The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

Shocked, startled, Rose pushed against him, just as he rubbed his thumb against that swollen, wanton part of her. A blazing jolt of excitement rippled through her. She groaned and felt his fingers work their magic again, opening her still further to his touch. No man had ever looked upon her like this before; no man had held her captive with the power in his hand.

“I can give you pleasure, lady,” her Viking savage whispered teasingly in her ear. “Let me show you.”

“Gunnar, I don’t…”

“You do, Rose, you do.”

“But this is not…”

He rested his brow against hers and sighed. He was shaking, she realized suddenly. And he was burning up. It wasn’t just she who was affected by this violent storm of desire. He, too, was as caught up in its toils. Somehow, knowing that made her feel less his slave and more his equal. Made everything all right.

“You will feel better…after,” he promised her. “You will be able to sleep.”

“And will you, too, be able to sleep?” Her voice was breathless, husky, sensual.

He laughed as if he were in pain. “Don’t think about me, my Rose. This is for you. All for you.”

“To sleep would be nice,” she began cautiously. “But do you not think Constance’s mulled wine would do just as well?”

His thumb moved again, gently, subtly, teasing her aching flesh. Despite herself, Rose moaned deep in her throat, following his movements, allowing him freedoms such as she would never have believed herself capable of an hour ago.

“No,” Gunnar told her with clear certainty, “I don’t.”

Again that subtle shifting, and the throbbing between her legs was raised to a new level. One finger, two, slid inside her, stretching her, making her long to clench her body about him, hold him close, while his thumb did such things…

Could this be right? Rose asked herself feverishly. Was it possible to feel like this? Her legs were trembling so badly she was resting entirely on his hand, while her arms clung about his neck, afraid if she let go she would fall down. His mouth was on hers again, his tongue tasting her, thrusting into her, tangling with hers. She was moving of her own accord now, rubbing herself against him, unable to help herself, unable to stop herself.

Never before, never before, the voice whispered in her head.

Never before had it been like this.

Outside the keep, thunder rolled, the humidity increasing, but the storm just seemed part of the waking dream Rose now found herself in. And then it happened, a wild uncontrollable clashing of her senses, a tempest inside her as well as out. Rose cried out, a hoarse gasping cry, feeling her body turn as warm and liquid as Constance’s mulled wine. As she fell, he caught her in his arms, holding her hard against him, covering her mouth in a kiss to muffle the sound, and then smoothing the loose wisps of hair back from her face with a tenderness she was too dazed to recognize.

Just for a moment he was her dream, her ghostly warrior, who had finally found her and made her his.

And then he laughed, and spoiled it all.

Rose felt a chill. Had he laughed because he was pleased? Because he had made her into nothing more than another lustful woman, unable to resist his handsome face and hard kisses? Fodder for Gunnar Olafson, and his own high opinion of himself! Aye, she thought blankly, that must be it.

She should be angry. Mayhap in the morning she would be, but suddenly Rose just felt very tired. He was right in that, at least—she wanted only to sleep, and this time she knew she would.

“Let me go,” she whispered, a catch in her voice, and pressed her palms once more against his chest.

Gunnar went very still; he must have sensed the change in her. He searched her face in the dim torchlight as if he were trying to see inside her. “I did not hurt you?” he asked sharply, and she realized with surprise that the thought that he might have caused her pain worried him.

Confused, Rose shook her head, and embarrassment came to join the maelstrom of emotions already battering her. To be speaking to a man she hardly knew about matters so personal, so private, was beyond awkward.

“I gave you pleasure?”

For such a confident man, he sounded oddly uncertain, even vulnerable. Surprised, Rose forgot her raw feelings as she met his gaze. There was a hot glitter in his blue eyes; aye, she did not need the bulge in his breeches to tell her he was still very much aroused. He had given her pleasure, but he had taken none for himself.

“Aye,” she said, “you did.”

He smiled, that dazzlingly beautiful smile. She almost reached out and touched him then. Until she realized that if she did, he would follow her up the stairs to her chamber.

Was she ready for what would happen after that?

Rose had hesitated too long, and doubts swooped in. He was a stranger, a paid mercenary. Aye, he was handsome and she had found ecstasy in his arms just now, but it was not safe to allow a man to take control of you in such a way. ’Twas true this was only lust, but it seemed that even lust had its dangers.