Timely Defense
Page 21
Her eyes sparkled like the brightest stars of all but he still wanted to see the night sky. And he needed air. Lots of it. That mead thing was getting to his head. Big time.
After she retrieved a candle and dish from the box at the entrance to the tower, she lit it—he should’ve brought the lighter, just to spook her again—and led him up those damn steps. He’d forgotten about those. He’d also forgotten, apparently, to duck and knocked his head at least two times. Curses reverberated in a very satisfying way along the stone interior. Marion chuckled.
When they emerged onto the cren—
Crena…
Shit, what was the word again? Oh yeah, crenellated. So, when they got to the top, Christ, A.J. was ready to tear all his clothes off and make love to his wife right then and there. But the look on her face cut through the fuzzy layers of after-party.
“What’s wrong?” he murmured, cupping her chin.
“I was wondering why you wanted to come look at the stars. Even if it is very selfish of me, I was afraid perhaps you missed your home.”
“Home?” A.J. grinned in relief. “My home is here now, with you. Why did you think something like that? Doesn’t this mean something to you?” he asked, pointing to her ring, which glowed faintly in the candlelight.
She nodded vigorously. “It does. But I would understand if—”
“No, no, no. Look,” he pinched the bridge of his nose out of habit. He was going to bare his soul to someone—tell the truth, whoa—and it always made him fear a migraine would come stabbing in just to punish him. “There’s a reason I keep brushing you off every time you offer to go back to the crash site, Marion. I can’t seem to find the words but it doesn’t lessen the reason for it. I don’t want to go back. Call me crazy—hell, I’m calling myself that a lot these days—but I no longer view myself as anything else but that Norman dude. I love being your Norman! A storm brought me here, and short of pulling a Benjamin Franklin and using myself as a lightning rod, I’m not going back to where I’m from. And that’s fine.”
Marion still looked as though someone had announced her favorite puppy was dead. “Shall you not miss the people you knew? Shall they not look for you? I cannot believe no one shall notice.” Her chin trembled. “I would miss you terribly should something happen.”
“Oh, please don’t cry.”
A.J. gathered her face in his hands and angled it upward so she wouldn’t miss a single word, nuance or body language message he sent. “I’m not leaving. You’re my wife and I’m your husband, and yes, there’ll be times when you’ll want to commit a crime of passion and kick my sarcastic, arrogant ass over the ramparts, but you have to remember this. As flawed and dumb as I am—I’m a man, don’t forget, and a cynical lawyer on top of things—you have to believe me that I love you with everything I have. All of it. And that I’ll treasure you to my last acerbic breath. There, I rest my case.”
Marion nodded. “We shall be happy you and I.”
“Damn right. And you know what?” He kissed her on each cheek, the chin, the forehead. “I haven’t had a migraine in at least two weeks. I’m going to like it here, my lady.”
“You shall like what I have waiting for us even more, A.J.,” she replied, the sound of his name in her mouth the most delicious thing in the world.
“Oh? Am I?”
Marion nodded, that impish grin widening. “As you say, ‘damn right’.”
His laughter must have been infectious for they both leaned over the other for support. After a while, when A.J. was afraid they’d have to come pick him off the floor, he stood straight and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Okay, no more fun and games. We have a nuptial suite to test. Let’s go.”
Marion leading the way, they reached her room—the master’s bedchamber, they called it—where she unlocked the door and stood aside so he’d be the first one in.
“We have another tradition where I’m from. Come over here.”
A.J. scooped Marion off the floor and carefully navigated the doorway. “Would you stop smiling? You’re blinding me,” he said in his Papa Bear voice. She only grinned wider.
Oh she’s sitting on something fun, that woman. He wondered what it was.
When he had deposited her feet on the floor, she rushed to a table by the hearth—which roared like a small forest fire—and came back with something under her arm.
“The bed, my lord.”
“Hey, watch what you call me.”
He sat on the bed, smoothed his pant leg and watched her put a narrow box on the bed then sit by it.
“At which game are you a champion again? Strip dames?”
“Oh…oh…you wicked little thing you! Ha!”
A.J. helped her set the board game between them then put the pieces on their respective squares. Marion explained the rules to him and except for a few differences—like no stackers, which usually meant, in his version of the game, that the players would do it too—dames were pretty much the same thing. He was glad for it. How would he lose wretchedly if he didn’t know how the game was played? Huh?
“You shall start,” she announced.
“Hell yeah.”
He picked up one of the red pieces and made his move. She followed with one of the whites. Before long, he had one of his ready to be gobbled up. Marion pounced on it.
She glowed. “Ha.”
“Ha yourself,” he muttered, forcing himself not to pump his fist in the air. “Which piece should go first?”
“The overtunic.”
“The…excuse me?”
“The black garment, this one,” she replied, pinching the lapel of his jacket.
Making a big show of it, rolling his hips and doing his best stripper impersonator, A.J. gleefully removed his jacket and sent it twirling behind him. As long as it didn’t land in the fireplace, he didn’t care one bit about his suit tonight. A game of strip checkers with a twelfth century—blushing—lady! His wife too! Life didn’t get any better than this.
After she swooped on another piece of his, Marion threw him a slanted look. “You are losing on purpose.”
“Absolutely.”
“Sir Ayjay!”
He leaned into her, clamped his mouth for one hell of a passionate kiss then withdrew. She was panting. He liked it when she was panting. “You call me that again, I’m gonna have to punish you.” After he wiggled his eyebrows, she put her hand in front of her mouth and smiled.
Standing, A.J. undid the button on his pants, let them hang there while he moved his hips like a pendulum, slowly then in circles, each rotation bringing him closer to her knees. When he was standing right next to Marion, he pulled the zipper down by slow and measured increments, let her hear each tiny hook, before he slipped one side down then the other. And damn it if she wasn’t all eyes for him! Feeling like a Greek god, A.J. lowered his pants, went “oh look at that” when only his boxer briefs restrained his dick from twanging. A foot away, Marion watched it all like a hawk. A.J. had never felt so good.
“All for you,” he said, knowing he sounded less than humble but not giving a shit. It was all for her, dammit! Forever.
When he stood in his underwear only—with socks and shoes, but hey—A.J. caressed her cheek then sat back on the bed. “No more Mister Nice Norman.”
Within two moves, he had three of her white pieces lined up. Giving her a Shark look, he skipped and took all three. Marion huffed and puffed but stood nonetheless.
“Dress.”
“What do you mean, dress? What about one shoe then the next?”
“You got to choose the first piece, right?” he replied, trying to subdue the triumphant jackass in him. He could be so shallow.
“Oh you flea-bitten coxcomb! You let me choose on purpose so you could do the same later!”
“I am a lawyer, jeez! Off with the dress.”
Well if the little tigress didn’t look as though she’d been practicing behind his back as she removed her dress with a subtle twist of the hip and a provoc
ative lift of her chin. She stood in her…her linen underthing, fists on hips.
“That linen shirt too and the shoes.”
“No, it is my turn to play.”
“Nope. I took three pieces, so you take off three pieces.”
“With the dress, it makes four, not three.”
“Fine, keep one of the shoes.”
She narrowed her pale eyes at him but removed the linen shirt, denuding her curvy body to his hungry gaze, then kicked off one of the shoes. Stubborn.
“Had I known you would have played such lowly tricks—”
“Oh? What? Huh? What would you have done?” A.J. asked, giving her a playful wink. He was salivating just looking at her. And they still had plenty of pieces left. Dammit.
Marion lifted her chin. “I would have worn more layers.”
A.J. could resist no more. He leaned over, trapped her wrist and pulled her to him. Kissing her mouth, her face and neck, he filled his hands with her plentiful form and rocked back so she’d straddle him. “Like I said, I’m going to like it here.”
Marion nodded as she ran her hand in his hair. “I shall make sure of it.”
About the Author
I am a mother, spouse, older sister, writer, ex-soldier, high school drop-out, dog owner (or dog owned), half couch potato/half intermittent jogger, wannabe renovator and avid reader who watches too much television, sinks too much money in clothes, likes animals more than humans, recycles, wore braces, never downloads copyrighted stuff, was a nerd without the grades, has a belly laugh that turns heads in theaters, can’t stand bullying, is mother hawk more than mother hen, votes even if candidates aren’t that great and thinks formal education is highly overrated (probably because she has none).
Nathalie welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
Also by Nathalie Gray
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Femme Metal
Hot Target
Immortalis
Sinful
Wolfsbane
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