by Sara Bennett
Rose’s heart jolted. He took her mouth with his before she could reply. He had kissed her before, but not like this. He was forcing her mouth to cling to his, his tongue searching, overcoming her fears with the sheer strength of his passion. Rose swayed and leaned against him, afraid she might otherwise crumple at his feet. Her hands reached out and found nothing but warm flesh and ungiving muscle. He found her breast, cupped it through her robe, fingers rolling the hard jut of her nipple, and Rose moaned deep in her throat as her body arched involuntarily toward him.
He lowered his head, his mouth open and hot against her rounded flesh, suckling on her through the thin cloth, while his hands drew her in closer against him, until their lower bodies felt joined together from the hip down. Rose swayed back, his arm about her waist holding her safe from falling, and Gunnar obeyed the unspoken invitation she was offering. He kissed her throat, and then ran his tongue down into the opening of her robe, finding her naked skin.
The room was spinning. The ache between her thighs was reaching a dangerous level, making her reckless. Rose forgot her determination to remain in control, she forgot who was commanding whom. Forgot everything but her own urgent needs. His manhood was rigid against her belly and she reached down, and found him. Her touch was light, a mere brush of her fingers, and yet he seemed to throb against them. She heard his gasp against her breast.
Curiosity briefly overcame caution—she brushed him again, her fingers lingering, encircling the hard, satin rod. He moaned, his body going even harder, his muscles rigid with tension. Astonished, Rose froze and then heard him give a shaken laugh. “What do you command now?” he asked her in a hoarse, rough voice. He lifted his head, and his handsome face was as tense as his body, his eyes almost pleading. “Tell me quickly, Rose, because I am fast losing what control I have left.”
Stunned, she gazed up at him. Gunnar Olafson losing his control, just because of a little touch like that? But how could that be? He was always in control. That was one of the reasons she was so afraid to give herself completely over to their passion.
Tentatively, very carefully, as if she were handling a dangerous object, Rose wrapped her hand more firmly about him. He closed his eyes and shuddered. Rose ran her fingers up and down the long, thick length of him, gaining confidence, no longer afraid, sensing that whatever she was doing, he was enjoying it. He didn’t want her to stop. Amazingly, astoundingly, Gunnar Olafson, that male god, was now in her sway. And Rose liked that very much.
He groaned again as her hand tightened, and rested his brow on the crown of her head. His breath was hot, his arms were trembling. “I want…” He swallowed and tried again. “I want to be inside you, lady. Command that.”
Rose stroked him once again, smoothing her finger-tips over the broad head of his manhood, where it wept desire. He moved in her hand. She wanted to smile, she wanted to laugh, she felt as if she had been given a secret spell. This was power she had never known she had, power she had never had the opportunity to explore. And now, for some reason of his own, Gunnar was allowing her to do so.
So absorbed was she, she did not notice that her robe had fallen completely open. Not until his hands slid inside, eagerly exploring the fullness of her breasts with their dark pink nipples, running over the gentle curve of her belly and down, through the curls of dark hair to the moist, hot core of her.
Rose gasped and momentarily stopped her own explorations, pressing against his hand. He was watching her in a hungry, intent way. As if he wanted to remember her like this forever. But that made no sense, thought Rose dazedly, and then he moved his thumb against her, and she forgot to think.
“I command you to take me as a man takes a woman,” she whispered in a ragged voice, reaching for him again. “I command you, Gunnar.”
She expected…Rose didn’t know what she expected. Maybe for him to lay her gently on the bed and climb atop her. Instead he moved so swiftly she cried out. He reached down, gripping her firmly about the waist, and lifted her into the air until their faces were level. Her eyes opened wide in shocked surprise.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he said with quiet intensity, “and your legs around my waist.”
Rose slipped her arms about his neck, fingers twining in his hair, and then more slowly, uncertainly, she curled her legs about his big, muscular body. In such a position, she could not help but press herself intimately to him.
Blue eyes glittered into brown, and then his palms followed her curves down, closing on the soft flesh of her bottom. He shifted her, correcting her position, and just like that his manhood was prodding at her sheath, easing toward the slippery heat at her center.
She gasped, pushing at his shoulders, feeling herself trying to stretch to his size, her body stiffening in rejection. He hardly seemed to notice. Sweat was sheening his face, and his breath was shallow. The muscles in his arms tensed and hardened—he was holding her entire weight—and he lowered her a little more, filling her.
The sensation was beyond her experience, beyond anything she had dreamed of. Gunnar was making her his, and Rose had the feeling that she would never be the same afterward.
He moved again, easing her down on him, and she clung, moaning. His mouth covered hers, his tongue sought hers. And still he held her against him, her entire weight taken by his arms and hips and legs. Surely in another moment he would put her on the bed? Edric had never done such a thing as this—not that he would ever have been capable of holding her in such a way. In Rose’s experience men and women mated in bed in the darkness, beneath the covers, and they were quick and silent about it. They did not stand in the center of a room, naked, blatant, consumed by their passion.
Gunnar eased her up, until he had withdrawn almost completely, and then lowered her again. Deeper now, taking his time, accustoming her body to his. Rose let her head fall back, her hair a heavy tangle. Every thought was concentrated on the place between her thighs, where he was joined to her. He took the opportunity to bend his head and suckle at her breasts, his tongue deliberately circling each nipple and sending shivers of unbearable excitement rippling across her skin.
Rose felt her body clench about him, desperately trying to keep him inside her as he withdrew again. She tried to push herself down more quickly, leaning forward to kiss his throat, her mouth open and wet and wanton. Their bodies were damp now, slipping against each other, and she was tugging at his hair, pulling his head down, his mouth. He kissed her, and it was beyond pleasure.
He moved her upon him, harder now, still deeper, and sensation began to hum through her bones. “Gunnar,” she managed, “please. Please…” And as if he had been waiting for just that, Gunnar tilted her hips closer toward him, moving her in some way so that when he entered her the next time he brushed against that swollen nub within her dark curls.
Rose cried out, arching and twisting in his hands, shaken with the tremendous force of the release he had given her. He lifted and lowered her again, once, twice, until he was so deep within her she felt him touch her womb. His seed spilled out into her as her sheath squeezed and clenched violently, and at the same time he threw back his head with a hoarse shout so loud Rose feared the whole of Somerford must have heard.
And yet, as she slumped against him, wet and gasping and shuddering, wondering if she had the strength to ever stand on her own again, Rose knew she did not care.
Chapter 12
Someone was nuzzling against her nape, breathing in her scent, sprinkling light kisses across her sensitive skin.
Rose opened her eyes.
The candle by the door had burned down to a flickering stub of yellow grease, and the room was full of shadows. She was on the bed—he had carried her there afterward, laying her down as if she were the most precious of creatures, before stretching out beside her and pulling the covers over them both. For a time he had seemed content to just lie there, his arm heavy about her waist, his thighs tucked warmly in behind hers, his breath soft against her hair.
They had sta
yed like that, as comfortable as if they had known each other all their lives. They hadn’t spoken. There didn’t seem to be anything to say. Rose was replete, limp, unable to dredge up a single worry or care, and Gunnar was content to let her rest. She had even dozed, dreaming of nothing but warm darkness, cradling her, rocking her.
But now he was moving again.
As well as his mouth on her skin, his hand had shifted to close on her breast, exploring the full firm flesh, teasing her nipple into a peak. And lower down, where the hairs on his thighs tickled the tender flesh of her bottom, his manhood had begun to grow thick and hard.
Despite herself, Rose thought again of the carving he had shown her. Ottar, standing with his rod in his hand, waiting to service his goddess. She giggled, thinking of Gunnar standing like that by the side of her bed, waiting for her command.
“You think this is funny?” His warm voice was a husky murmur in her ear.
He reached down, slipping his hand between her thighs, lifting her upper leg so that he could push his fingers into her slippery heat. Rose stiffened and arched back against him. Suddenly her breathing was unsteady, and satiety gave way to doubt.
“’Tis too soon!” she gasped.
He stopped. “Are you sore?” he asked her, the question far more personal than any she was used to hearing.
“No,” she said sharply, and then wished she hadn’t.
He chuckled softly, his breath tickling her, and heaved himself up so that he could look at her properly. Rose gazed up into his handsome face, her senses spinning out of control from such foolish things as the shape of his jaw, rough with golden stubble, and the way his copper hair hung in a tousled frame around his face. There was a little curve at the corners of his mouth—that half smile he gave her when he meant to prove a point—and his eyes, so blue, the gleam in them hot and hard, melted her resistance.
Between her legs, something much bigger than a finger sought and found her entrance. He thrust his hips, driving deeper, his smile growing as he watched the pretended indifference on her face dissolve into blind passion, and a need so desperate she could not contain it.
“There is nothing wrong in wanting a man,” he said, his voice only slightly strained. “It does not lessen you, Rose.”
Her breasts were aching and he plucked at the nipples, sending tremors of pure pleasure through her belly, to the place where they were joined. He pushed in still deeper, easing the last bit, until he was filling her completely.
“I want you,” he murmured, and buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent. “I admit it. Desire does not lessen me, it makes me more of a man.”
She cried out as he quickened his pace, driving into her with strength and purpose. His fingers slipped from her breasts, moving unerringly down to where the throbbing ache was growing. At his touch, Rose cried out breathlessly, arching back against him, opening her legs. She felt herself to be on the edge of that wild place he had taken her to before, but this time he seemed intent on keeping her from it. His fingers teased and then moved away, bringing her to the brink but never quite over.
Frustrated, Rose tried to follow his hand, tried to grab it with her own. He caught her wrists, holding her prisoner, his smiling mouth against her temple. He was all around her, engulfing her, and yet he was not in the place she wanted him the most.
“Gunnar!” she moaned. “I command you.”
He laughed again, holding himself inside her, feeling her body contracting about him. She felt so good. Better than any other woman, and there had been many. He already knew tonight wouldn’t be enough. He needed her every night, and more often if he could get her to accommodate him. Would she let him lead her from the hall at breakfast and take her behind the dais? Would she let him lift her from her horse in the woods and take her in the buttercups? Would she come to his narrow bed and climb atop him in the night, making him weep with his yearning for her?
“Ouch!” Gunnar jerked from the sting across his buttocks. Her smile was wickedly pleased as she met his surprised stare. She had managed to free her hand and had reached around and raked her nails over him. So much for taking the time to daydream. Gunnar brought his thoughts firmly back to the present moment, capturing her hand in a relentless but careful grip.
“No,” she said, struggling against him. Gunnar settled the matter by resting his fingers lightly against her swollen nub. She went still, breathing quickly. He eased his rod into her again, enjoying the tight, hot feel of her. She was making little gasping noises now, and when he rubbed her more firmly she cried out, forgetting everything in her pursuit of pleasure.
Gunnar had known she was passionate, had sensed it long before their moments in the stairwell, but she had surprised even him with her raw, earthy need of him. She tried to control it, tried to rein it in, but he already knew her too well. She was his match in bed and out, the perfect mate for a warrior.
’Twas a pity it could not be.
“Gunnar,” she whispered, and her hands were free again, but now they held his forearm, gripping it hard as the spasms took her. He felt the beginning of the end as her sheath tightened about his rod, and with a moan he let himself go with her, cresting the wave with Rose in his arms.
Rose was running from the warriors from Burrow Mump, her feet flying over marsh and earth. She veered to the side, toward the woods, but one of them followed. The warrior on the gray horse. She cried out just as he swooped down on her, catching her up. Her hair was unbound and now it tumbled across her face, blinding her so that she could not see him properly. Except, just before he tucked her before him on his saddle, she had a glimpse of his eyes.
They were blue. Blue as a northern ocean. Blue as Gunnar Olafson’s.
Gunnar stared into the darkness, listening to the woman’s soft breathing. It was very late—the night had almost given way to morning. Soon the birds would begin their calling and the keep would begin to stir to the new day. The night would be over, forgotten. Except that Gunnar knew he would never forget.
He had wanted her since the moment he saw her. He might have mistrusted her, disliked her, planned to take what was hers, but there was no denying he had lusted after her as hotly as any he-wolf on the scent of a bitch in heat.
Maybe that was all it was. Maybe, after a few more times in her bed, he would have rid himself of the need for her…
She stirred, sighing in her sleep, turning into his arms. Without thinking, he smoothed a strand of hair from her face, watching as her dark lashes fluttered against her pale cheeks. Her red lips were slightly parted, her stubborn chin softened by sweet dreams. He thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and yet he knew she was not. It was just that, for him, she was perfect.
Was she really as beautiful on the inside? What if she was using him to further her own plans? He had seen for himself her ability to play a part, to pretend at being what she was not. She wasn’t as good as Gunnar, but she was good.
Abruptly, he bent his head and kissed her, thinking, If she is false she will not be able to hide it in the moment of waking. If she is false I will read it in her now.
Her mouth softened, clung, and she moved languidly to slide her arms around his neck. Her fingers twined in his hair.
“Gunnar,” she murmured, as if she knew it was he before she opened her eyes.
She looked so sweet and wanton—he wanted to ride her until they were both breathless. And then, as if she had only just heard her own voice saying his name, her eyes opened wide. He watched the emotions pass through them—shock, and then wariness, and then caution. She did not trust him, and Gunnar could not blame her for that.
He did not really trust her.
“Lady,” he said, as cool as if they were not lying naked in her bed. “Do you have any more orders for me? It is almost dawn and my men will be up soon, and I need to be there to lead them.”
He had surprised her, but she pretended it was not so. She opened her mouth, just as he moved against her, making her aware of his
arousal. “Oh,” she managed, but he knew then she had no intention of sending him away…yet. He lifted himself over her, positioning himself on his elbows so that his weight was barely upon her. One hard thigh slipped between hers. She was warm and soft, and he ached with need.
“Lady?” he whispered, rocking against her, keeping his face calm and remote. A soldier taking his orders; that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To pretend there was nothing in this but animal lust? Well, he could do that, he, too, was good at playing a part—his mother had once called him Loki, the god of lies and deceit. She had said it with a smile, as if she knew better, but he had wondered if one day the smiling liar would overtake the honorable man in him.
Another reason he had wanted to turn his back on his present life forever.
“I…” She cleared her throat, hesitated, and then her hands came to rest lightly on his upper arms. “Captain, as you are already so well prepared, you could…I mean, once more before you go would be…Unless three times is too many?”
She was a complete innocent, despite being the old married woman she had proclaimed herself last night. He had not been misled by her game then, and he was not now.
Gunnar slid smoothly into her and she was wet and ready. He almost smiled. “You doubt my strength?”
“Oh.” she caught her breath. “I…I only feared…That is, Edric could barely manage once every change of the season and—”
His mouth twitched but he still did not smile. “I am not Edric,” he said and, reaching down, lifted her thighs to open her wide to his ministrations.
To his amusement, she tried desperately not to show how much it affected her, but a flush colored her honey skin, and her dark eyes grew blurred. She turned her face away.
“No,” he said harshly. “I want to see you this time. I want to read it in your eyes, the moment when you leave your body behind.”
