The Warrior

Her cheeks flushing, she let her gaze drift lower. Water glistened in the dark hair on his chest, but there her courage faltered.

“Ariane . . .” he said softly, coaxingly.

Forcing her gaze downward, she did as she was bid, looking at the sight of their joining. His organ was huge and red and slick as it sat poised at the threshold of her womanhood. The sight was erotic and incredibly arousing—yet not as arousing as the fiery feel of him as he slowly thrust inside her, penetrating deep.

She groaned, and clutched at his shoulders, ignoring his command to keep her eyes open as she gasped out his name. He was throbbing within her, demanding her sensual response. She heard herself whimpering and knew she was undulating her hips shamelessly.

“This is how I want you,” Ranulf muttered, raw desire darkening his husky voice. “Hot and wild beneath me.”

This was howshe wanted to be, Ariane though dazedly: Ranulf claiming her, making her feel totally possessed, each slow plunge making her crave the next as she quivered beneath his sensual domination.

This was how she wantedhim, she realized as she felt Ranulf’s body shudder. He was losing control, trembling with hunger. She had a blurred glimpse of his face, dark and strained, as he stroked powerfully into her, felt the muscles bunching and rippling in his broad, scarred back—but then she gave herself up to the fire that was building between them.

They were no longer bitter enemies. Merely two bodies straining to become one. Two hearts clashing in passionate need.

She took his weight, his raging desire, as they climbed to the verge of another shattering climax, and when the explosion came at last, neither of them knew who was the conqueror, who the vanquished.

17

For two full days, Ranulf remained sequestered in his chamber with Ariane. He spent the entire time pleasuring her, and teaching her how to pleasure him.

Serfs delivered their meals directly to the solar, along with fresh bathwater and wood for the hearth fire. No one else dared defy the lord’s orders for privacy or risk the Black Dragon’s uncertain temper by disturbing him. Payn alone was permitted an audience with Ranulf for half an hour each morning and evening, and then was expected to deal with the vassals and household officials who demanded the lord’s attention. All others were turned away.

Ranulf could not get enough of Ariane, of the incredible delight she stirred in him. He could not recall a more satisfying time with a woman. Ariane was a swift learner, and each time he took her in his embrace, she melted after the first few heated kisses.

He relished having her melt in his arms. He savored watching every nuance of her expression when she reached pleasure beneath him, relished seeing her eyes soft and hazy with lovemaking afterward. As now.

Just now—the second afternoon of their enforced intimacy, while a blustery spring rain beat against the window panes—she looked well ravished as she lay replete and panting for breath in his arms in the big bed. Her hair was a wild tangle spread across the breadth of his chest, her slender, silken limbs entwined with his.

Ranulf’s large hands stroked her naked back as he strove to collect his own breath. The storm of passion they had just weathered within the bed had been as fierce as the tempest raging outside the tower. The powerful shudders that had convulsed him moments ago still resonated throughout his body, leaving behind a sweet languor and a bewildering contentment. It startled him, how much he enjoyed the warm cocoon of closeness that enveloped them. He was unaccustomed to lingering in his lover’s embrace, yet he found himself entirely unwilling to release Ariane. This urge to touch her and hold her when he was well sated was beyond his experience. Not that he would allow her to know how profoundly she affected him.

“As you see, lover,” he said hoarsely when he could speak, resuming his role as carnal tutor, “your powers of endurance are greater than you imagined.”

Lacking even the energy to open her eyes, Ariane murmured something in reluctant agreement.

“What said you, sweeting?”

“I said . . . your tactics are unfair.”

He chuckled softly. “You are piqued because you have no control over your traitorous body.”

Ariane could not dispute him. Ranulf’s exquisite caresses drove her beyond all reason, making her respond with a wanton urgency that shocked her. “Perhaps. But ’tis wicked, what you do to me. And heathen.”

“Heathen, aye. I learned the skill from a Saracen courtesan, who learned it in an infidel brothel in the Holy Land. The sexual arts of the East have much to recommend them, would you not agree?”

“They are depraved and unseemly,” she insisted.

“But effective, admit it.”

Sweet Mary, they were indeed effective, Ariane thought sleepily, remembering the shattering impact his scandalous ministrations had on her senses. Yet Ranulf had no need to add such arts to his personal arsenal. His prowess with women was overwhelming enough without them. “I admit naught, except that your conceit knows no bounds.”

“You wound me mortally, wench,” Ranulf replied, amused, holding his heart in mock pain.

Ariane roused herself from her lethargy long enough to lift her head from his shoulder and peer up at him. The light dancing in his eyes took her aback. This was not the first time the feared dragon had teased her, yet she had never seen him in so strange a mood—blithe, almost playful. “You do not look wounded, my lord. You look . . . smug.”

“Have I not reason to be? I predicted you would submit to me willingly, and here you are.”

In irritation, she twisted her fingers in his chest hair, making him wince.