorin stood stoically across from the guard, and nodded his head, his hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his great sword. His huge Viking ax rested snugly against his other hip. Wulf snorted in admiration. He’d seen heads fly off shoulders after meeting the great ax Thorin called Beowulf. ’Twas a fitting name.
“Heed my call, Captain. See your lady downstairs with no delay.”
Gareth stared unmoving at Wulfson. “Do I have your word no harm will come to her?”
“Nay,” Wulfson said, continuing down the hall and the circular stairway that led to the great hall. “You do not.”
A great group of people milled about there. His Blood Swords, along with Rangor, the lord’s cronies, several villagers, and the constant ebb and flow of servants. Through it all Wulfson could see not only a tall, noble Saxon who carried on a rather heated conversation with Rangor, but a young noblewoman of no more than ten and six, her long golden hair barely concealed beneath her snood. His blood warmed. For she did not wear her clothing in the bulky unflattering fashion of the women of this place but cut a more fashionable figure, like the noblewomen in Normandy, with her formfitting kirtle.
A roar from his men went up as he descended the last step, and Wulfson grinned. He had a sudden hunger for
sustenance. He grinned wider and rubbed his hand across his chest, feeling the odd sensation from the scar, vestige of so many years ago when that Saracen devil seared his sword into his chest. The burn he would never forget, and the scar was a constant reminder to him to always be prepared. All eyes turned to him as he strode arrogantly into the hall. His men, as he himself, were always dressed for battle. Leisure time in courtly garb was not part of their hard life. He and his brothers, they were always ready to mount and seek out the enemy, and he was not blind to the fact that there was far more treachery afoot within the ancient halls of Draceadon this day than on any battlefield. So be it. He was prepared.
Rangor stepped forward, a snide smile twisting his lips. “Sir Wulfson, I see the accommodations serve you well.”
“Well enough.” He turned to the tall, elegantly dressed Saxon. He nodded to the man, who, while dressed in finery and holding himself in a most regal way, also bore the wary eye of a soldier.
He bowed to Wulfson as Rangor made the introduction. “May I present Lord Alewith of Turnsly, Marlow, and Sharpsbury, and recent guardian of the widowed Lady Tarian, and his daughter the Lady Brighid.”
Wulfson nodded. “My lord, why have you come this day?”
The older man’s face reddened, but he did not stumble on his words. “I have come to take my ward home.”
Wulfson smiled, a gesture not meant to endear. The golden-haired girl, Brighid, caught her breath and brought her hand to her mouth as their gazes clashed. “The lady will not be leaving Draceadon.”
The girl gasped. “But you must allow Tarian to come home!”
