The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

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.