Because the ripples of passion were turning into pounding waves. All control gone, Briar cried out, arching against him, dimly aware of the surging undertow within her own body.
Jesu, she had not meant it to be like this! She had wanted to be cold,
to feel discomfort, even pain, and most of all she had wanted to hate him as he deserved. Instead she lay upon the sumptuous bed, weak and tumbled, her whole body throbbing from the pleasure he had just given her. Why could this man not have been cruel like Filby? And why could Filby not have lavished the same care upon her as this man?
To Briar, dazed and bewildered, the world seemed all turned about.
When the warm wash of pleasure had finally faded a little, Briar opened her eyes. He was grinning at her again, his chin resting familiarly against her belly. With an effort Briar bestirred herself.
“You…” She swallowed, tried again. “You are very good at what you do, my lord.”
“Aye, ’tis my one true vocation.”
She giggled. God help her, she giggled like a silly maid!
He smiled back, and then proceeded to crawl up onto the bed beside her, slipping and sliding on the furs, and then rolling her into his arms. Before she could think to protest, his mouth was on hers, hot and tasting of her, something she found shocking and yet curiously exciting. The heat of his lips and tongue were stirring the tide within her again. How could that be, when he had only just sated her?
He was pressed against her from shoulder to hip, and she realized she could feel him, big and hard inside his breeches. Without thought, as naturally as if his body was as familiar to her as her own, Briar stretched down her hand and stroked him. He groaned, burying his face against her warm throat. She cupped the bulge of his manhood, trying again to remind herself of Filby, trying to bring forth the old, bitter memories of their mating.
“We are not finished yet,” she said firmly. Her vengeance could not be complete until he had lain with her, inside her, and proved himself as faithless to his wife as he had been to her stepmama.
The thought chilled Briar, enough to cool the desire building within her.
“No, demoiselle, we are not finished yet.” Evidently he did not sense the change within her. Rising up onto his knees on the bed, he began swiftly to disrobe, pulling his tunic and shirt over his head.
He was a big man, in all ways, and Briar watched him with reluctant admiration. Sun-browned skin, a body broad and hard-muscled, the body of a warrior. Her eyes moved of their own accord, over the wondrous planes and curves and hollows. Numerous scars covered him, testimony to the many battles in which he had fought. He had been hurt many times, mayhap faced death many times. Briar touched a long white scar on his ribs, testing the puckered flesh.
Aye, she told herself with satisfaction, many have tried to take his life, but they have used the wrong weapons. Sharpened wood and iron and steel are of no use—he is too wily a warrior. No, the way to harm him is from within. To find the weakness in him. To slay him by breaking his heart.
Almost unwillingly, uneasy from what he was making her feel, Briar ran her fingertips up the hard muscles of his stomach to his chest, rough with a dusting of dark hair. His nipples were hidden there, and she found them, feeling them tighten with her touch. More eagerly now, she folded her hands over the heavy curves of his shoulders, aware of their breadth and strength, before she slid them down, over his sizeable upper arms. He was indeed a creature of myth and legend. She could enjoy the sight and touch and feel of him, no matter what emotions lay in her heart.
He tugged his breeches down over his narrow hips, stripping them quickly from his strong legs. He was naked now, every curving muscle, every scar, every wonderful inch of him. Briar had never felt desire like this before—it was new and heady and completely unexpected. Her fascinated gaze followed the line of dark hair from his belly, down to his groin. His manhood jutted out, big and bold; he could not pretend indifference, even had he wanted to. And Briar could not resist stretching out her hand and grasping him, closing her hand gently upon him. So potent, so male. Beneath the velvet softness of his skin there was a hot, steely strength.
He had gone very still.
Drawn at last from her preoccupation of his magnificent body, Briar looked up at him. His eyes flared with burning desire, and yet he did not move. Clearly a battle was going on within him while he fought to subdue his lust. He was, she realized in surprise, trying to be careful, trying not to frighten her. He wanted her, and the same lustful beast she had seen in Filby was there, lurking inside his tense face and brooding gaze, but he was, unlike Filby, trying to rein it in. ’Twas the man in control of the beast and not the other way around.
And as she watched him struggle, Briar realized something more.
She wanted him.
Wanted him inside her, as she could never remember wanting any man. She wanted to take the beast she saw in his eyes, that fierce, wild wanting, and tame it. Make it her own.
I feel this way because I am so close to taking the vengeance I have dreamed of for so long, she tried to tell herself.
But it was a lie.
Even as she repeated the words to herself, she knew she was avoiding the truth. Briar wanted him. Her body craved his. What had begun as playacting, a cold-blooded pretense, was now real desire, real lust. And explain it to herself in whatever manner she may, it was unexplainable.
As if he had sensed her need, he had begun to kiss her. Long, passionate kisses that made her mindless. Briar pressed against him, her arms about his neck, her fingers tangled in his black hair. As he kissed her, he was caressing her breasts, plucking at the taut nipples, causing her body to burn and ache. The cleft between her legs was swollen and hot, and when his manhood prodded at the juncture of her thighs, instinctively she opened them, giving him access. She should be frightened, or at least wary, because he was so big—but she was not.
Nevertheless, Briar braced herself.
But instead of thrusting himself brutally inside her, as Filby had done, he began to play with her. He ran his tongue slowly down one side of her throat, tasting her, enjoying her as if she were one of Jocelyn’s honey cakes.
The comparison made her giggle, and then quickly gasp in shocked surprise. “Ouch!” Briar pressed back into the furs, so that she could look at him, her face slack with amazement. “You bit me!”
“Just a little,” he admitted, with an unrepentant smile. “You taste so good, demoiselle.”