“It looks to be healing well.” He scrutinized her face, as she peered at her shoulder, and wondered if her unnatural silence was because she’d been afraid of what she might see beneath the dressing.
Yet it didn’t make sense. She’d shown no feminine fear earlier that day when Marcellus had examined her. Perhaps, with her knowledge of healing, she was used to seeing such battle wounds? But even so, it was different when the wound was inflicted on herself.
“Yes. It appears Roman knowledge of such matters is impressive.”
He waited for the barbed comment that was sure to follow her remark, but it didn’t arrive. Nimue merely pressed her lips together as if complimenting Roman medicine pained her more than any arrow.
Why then had she deigned to say it in the first place? He certainly didn’t expect any gratitude from her on that matter.
Unwelcome suspicion ate through his brain. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
She gave him a look designed to paralyze. “Like what?”
The suspicion solidified but he fought against it. If Nimue had discovered she was a slave she wouldn’t be giving him the silent treatment. She would be clawing out his eyes.
There had to be another reason why her mood had degenerated so swiftly. “Did anyone speak to you? Insult you?” No one insulted his woman. But if anyone had, they would soon learn the error of their presumption.
“No one insulted me while you were gone.” She flicked her gaze over him, from his head to his boots and then up again. Her beautiful green eyes darkened, and an answering tug of need gripped low in his gut. “Most of your legionaries look through me, as if I don’t even exist.”
The tightness in his chest relaxed. Was that all? She was only irked at being ignored by his men. She was undoubtedly used to being constantly admired.
He had no problem with other men admiring her. Once they returned to the garrison and Nimue became his concubine he would ensure she wanted for nothing. Gowns, jewels—anything she desired. Men would lust after her, but they would keep their hands and thoughts to themselves if they valued their lives.
Even his commander hadn’t commented on Nimue when they’d spoken a few moments ago. It was as if the blatant desire Tacitus had witnessed on the older man’s face when he’d seen Nimue in bed had never occurred.
Surprising, but a relief. It would not have been pleasant to outright deny the commander’s request, had he wanted a night with his Celt.
“I assure you, they know you exist.” His fingers trailed over her left shoulder, along her biceps and gently clasped her hand. She didn’t wince from the pain she must be experiencing from her wound, although she dropped her gaze to focus on his jaw. She was in optimum health to recover so swiftly from her injury. He knew she was of noble birth and the strong, supple condition of her body suggested she had never faced the rigors of debilitating disease or starvation. And again, he wondered what she had been doing wandering alone in the aftermath of battle.
Faint unease echoed in his mind but he instantly banished the thought. Nimue had not been the healer traveling with Caratacus’ queen. Because if she had…
No. He refused to consider it. Her proximity to where the barbarian queen and her daughter had been discovered was pure coincidence. Another healer had been accompanying them, and had escaped capture.
“But they would not attack me?”
All thoughts of Nimue’s possible connection to the queen vanished. Gods, it had never occurred to him that she’d been afraid of attack from his own men. Hadn’t he told her she was safe so long as she remained within the camp?
Obviously, his words hadn’t been sufficiently clear.
“No. None of them would dare to approach you, let alone touch you.” Gently he raised her arm and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “They all know you’re mine. To dishonor you would be a direct attack on my name.”
He could give her no higher assurance of her safety. His name, his lineage, ensured her protection was absolute. Yet the swift look she stabbed him with, before once again focusing on his jaw, suggested she imagined he had just leveled a coarse insult her way.
“You don’t intend to pass me around your compatriots for sport?” The question, loaded with vulnerability, punched through him, and yet she didn’t cast him an anxious glance and neither did her voice tremble.
She sounded haughty, proud—as if she had issued a demand instead of displaying the depth of her deeply buried fear.
It didn’t matter how she denied it. Someone had frightened her. He intended to discover who that someone was.
“I don’t intend that any other man will have you, Nimue.” Fleetingly he recalled that within three months he was due to return to Rome. But he wasn’t looking that far ahead. For now, Nimue was his and no other man had rights over her. “Do you understand? No matter his rank or heritage. The only bed you will share is mine.”
Chapter Fifteen
Nimue withdrew her hand and flexed her fingers, as if they ached. Once again she was looking at him, and he couldn’t decipher the expression on her face.
He recognized the lust in her eyes, though, and his cock thickened with anticipation.
Not yet. He had no intention of taking her when she needed to eat, to rest—to bathe. No intention of losing control the way he had earlier. No matter how she tempted him otherwise. He was, after all, a Roman. And a Roman should never be at the mercy of his lust.
Without breaking eye contact, she began to tug his tunic from her body. It was an inelegant process with her damaged shoulder but he couldn’t tear his fascinated gaze away.
He knew he should stop her. This wasn’t what he’d intended. But the words lodged in his throat as she finally managed to pull the linen over her head and toss it onto the ground.
The lamplight bathed her body in a golden glow; her tangled, windswept hair framed her face and gave her a strangely ethereal appearance. She stood before him, proud and uninhibited, her breasts full and ripe and ready for his touch.
“Is that a promise, Roman?” Her gaze never left his. He could scarcely fathom what she was asking him, but right now he would promise her anything.
“Yes.”
She trailed her finger over her lips in a deliberately slow, sensuous manner designed to inflame. His glance dropped to focus on her pouting lips, even as her finger drifted over the proud angle of her chin and along the column of her throat.
“Can I trust the word of a Roman tribune?” Her voice was low, smoky. Bewitched, his gaze followed the languid progress of her finger.
“You can.” If any other man touched her, Tacitus would castrate him. If any man insulted her, Tacitus would rip his tongue from his filthy mouth. “I give you my word as a patrician and on the names of my forefathers, Lucius Marius.”
Her left hand splayed across her belly while her right continued its provocative exploration over the pale globe of her breasts. She circled her erect nipple and then clasped the rosy bud between her finger and thumb.
His breath rasped between clenched teeth. He’d watched women strip and pleasure themselves before, but only in company when they were the evening’s entertainment. Never had any of his lovers stood before him in such a manner. Never had any of them taken the initiative to put on such an erotic, personal show.
Never before had the desire to simply stand and watch or take control of the situation warred so violently between every frenzied thud of his heart.
She held her breast, her nipple peeking provocatively between her thumb and finger. He battled the overwhelming urge to grasp his cock and gain temporary relief. He’d never been tempted to do such a thing in company before. He had no intention of starting now.
But gods, he was so hard. Every particle of his being was focused on his groin, pounding through his erection, making it all but impossible to concentrate on anything else.
On anything but Nimue. But Nimue was intertwined with the lust thundering along his veins, fogging his senses. Nimue was the reason he was strugglin
g for control, a control that was sliding from his grasp with every erratic thud of his heart.
She abandoned her breast and her hand molded the curve of her waist and flare of her hips. Her body was not that of a wild barbarian. It was slender, supple, delicate and enchanting and despite his best intentions an agonized groan escaped his throat.
Fuck his good intentions. He would claim her first, and then see to her other needs.
“Wait.” Her breathy command halted him, before he even realized he’d moved toward her. “Watch.”
He was beyond watching. If he didn’t have her soon he would disgrace himself for all time. And then his jagged thought processes stalled, nailed him to the spot, and he was unable to move a muscle as his gaze riveted on her.
Nimue parted her thighs and two fingers delved into the pale golden curls that cradled her sex. She caressed her swollen pussy lips, back and forth, and he glimpsed the hood of her clitoris, ripe with seductive promise.
“Nimue.” It was a command to stop, yet sounded like an entreaty to continue. He couldn’t drag his fascinated gaze from her fingers.
“Yes.” There was a wisp of triumph in her whisper, but he scarcely heard above the pounding in his temples, the throbbing need in his groin. With agonizing disregard for his sanity, she slowly slid one finger inside her pussy, and his cock jerked with tortured frustration.
“I need to have you. Now.” His words were jagged, rasped against his raw throat. The head of his cock was wet, his balls were tight and hard and he was so close to coming lightning streaked through his groin, an excruciating ecstasy.
“Will you fuck me hard and fast?” Her breathless whisper inflamed his mind, and before his hypnotized gaze she slid a second finger into her lush body. “Will you fuck me until I scream your name out loud, Roman?”
“Yes.” It was a primal growl. “I’ll fuck you until you can’t think straight, until you beg for mercy.”
She dragged her fingers from her glistering sheath and flattened her hand against his chest. Instantly he gripped her wrist and pulled her toward him. Their gazes meshed, her eyes so dark they appeared black, and with the last remnants of his tattered control he slowly sucked her finger deep into his mouth.
Her eyes widened in shock but he scarcely comprehended as her musky scent flooded his senses and drenched what sliver of sanity he retained.
His.
“No.” Nimue leaned into him, rising onto her toes. “Tonight I’m going to fuck you. Until you scream my name. Until you beg me for mercy.”
She shoved him backward and he wound his arm around her waist and pulled her with him as they tumbled onto his makeshift bed. Never before had words so inflamed, but everything Nimue said scorched his blood. “Mercy is the last thing I’ll ever beg from you.”
As an answer, she wrenched up his tunic, but her eyes never left his. Her glorious hair cascaded over her shoulders, caressing her breasts, and she looked wild and wanton and utterly irresistible.
She straddled him and looked down at him as if she was Aphrodite herself, the Greek goddess of love. The treacherous thought was faint, insubstantial, as Nimue angled her wet pussy against the head of his cock.
“Are you ready for me, Roman?” Her whisper was sultry and she rocked her hips, rubbing her clit over his swollen glans. She looked infinitely fuckable and his body throbbed to take her, but inexplicably a shard of disquiet flickered through his mind. Why had she called him Roman, and not Tacitus? But it was too fleeting, too inconsequential to question her when she looked at him with such blatant lust.
“Yes.” Through the pounding in his brain, he knew she should be the one flat on her back. She was injured, and it should be him bracing his weight on the bed. Yet he couldn’t move, couldn’t summon the strength as Nimue slid down his erection, taking him deep into her slick core.
A strangled groan thudded in his ears. Was that him? He gripped her delectable arse cheeks, her smooth skin silken and taut against the palms of his hands. Her tight cleft grasped his length, and he dragged his gaze from her bewitching eyes and looked to where their bodies joined.
Gods, he’d never seen a more arousing sight. Nimue’s thighs were spread wide, and a tantalizing glimpse of pale curls shielded her swollen folds that stretched to accommodate his girth.
She wrapped one finger and thumb around the root of his erection, and her touch wasn’t light or fragile but brutal and his hips bucked involuntarily as he collapsed back onto the bed.
He could no longer see his cock buried inside her pussy, but the image burned into his brain.
“Nimue.” Her name pounded in his mind, tangled on his tongue. Her pink lips parted but she didn’t speak. Instead she increased the rhythm, the glide of her silken slit along his cock glorious. She had to slow down. But he couldn’t find the words or the will to stop her, and he abandoned her bottom to cradle her breasts.
She arched her back and he tightened his grip, relishing the feel of her firm flesh. She filled his palms, her full breasts warm against his fingers. The sensation of her heated sheath clasping him, her slender fingers working him, combined into a maelstrom of primitive need. He grazed his thumbs over her erect nipples and wanted to pull her down so he could suck those rosy peaks into his mouth. But the view was too intoxicating.
She looked every inch a heathen Greek goddess, exotic and uninhibited and when she looked down at him and slid the tip of her tongue over her lips his control shattered. He surged upward and her balance rocked, pushing her forward. Only his hands around her breasts supported her and his harsh breath rasped into the sex-drenched air surrounding them. He buried himself in her tight pussy, felt her contract around his cock. Raw lust consumed him and he squeezed her ripe nipples as he came in a wave of unbridled release.
His tortured groan echoed in his ears as the aftereffects of brutal pleasure thundered through his blood. Chest heaving, breath labored, he focused on Nimue as she loomed over him, her hand now flat against his shoulder, bracing her weight.
“Did I please you?” Her whisper drifted through his mind like a summer breeze and his hands slid from her breasts to clasp her shapely waist. He was well pleased. And she knew it. The only discord was he still wore his tunic, but that was easily remedied.
“I trust,” his voice reflected the warm sense of contentment that flooded through his blood, “that you’ll never please another man in such a manner, Nimue.” The memory of her sensuous strip and erotic foreplay caused sparks to reignite low in his groin. How many men had she entertained like that in the past? He would kill any man she so entertained in the future.
Through the linen of his tunic her nails dug into his shoulder as she pushed herself off him. His hands trailed from her waist to her hips and caressed the firm contours of her thighs. Whatever had displeased or upset her earlier had now been driven from her mind.
Satisfaction snaked through him and as she turned to face him, on her knees on the floor beside the bed, he shoved himself upright. Once again lust had consumed him before he’d fed her. It was becoming a habit. But not one he could seriously condemn.
They would eat, she would bathe, and then the night would be theirs.
Chapter Sixteen
“If that is your wish.” Her voice pierced his languid thoughts and he frowned at her. She was looking at him, but it was nothing like the way she’d looked at him the last time they’d fucked. There was no soft smile on her face, no unfocused glaze in her eyes. Tension radiated from her as if it took a great deal of willpower for her not to leap on him and scratch out his eyes.
Suspicion stirred. He took her hand and tugged her toward him, but she was surprisingly resistant. “Come back to the bed.” He’d been so ensnared by her sensuous seduction that he’d failed to notice Nimue hadn’t come. “Let me please you as you’ve pleased me.”
She wrenched her hand from his loose grasp. “There’s no need.” The look of venom she glared his way belied her words and he stared at her, bemused by her contradictory mood.
She bared her teeth but it was nothing like the smiles she had bestowed his way earlier. Was she truly snarling at him?
“My blood is not poisoned,” she said, although poison dripped from every word. “Therefore what does it matter if my wound pains me or not?”
Irritation spiked through him. He might have been remiss during their recent coupling but it wasn’t as if he’d deliberately set out to deny her pleasure from the act. “It matters to me.” His voice was sharp and he swung his legs off the bed, imprisoning her between his thighs.
“Pray, do not think of it.” She pushed the words between gritted teeth and then shuffled backward until she was free of his embrace. “Do you wish to eat now?”
Did he want to eat? She glared at him as if she wanted to gut him and instead of telling him what was on her mind, she offered him food? He stared at her in disbelief. Nimue was naked, on her knees before him and the evidence of his lust soiled her thighs. He had never taken an unwilling woman, but for one gut-churning moment, he imagined she looked as if that was exactly what he’d done.
But she’d wanted him as much as he wanted her. Her arousal had scented the air, her body eager and willing. Despite her status in the eyes of Rome when they were together like this she was free. And she had a choice to deny him. A choice he knew she wouldn’t hesitate to claim if she wanted to.
He knew full well that some of his peers used women purely for their own pleasure. Whether the woman was a wife, lover or slave made no difference. A slave could expect nothing more. And to his knowledge, no gently bred Roman noblewoman would complain if her husband or lover had failed to satisfy her.
But Nimue was no Roman noblewoman. She wouldn’t pretend satisfaction merely to stoke a man’s pride.
So why was she holding her tongue when he knew she wanted to accuse him of denying her climax?
Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3) Page 12
