by Jackie Ivie
“’Twas but a bit of savory oil. At first. You used it on the powder.” She was in front of him again. Bringing the fragrant aroma of her hair, the visual stimulation of her frame, and the depths of silver eyes he daren’t look into for any length of time. Vincent moved his glance before being sucked into perdition.
“Savory oil.” He repeated. “Why?”
“’Tis a potion for enhancement.”
“Enhancement.” He repeated the word. Then he was trembling, and it wasn’t due to any potion. It was because where the area in front of the door was supposed to be dark, it wasn’t. It was being speared with an arc of blue and green-cast light, and in such a vivid color combination, it was breath-stealing. And when he blinked, a bolt of red speared through the light, making it even more beautiful and visual. He couldn’t move his eyes and stood trembling and watching it with awe.
And then, with a click such as one experienced before lightning struck near, the light was gone, leaving nothing except a darkened alcove and a barred door. The chemise was snickering at him, too. He heard it and fought the rise of ire that accompanied being laughed at. He was getting angered at a garment’s words?
Her potion had definitely enhanced his vision and hearing, as well as his imagination. He only wished it had stopped there. Vincent loosened the hold he had on his thighs, bending his legs slightly so that the desire he couldn’t staunch wasn’t so evident. He also watched in dismay as the wood slats in the door gapped slightly, showing where the light had gone. Vincent bent forward, balanced himself by putting his hands palms downward and facing each other on either thigh, and tried to send the rush of lust back to where it came from. Before she saw it, assigned meaning to it, or just ran in fear from it. He’d never had such trouble before.
That’s when the floor started moving.
Vincent panted for breath and watched the floor slide just enough that he had to stumble to keep his footing, and then the wicked wench moved to the area right beside him, hovering at the exact level of his stooped position. Vincent sucked for moisture enough to speak. Or make sense when he did speak.
“What?” He didn’t actually hear her ask it. He watched her lips make the word.
“Your…room,” he replied, taking a breath between the words.
“What of it?”
He shook his head. Even if he wished to, he couldn’t describe it. He’d sound mad. “What was in the sup?” he asked instead.
“Mushrooms. Dried.”
“Why?”
“You dinna’ find it to your liking?”
“What…does this…mushroom do?”
“Oh. Flavors the food.”
“Na’ else?”
“It has been known to make one see things,” she explained.
“Things?”
“All kinds of things. With differing degrees. I’ve heard of lights, movements, voices. Things such as this. I’ve na’ tried it afore, so I’ve nae experience.”
She condemned herself with a pout, and using such a sweet tone! Vincent shuddered more severely as he caught and held on to the absolute craving he had to taste the lips she’d put in such a kissable shape. And then he watched them open and mouth words at him to that effect!
“Kiss me…. Taste me….”
“Why…would you do this?” He had a voice after all, but it was rasped. It hurt his throat to use it, too.
“I…needed to.”
“Why?” He asked aloud. And why did everything she say have more puzzle to it? Couldn’t the wench say one thing and have it answer what he wanted to know? Vincent’s palms were getting damp, just from resting atop his kilt-covered thighs. “And…to…me?”
She shrugged, and the material she wore whispered of hidden delights at the same time as it defined them for him. She had perfect breasts, too, he decided—firm and tempting and ripe. Vincent almost didn’t hear her answer.
“’Twas the best option, of course.”
He lifted his gaze from contemplation of her bosom and wrinkled his brow at the same time. He barely avoided contact with her eyes and settled again on the perfect, rose-colored texture of her mouth. And then he had to force himself to endure the sweetness of her breath that testified to how wondrous fair she’d taste. He opened his mouth to tell her to hie herself over to the other side of her room, and then said something completely different.
“To what?” he asked. He was going to berate himself later for making this torment last longer than it needed to. He couldn’t now. He wasn’t in control. He actually felt more stewed than a full-day drunk.
“The alternative, of course.” She was giggling again, and his hands slipped.
Vincent either had to fall forward or move upright and find his grip again. He chose the latter, and knew she’d looked. And evaluated. And had a cunning look about her now. Unfortunately, it didn’t detract from her at all. It actually made her more intriguing and seductive. Damn her.
“I’d also heard…of that,” she whispered.
Or maybe she didn’t whisper it. But it was her mouth moving. Vincent narrowed his eyes as the arc of light appeared again. It wasn’t quite as vivid, but since she was now standing in the spot where it hovered, she was being treated with the glow of bluish-green around a fragment of red, and there was now yellow. A warm yellow, as hot as the fire as it bathed her features with light.
“What…lass?” he asked.
“Sybil,” she replied, and then he had to thwart his body’s response as she sucked her lower lip into her mouth in such a seductive fashion, he was ready to follow it and show her what a tongue was for. And what that lower lip was better used for, and how primed he was to do all of it to her.
Stopping the motion wasn’t easy. Vincent stood in the hunched-forward position, gripped his thighs until he bruised them, panted through breath after breath, and kept his eyes narrowed on the glow of her.
“My name is Sybil. Na’ lass.”
Vincent nodded. He wasn’t trusting his mouth. Not yet. Maybe when the effects of her potions wore off, but not now.
“Say it,” she said, and then, blast her, she moved closer, within a hairsbreadth of touching.
Vincent was shaking now, and the floor’s rolling movement was assisting him. “Sybil,” he managed.
“Oh, sweet knight. I would have it different, but I was left with nae choice. You ken?”
He shook his head. Not in answer to what she was saying, but to get distance between where those lips were hovering, tempting, pursuing.
“Does it…pain?”
“Aye…and nae,” he replied.
“Bad?”
“Oh. Aye,” he replied again.
“Bad enough to do something about it?”
Vincent moved from contemplation of her mouth to her eyes. The world spun, and then he realized it was simply the whirlpool that was her silver and blue–cast eyes, drawing him in…closer…holding him.
“Something?”
“I dinna’ fash what happens. You’ll need show me.”
“What…happens?”
His voice rose, and his body lurched forward of its own volition, putting him fully against the side of her hip. Vincent gave up a hand position on what had become a slick surface of kilt-covered thigh. He had both hands gripping her buttocks, lifting and holding her in place as he worked at controlling the primal urge. He knew his features were contorted as he struggled with himself.
“Lass. Lass.” He was crooning it without conscious thought. “You’ve na’ much time.”
“Are you going to tupp with me?” she asked.
“Nae.” He shook his head.
“Nae?”
Her breath touched his chest. Where no material was protecting. He shook his head. “Definitely nae.”
“Why na?” She asked.
“Because if I dinna’ let you go this moment…” He stopped to let the threat of words settle between them and fought for control over the haze of light that was permeating his tissues and making everything about where t
hey touched glow and hum with intensity and power and strength.
“And?” she asked impatiently.
Vincent flexed his hands on firm mounds of buttocks and started moving her, sliding her lower belly against the raging thrust of maleness she’d tormented into being and then teased into uncontrollable lust. Then he stopped. Lurched. Pushed. Watched as her eyes widened and she trembled for a change.
“And I’m going to make it so you’ll na’ be able to walk. This is what is going to happen.” His voice was guttural and primal and angry. Viciously angry.
“Now?” she asked in a whisper, bowing her mouth into a pout made for sucking on and kissing.
Vincent didn’t answer her in words. He was beyond it.
Chapter Eleven
She couldn’t breathe at first. The Viking fellow was stealing every exhalation and replacing it with his own, and all the while he was slurping and sucking and plying her lips apart with his own and making a wellspring of desire and lust foment within her until the bubbles threatened to escape.
Then she forgot the need for breath as his hands held to her, holding her in place so he could push at her, rubbing with his groin against hers without end. Creating fire and making her absorb it until everything shattered. Sybil pulled her mouth away to give the cry space and sound, but he was too quick for her, too massive, too strong. He moved one hand to the back of her head, pinioning her with a fistful of her hair, and held her in place for the marauding force of his kisses.
Nothing was working at ending the near torment of suction, licking, and caressing that he managed with his lips, although she tried pounding on him at first. It had the effect of rain against stone, even with aimed fists at the flesh-covered steel that composed his entire frame. Nothing stopped him, nothing contained him, nothing even broke through the rhythmic movement he was putting her body through…against his. Over. Again. And then another sensation started…built…mounted. Swelling to a torrent of rapture that had its core at the place where he was rubbing her. And then the spot burst, spreading flickers of elation throughout every limb and changing the fists that were beating at him into fingers that molded, caressed, and slid along every nuance of that massive chest, hard shoulders, the scarred back, the ropelike tendons of his belly, striations of sinew in his arms…all of him she could reach.
And again. He was lifting her and sliding her, pulling her upward along him only to push her back down, turning her loins into a rash of nerve endings that were all screaming. Then she was giving it voice, yanking free of him to send the sound to the rafters. He was right with her, using his lips all along her throat before capturing the space below an ear and using a sucking motion combined with little flickers of his tongue to drive her nearly insane with shivers that just wouldn’t cease.
“Ah, but you’re a wild one. Na’ so fast. We’ve all eve. All eve. Hmm…”
His voice ended in a purr of noise that sent the vibrating quality of his murmur through her entire back, since he’d reached the area at the base of her neck and was tonguing his way from there to the neckline of her shift, and leaving an alternating trail of fire that became ice. Then when he traced over the same area again, made it firelike and heated. And with a slight chuckle of air, made it icy again.
“Did you na’ heed my warnings, love?” he asked, filling the area with the heavy depth of voice he possessed and was using with devastating results.
“What?” Sybil managed to mouth.
“Master. Me. At…many things…but most especially…”
With one upward shove, he had her belly over his shoulder and was walking to her bed with odd, slanted steps, as if he were walking on the deck of a ship in storm-tossed seas, making her swing from side to side. The view was extraordinary from his height and from upside down. Sybil shut her eyes on it.
And then she was swung down, into a berth made of his arms and lap, while all of it was atop her bed, which bounced more than once with the motion. Sybil was still struggling for breath, while being held against a wall of flesh. He had a fingertip beneath her chin forcing her face up to his, and there was the most severe yet tender expression on his face.
“What?” she asked.
“Pleasure,” he said, taking so long to say the word she nearly hit at him again.
“What?” she repeated, even more mystified this time.
He didn’t answer, but with those dark lashes narrowed, her heart tried to stop before deciding it really would continue beating. And once it did, the rhythm was rapid and harsh and strong enough to make panting of her breaths. All of which he watched, running his eyes over every bit of her. And then lowered his head, closing his eyes as he did so, and took her lips again.
Sybil didn’t wait. It was her movement upward that connected them, and she used the newly taught motions on him, ravishing and licking and sucking and churning emotion into a tangible affair that grew more heated and more wanton and more grasping and needy with every stroke of her lips.
That was when she felt his fingers on the fastening up her back. Vincent had her propped up, using an upturned knee for support as his fingers unfastened and pulled the rawhide lacing apart and then fully out. Then he was delving through the voluminous openings of her sleeves, wrapping his arms about her from behind and hauling her against his chest and cupping flesh that had never felt what it was feeling now. Sybil’s eyes flew wide, and everything on her went stiff. He started chuckling, sending cool streamers of air over the heated tender flesh of her throat.
“So lovely. So fair. So…soft.” And then he was moving his hands, massaging her breasts, cupping them and then teasing each nipple into a whorl of excitement and stimulation, turning her entire being into a writhing, moaning creature that she didn’t recognize. And still he continued his cadence of words. “So lovely. So fair. So…wild.”
He moved away, leaving her flesh quivering, her belly tensed, and her most private area a cauldron of want and desire and wickedness. And all he was doing was lifting her arms over her head in order to pull the shift completely from her body, releasing heated skin to the night air.
“It’s…Oh sweet Lord. It’s…pink.” Everything about the man holding her started to move, shifting and shivering and defined by firelight until he had her slanted onto the mattress, caught in that position by the tendrils of hair he’d made her loosen. Then he held her in place by one arm propping her up, bringing her nipple up to his mouth. Closer…with the pink gossamer fabric pulled taut and useless as a covering.
Sybil started kicking, pushing and struggling to get away from what he was about to do. He chuckled again, moving her with the motion, while the arm beneath her and the hand clutching one of her breasts into a peak tightened, holding her firmly, perfectly in position.
And then he was suckling, lapping and licking and tormenting, sending her into a realm she’d been told existed but dismissed as too exquisite to be real. The room was too small to confine such ecstasy, too narrow for such dizzying momentum. She felt him move to her other breast, lavishing the same attention and for the same amount of time, and then he was pulling the pink chemise from her, tearing anywhere it fought him.
Sybil was murmuring her satisfaction before that time, and still he continued, bringing her to the brink again and again and again. Before sending her over and making it such a thing of beauty and perfection and radiance that she might as well be glowing. The pink chemise hadn’t been much barrier, but by the time he’d ripped it fully open, it was worthless as anything save a rag.
And everything on her was primed for more. So much more. Vincent had maneuvered her onto the coverlet, in the most wanton position she could have imagined, with her shoulders atop the cool material, her hips and woman-place elevated atop his folded knees, while her heels and feet were just grazing the mattress toward the end of her bed. At first, all he did was look. Then he was breathing more heavily, using his hands to slide all about her, learning her curvature, her inner thighs…the back of her knees…her ankles. And back up.
She should have been shy. Embarrassed. Cringing from his scrutiny. She was the opposite. She was gyrating snakelike atop his lap, alternately lifting and then swaying from side to side, and touching every time at the man-part of him he was denying her. It was a gratifying moment of time whenever she connected, and she knew it by the immediate cringe his entire body made, while his belly went nearly concave with the effort of keeping that solid, firm, and overly large portion of him from direct contact with her.
“Ah, lass. Sweet lass. Impatient lass.”
In reply, Sybil sat up, reaching both arms about his neck with the intention of using her entire weight to bring him back atop her as she lay back down. Nothing of the sort happened, although she was pinioned high atop him for a span, before sliding slowly into the shadowy area he’d made with his bent legs, excess kilt, and what she needed. Craved. Had to have. Now.
“Vincent?” Sybil put sound to the name as she slid, her hair sticking everywhere about them, caressing where she hadn’t enough fingers.
“Aye?”
He lifted his head to say it, and the moment his eyes connected with hers, Sybil’s entire being reacted. Her heart quit thumping, her pulse ceased singing through her ears, and her mind stopped. Completely. Fully. Irrevocably. Vincent’s dark, fathomless, deep eyes locked with hers, gifting her with a breadth of emotion so astonishing, the shock held her immobile for long enough that she had to gasp for the next breath.
And then she knew. Sybil of Eschoncan Keep didn’t believe in love, but that didn’t stop it. She had to look away before he saw the realization as the horrid emotion hit her. Held her. Owned her. Defined her. Forever.
“Ah…lass. Lovely lass. Tasty.”
He was suiting deed to word as slashes of wetness trailed from wherever he put his tongue, crossing it about her rib cage, tempting the flesh just below a breast, cleaving a line directly up her center to the bottom of her jaw. And through that, Sybil was existing on a plane of wantonness, feeling burned and then frozen by just that minute touch.
