The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

The rigidity went out of Rose’s shoulders, hope filled her unhappy eyes. “Do you think so, Constance?”

“I do, lady.”

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. Rose jumped as though it were the devil calling, but Constance did not hesitate. She went swiftly to open it.

“Constance!” her lady gasped behind her, starting to her feet, but it was too late. The door had been swung open and Gunnar Olafson was in the room. His gaze met hers above Constance’s head, and then took in her loose hair and thin robe. When his eyes returned to hers, the blue was afire with passion.

The old woman reached out to touch his arm, gently, speaking in a voice too soft for Rose to hear, and then she slipped out behind him and closed the door. They were alone, and the chamber was suddenly much smaller and more airless than Rose had imagined.

“I don’t—” she began.

“I find I am hungry, lady,” he said.

“Oh.” Rose hesitated, her thoughts skittering all over the place. “Are you…are you very hungry, Captain?” Why did she always sound so breathless when she wished to sound sensible?

“Aye, very hungry,” he mocked. One step and he had her in his arms, his mouth covering hers as if he really were ravenous for her. His hands tangled in her long dark hair, twisting through the silken strands, gently pulling her closer against him.

Her breasts were aching, her nipples were tight and hard, and she wondered if he could feel them against his chest. Probably. Her legs trembled, her head spun, and that treacherous warmth was building between her thighs. Wanting him, willing to do anything to have him again.

His thick arousal dug into her belly, and she remembered what Constance had said. A man must desire a woman to take her as many times as he had taken Rose last night. Gunnar Olafson desired her, at least there was no doubting that.

She touched him, rubbing the hard shape of him through his breeches. Gunnar groaned, arching against her hand, and then kissing her again as if he were drowning in her. Rose stretched up on her toes, trying to get closer, and he reached down and lifted her, giving her the contact she craved.

Pleasure speared through her, making her twist and gasp. But it wasn’t enough. After last night simply touching would never be enough again. She wanted him inside her and she knew—he had raised his head, those so-blue eyes gazing deep into hers—that he wanted that, too.

Gunnar carried her toward the bed and laid her down upon the soft covers. Her robe slipped across her skin, opening enough to show one dark pink nipple, the curve of her stomach, the long length of one thigh, and the shadow at the apex of her legs. He was watching her, his face hard and tense, as he began to untie the laces of his breeches.

Rose held her breath, wanting him so much, and yet spellbound by the picture he made. Gunnar was a beautiful man, and yet there was something savage about him, something untamed. Surely no woman could hold him for long. Certainly Rose did not expect to. Her warrior, her man, her lover.

The laces came undone, and he pushed his breeches down over his hips and thighs. His manhood sprang forth, big and bold. Rose started to sit up, needing to touch him, to kiss him, but he was already on top of her. One hard leg pushing hers apart, his hands thrusting aside her robe, and his mouth hot on her breasts. His hair was tickling her skin, and she slid her hands through it, anchoring him there as he tasted her, drew her into his mouth. Rose moved her hips, pressing to the hard muscle of his thigh, enjoying the friction.

Still it wasn’t enough.

“Gunnar,” she whispered, “please,” reaching down, closing her fingers around him.

He groaned a laugh. “I cannot think, lady, when you do that.”

“You do not need to think.”

He moved so that he was poised above her and, when he had her full attention, began to slide into her, slowly, oh so slowly. Rose could not take her eyes away, shocked and fascinated by the sight of all that rigid flesh joining with hers.

“It doesn’t seem possible,” she breathed, growing tense.

But he pushed in a little further, stopping only to allow her to adjust to his size. “’Twas possible last night,” he reminded her in a strained voice. He clasped her bottom and tilted her hips, so that she was even more open to him, and began the same slow, inexorable entry.

Rose grasped his forearms tightly, the simmer inside her growing to a burn. She wanted him, and suddenly his consideration was driving her wild. Rose took matters into her own hands. Her hips moved against him, thrusting up, taking all of him inside her. And he was right, she could do it, and the sensation was beyond pleasure.

Gunnar caught and held his breath, trying to recapture his prized control. Watching him through her lashes, Rose moved again, pushing herself onto him as he tried to withdraw, silently urging him to hurry. His big body shuddered, and he began to thrust in earnest.

Already the first tremors were rippling through her, her gasps turning to soft moans. He drove hard, cupping her bottom, rising above her like some pagan god. Rose knew herself to be beyond thought, beyond caring, knowing only that here, now, with him, she was complete.

Gunnar reached down between their bodies, finding that throbbing bud, and Rose surged up against him, crying out, dissolving around him. With an answering shout, Gunnar too was lost.

For a long time Gunnar did not move, simply allowing his breath to return to normal, his heart to slow, just enjoying lying against her. If this was lust…if? He searched his mind uneasily. What else could it be? Rose was the widow of an old husband, and suddenly she had discovered desire. He just happened to be t

he man in the right place at the right time. She might want him now, and he was pleased to oblige her for his own reasons, but that was all.

Your own reasons being?