Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

He was still watching her through the shadows; his eyes so intent, it felt as if they were inside her head.

“Briar. ’Tis a prickly name, demoiselle. Are you thorny like the wild briar?”

Briar smiled, hoping he would not read its falseness. She reached down with a trembling hand and began to unknot her girdle.

“I am tough like the briar, sir. Even when my enemies think me vanquished, I can spring up again in the most unlikely of places.”

She had amused him, mayhap even delighted him—she read it in his eyes.

“And yet you sing like a nightingale.”

“You are kind.” She disposed of the compliment, suddenly impatient. They were wasting time. The sooner he had bedded her, the sooner this thing would be done.

The girdle was unknotted, and Briar put it aside. Her gown was loose enough to slide down over her shoulder, displaying smooth, rounded flesh. He went still, watching her as she brought her arm out of the gown, and then slowly repeated the action with her other shoulder and arm. Grasping firmly the worn, brown cloth, she held it up against her breasts.

His rapt attention pleased her. A moment ago she had felt as if she had lost control of the situation; now she had it back again. That black, brooding gaze moved slowly upward, to her face, examining her lips, her tumbling hair, before his eyes fastened on hers. The silence in the chamber stretched out. Something in the tension of his body, the crackle in the air about him, told Briar that if she wanted to turn back then she should do it now. Before it was too late.

Slowly, her eyes on his, she let the gown fall.

Had he groaned aloud? Ivo would not have been surprised if he had. He had never seen a woman so beautiful.

Her long chestnut hair curled over her pale shoulders and down over the curve of her back. It made a pretty screen for her small, rounded breasts with their tawny nipples. Her hazel eyes took on a secretive slant, as she watched him through her dark lashes, and her pink lips tilted enigmatically at the corners.

Ivo still didn’t understand why of all the men in the hall she had chosen him, but it was often so with women. Sweyn laughed and said they were intrigued by his warriorlike looks coupled with his nobleman’s voice. He no longer cared. The elusive thought that he knew her from somewhere still tugged at him, but he cared not for that, either. His body was hard and ready, the wench was lovely and very desirable, and he was not fool enough to question his good fortune.

He felt its touch rarely enough these days.

Ivo took a step closer. The color of her eyes deepened. With lust? Or was it something else that ran swiftly through the green and brown? Surely not fear? For if she were afraid of him, why would she be here, now?

Still, it was with a cautious gentleness that Ivo reached out his good hand, instinctively keeping the other one hidden at his side. He touched her cheek, feeling the soft smoothness of her skin, the slight indentation of her scar. He cupped her chin, his thumb tracing the shape of her lips, memorizing the feel of them.

Her lips parted and she sighed and swayed a little, eyes shutting. Ivo smiled, pleased by the faint blush staining her skin, the tightening of her nipples into hard little cherries, begging for the comfort of his tongue. Aye, there was desire here, and she felt it as much as he.

He caught her long hair in his hand, using it to tilt her face back for his mouth. The kiss was long and hot, and while he kissed her his hand sought her breasts and caressed them. She shuddered, moaning into his mouth. Her dark lashes fluttered wildly and she drew back a little, hands clasping his forearm, as if she sought to steady herself.

He bent and kissed her again, opening her mouth with his, probing with his tongue. She was hot inside, and needy. She, too, felt the fire burning between them. He sensed it, knew it, and suddenly it no longer mattered to him what her reasons might be. This was a moment out of time; the drab and brutal world he lived in had been left behind. There was only the disgraced knight and the songstress, and together they would make the stars burn.

Ivo slid to his knees before her, and took her nipple in his mouth.

She arched back with a gasping cry, hands tangling in his hair and tugging painfully. He didn’t care. He pulled the gown down from her hips, knowing he was rough but the need to see her naked drove him beyond gentleness. Here was more pale, smooth flesh—the swell of her belly and buttocks, the white length of her thighs and the tawny hair between.

She was small, but most definitely a woman. A little thin, mayhap, a little delicate, but the curves were in their rightful places. For a moment Ivo just looked, feeling like a blind man who has suddenly begun to see. And then he slid his hands down over her thighs, and bending forward placed a kiss on the soft hair at their juncture.

She started and stepped back, forgetting perhaps that the bed was so close, for with a squeak she fell back upon it. Helpless, hampered by her long hair, she struggled to sit up. And then, as he firmly gripped and parted her legs with his strong hands, she stiffened anxiously.

But he only wanted to look. Amused, he met her eyes, sensing her uncertainty beneath the headiness of her passion. And then shocked surprise, as he grinned at her and stooped to run his tongue along her inner thigh. Until he found the hot core of her.

“Oh!” She jerked as if he had shot her with an arrow, and then groaned in her husky, sensual voice.

Ivo decided he liked this song the best of any she had sung tonight.

“Sing to me, demoiselle,” he murmured wickedly, and used his tongue again, seeking out the places that gave her the most enjoyment. She tried to tense, to pull away, but he would have none of it. With another groan, she gave herself up to pleasure.

Briar felt the passion rippling over her, washing away all her thoughts of vengeance, of the past, of her so-carefully constructed plan. She was left with only one thing—the need for release. Briar gasped, her eyes blind to the dim, candle-lit room as that questing tongue set off a myriad of sparks within her.

Why could she not remember Filby, who had hurt her when he took her, his only interest finding his own pleasure upon her, before he had risen and straightened his clothing. He had stared down at her then, with cold eyes, with a look she would never, ever forget. As though she were not the daughter of a great man, and the woman that until this moment he had courted and pretended to cherish.

Why could she not remember Filby?