Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

She sounded uncertain. He opened his eyes and found her gazing up at him, and now Henry understood what the warning deep inside him had been about. And realized also that he should have heeded it. But it was too late.

Jenova knew it too. Her green eyes clouded as they gazed into his, and she opened her mouth to speak. To tell him nay? Henry did not know. He was already bending down to claim her lips.

If she had been about to refuse him, she had changed her mind, because before he reached her mouth she had lifted her own. When they joined their lips together, it was mutual.

And this time there would be no stopping.

Chapter 4

Henry’s mouth was firm, yet tender, persuasive as his lips urged hers to respond, to open. Jenova needed no urging. She felt dizzy, not herself at all, and again the warning pealed in her head. Surely this was sheer lust. The need of her body, so long without a man, to find a mate. In her heart she knew it, and yet the knowing didn’t seem to make a scrap of difference.

She wanted him, and want was enough.

Somehow her hands had crept up to his shoulders and around his neck. Her fingers were tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. She felt his hand slip inside the cloak and close with tender possessiveness upon her breast. A groan leaped from her throat, and she felt him smile against her lips.

“Henry…” she whimpered, but he would not let her say more. He bent his head and took her nipple in his mouth. Jenova let her head fall back at the sensation of his warm tongue against her sensitive flesh. The pleasure shot through her like an arrow, and she stared with dazed eyes at the rough timber beams of the roof. The urge to push him away, to stop this now, still remained, but with each touch, each kiss, it was growing fainter.

At least she was no longer cold.

Her fingers trailed across his tunic, and then impatiently tugged at the ties at his throat. Henry shifted back and pulled the garment over his head, and with it his shirt, carelessly tossing both to one side. Now when Jenova touched him she found only warm, smooth, muscled flesh. He was tawny, like his hair, his skin warming to the reflection of the firelight. She discovered a scar here and there, and a line of hair running down to his belly. She followed it. Over the hard flesh of his stomach, down further still, disappearing inside the tight breeches.

Her fingers followed.

He groaned and leaned back, propped up upon his arms, bare chested, with his head thrown back, as if to give her complete access to his body. As if he were hers to do with as she willed. Jenova feasted upon him with her eyes. He was not a giant of a man, but he was well muscled and strong, and there was no fat upon that lean, hard body. So handsome, so well-made, so perfect. No wonder the women of the court pursued him.

Her eyes dipped lower.

There, beneath the firm dark cloth of his breeches, between the long, hard muscles of his legs, was the steep rise of his manhood. Henry was most definitely aroused. Delicately, fingers trembling now, she reached out to brush her hand over him. And then to smooth them against the rigid, thick length that was hidden there. He caught his breath; his arms shook. And yet he did not pounce upon her, he did not rip open his breeches and take her as she half thought he might. He let her move the moment along at her own pace.

Jenova was grateful for that. It had been a long time, after all, since she had had a man to herself. Carefully, she began to unlace the top of his breeches, loosening them enough so that she could begin to tug them down over his narrow hips and well-muscled thighs. His manhood sprang free, and she sat back, trying not to stare.

It had been a long time, but surely her memory was not that fuzzy? Surely she would remember if a man’s part was that big? Why—she reached out—her fingers could not even reach around it! Mayhap if she squeezed….

His breath caught sharply and he sat up, catching her hand in his where she still grasped him. His eyes blazed, as if he were afire. “Slowly, sweeting,” he said in a deep, husky voice. His manhood quivered in her hand, and she wanted to stroke it better. Tentatively she stretched out a finger, smoothing the velvet flesh, and he let her, his eyes glazed. “Jenova,” he groaned, “I do not want to spend until I am inside you. Deep inside.”

Now it was her turn to catch her breath. Henry slid his arm about her waist and slowly, using his streng

th to support her, he eased her back onto the ground. The hard ground, when he had declared that lovers needed soft beds. But although the floor beneath her was firm, his big, thick cloak cushioned it, made it almost cozy. Above her, Henry’s body moved into place upon hers, keeping her from the cold. Now she was completely cocooned in his warmth.

And her desire.

Her hands ran over him, all bare flesh and curved muscle. It had been a long time since she had felt a man’s passion, and known it was for her and her alone. Her fingers sought again that hard evidence of his desire for her, and she smiled when Henry moaned softly, pressing his lips to her skin in tiny, urgent kisses.

“I should stop,” she whispered, but her fingers kept exploring, gently squeezing. She couldn’t seem to make them stop; she didn’t want to.

“Don’t stop, Jenova,” he murmured. “Not now, not now…” He bent to her breasts, caressing the full, creamy flesh with his tongue, lathing her nipples until it was almost pain, and most certainly pleasure. She arched up against him, making soft noises of encouragement, and felt his erection against her inner thigh. His hand followed, cupping her hot flesh, his thumb sliding up and down the swollen cleft. She was wet with need, wanting him, aching for him. It had been so long, so long….

Henry kissed the base of her throat, making a trail up the arch of her neck and finding her mouth. Gentleness departed now, and he kissed her with passion, his tongue tangling with hers. Between their bodies his knee parted her thighs, widening them. The head of his erection brushed against her soft curls and she felt her legs tremble. Wanting him. Needing him. Her skin was on fire, and everywhere he touched a new blaze sprang forth. Her body throbbed with the need to find fulfilment, and she had long ago ceased to care for the consequences of what they were doing.

This was dangerous, far too dangerous.

He pushed inside her, just a little, as if to test her. If he expected her to resist, then he was mistaken. Jenova pushed back, wrapping her thighs about his hips, clasping him in her arms. He sank in deeper.

Now it was Jenova who pleaded with him not to stop, moving restlessly beneath him. But Henry had no intention of stopping. He doubted that he could, even had he wanted to. The feel of her, the sensation of being inside her, the scent of her, was pounding relentlessly at his senses. Had he ever felt like this before? He could not remember it, and if he had, then it was a long time ago. Aye, he felt more than a man. This was more than just a releasing of the tension in his body, the pleasing of himself with a willing woman, far, far more….

He felt like a god.

Henry eased more of himself inside her, experiencing the slight resistance of a woman who has not had a man for some time. The knowledge gave him immense satisfaction. He did not want that mooncalf, Alfric, to have her. Henry wanted to be the one. The one to take her, to make her weep with pleasure, to make her beg for more, to make her forget all other men.