The Warrior

Ariane shut her eyes, praying for deliverance. She should never have allowed him to know she resented her virgin state. “I am languishing for no one, most especially you!”

“You mean to say you have never wondered what it would be like to have a man between your thighs?”

“No . . . I, mean yes, I never . . .”

“Permit me to show you,” he murmured, his voice going even softer, deeper, stroking her senses like dark velvet. “Let us see if we can make your lovely body turn traitor. . . .”

He cradled her against him with a gentleness that belied the dangerous determination in his eyes. Then, to her complete startlement and dismay, he bent and kissed her, his lips warm and incredibly soft. The shock sent a wave of heat streaking through Ariane, a shock so powerful it paralyzed her. She could do nothing to defend herself against the tender caress of his mouth as he coaxed hers open, the feel of his tongue, slow and hot and wet, as he leisurely explored her.

In truth, rather than fight him, she only wanted to cling to Ranulf. It seemed she had waited nearly half her life for this, to know the taste of his kiss. She had dreamed of it, of this man as lover, as husband. She could scarcely believe so powerful a warrior could be so incredibly gentle.

Of their own accord her arms lifted and twined around his neck. With a soft sound of triumph deep in his throat, he tightened his hold, enveloping her in the heat and smell of his body while his mouth ravished hers tenderly. He was a dark fire, slowly igniting her senses.

Long moments later Ranulf drew back, but only to whisper against her lips, “Let me show you pleasure, Ariane. Let me please you as I would have you please me. . . .”

For one, mad moment she almost succumbed to his honeyed words. Ranulf knew about women, about passion, and she wanted desperately to experience what had been denied her for so many years.

So many years . . .

The remembrance jolted Ariane to awareness. She wanted to know about passion, but this black rogue would not be the one to show her!

With a sudden cry, she pushed hard against his chest. To her surprise, he released her at once. Freed, she fled across the room, her cool hands pressed against her burning cheeks, her body trembling.

There was a taut silence while she stood there shaking. When he made no movement toward her, she at last risked a glance at Ranulf. He remained where she had left him, firelight outlining the sleek muscle and sinew of his nude body. He was watching her, an enigmatic expression on his harsh features.

His tone when he spoke, however, was calm, unheated. “You are stubborn indeed, but so am I, sweet vixen.”

She was startled by the lazy smile that filled his eyes. There was a promise there in the golden depths, warning her that the battle was not over.

“It is time to retire,” Ranulf said casually.

Ariane swallowed hard, realizing he had ordered her to bed, wondering if he meant to carry on the conflict there. She considered disobeying, but remembered how Ranulf had forcibly carried her there the last time. Had that been merely two nights ago?

Moving stiffly over to the bed, she climbed beneath the covers. Then she turned on her side, giving him her back, and waited rigidly for Ranulf to join her.

She remained still when she felt his weight shift the mattress. For an interminable moment he leaned over her, while Ariane held her breath. She could feel his amber gaze caressing her, scrutinizing her, as if gauging the strength of her resistance.

Yet “Pleasant dreams, demoiselle,” was all he said, before rolling over and settling his body for slumber.

Ariane willed her hammering heart to quieten. Once more she had escaped ravishment, but it was growing harder and harder to maintain her defenses.

The dream returned, this time far more erotic than any reality. She could feel the intense heat of Ranulf at her back, the hardness and detail of him as he pressed against her. Beneath the covers, her smooth bare legs entwined with his hair-roughened ones, his granite thigh wedged between her knees.

Through a dim haze she felt him slowly stroking her belly, gliding upward to cover her breast, to knead softly with his calloused palm. Ariane moaned softly in her sleep and arched her back against the sensuous pressure, straining closer to his caressing palm, wishing the thin barrier of linen between them would disappear. Her nipple tightened against his hand, and she shivered with delight. For such a large, rough hand, his touch was like silk. Her buttocks, nestled in the saddle of his hips, squirmed as pleasurable tremors coursed down the insides of her thighs.

Reveling in the naked heat and strength of him, she murmured in protest when his caressing fingers left off their erotic plundering. Yet his hand only moved lower beneath the bedclothes, to dip below the hem of her shift, drawing up the thin material. She felt her body quicken as his palm stroked along her thigh, her hip; the touch of his hand against her bare skin made her pulse race. When his fingers slipped intimately between her thighs, a hair’s breadth from the heat of her womanhood, it excited her almost unbearably.

She should awaken, Ariane told herself. She should force her eyes to open and end this wanton dream, but then she might never know the completion of her fantasies, the elusive fulfillment of all her longings. And the wonderful, moist, aching weakness that pulsed to life in that secret shameful place between her thighs, the exquisite feelings radiating through her flesh, were not to be denied. Her woman’s body craved his touch, craved the maleness of him. Her thighs fell apart, allowing him access.

His fingers splayed to clasp her woman’s mound, pressing against the soft curls guarding her femininity. Ariane drew a sharp breath, her body stiffening.

Be easy, sweeting. You have naught to fear from me.His husky whisper soothed her, coaxing her restless, feverish limbs to relax. Blessed Saints, her dream was so real, so sinful. Almost as if Ranulf were truly here, lying with her, stroking her in wicked, forbidden ways.

She should push him away, and yet the clamoring in her blood prevented her from relinquishing her exquisite illusion. Her body was on fire, burning beneath his touch, her nipples aching points of flame. She mewed, her hips lifting in instinctive supplication as he found her soft, silky female cleft, parted the quivering folds of flesh.Aye, open for me, cherie . . . let me in . . . let me savor your treasures. . . . Dear Mary, she wanted this, wanted his incredible, magical touch.

The fingers were bolder now, exploring her with hot, slick strokes, sliding inside her, probing.Jesu, so hot you are . . . so wet for me . . . His heated words whispered into her ear an invitation to his own special paradise.

Ariane whimpered. Sweet Virgin, was it possible to die from so much pleasure? Her will was no longer her own. His lean, sinewy, stroking fingers had stolen it from her. Desire was like a taut bow inside her, drawn ever tighter by his brazen fingers. He was learning the moist secrets of her, every exquisite pleasure point, sending small convulsive reactions running through her.