The Knight's Prisoner (Medieval Discipline 1)

He held up the braid. “So you got the Saxon hair coloring.”

“Aye. My mother hated it because it reminded her of the rape. I think I must look quite a bit like him.”

He wanted to reach out and pull her body right up against his, but he was resolved not to take her again, not to abuse his position as her keeper. He settled instead for running his hand lightly up and down her back. To his surprise, she inched closer to him, a hobbled sort of scooting, since her hands were bound. She curled her upper body in against him and threw one leg over his legs, so her bottom was still in the air but she was supported by him. He wrapped his arm around her waist and held her against his chest, rubbing her back until she fell asleep.

* * *

Why was it some part of her actually enjoyed being Sir Ferrum's prisoner? She pondered this the next day as they rode to another village to politic and recruit. Was it the attention? She certainly had never been paid so much regard by anyone in her entire life, including her own mother, which probably wasn't saying much.

But it was more the manner in which he paid her attention—so gentle, so thoughtful. He had braced her for bumps again as she rode in front of him, and he always made sure she had food before he ate. And he'd switched her, yes, but it had been so… tender, somehow. The way he'd spread his cloak for her to lie upon on the log. The way he'd held her hand during the spanking. She wanted more of him.

When they stepped inside his tent the following night, Sir Ferrum reached for the ropes to bind her hands. “Wait,” she said and quickly stripped her clothing off. Sir Ferrum stared at her in complete astonishment. “If you're going to bind my hands and play marauding Saxon, I need to be prepared.”

Ferrum seemed struck dumb. He stared at her breasts and shook his head mutely. “Nay. I, uh, I'm not going to play marauding Saxon.”

“Then you can't tie me up,” she said pertly.

Ferrum let out a surprised sort of chuckle. “Woman, you are mad. What is your game?”

She folded her arms beneath her breasts and used them to jiggle her best asset. “I thought it was plain. Tie me up and 'fuck me,' as the Saxons would say.”

He looked like he was torn. She saw the bulge under his tunic and the way his eyes danced around her naked form, but clearly he didn't trust her motivations. She took a step toward him and watched with amusement as he took a step back. She launched herself at him, wrapping her legs around his waist tightly and biting his ear when she settled on her perch. He stumbled back with a grunt and then made a growling sound, tightening his hands on her bottom. He knelt on the sleeping mat and lowered her onto her back. “You have no idea what you're getting yourself into,” he warned.

She scoffed. “Surely you forget what I am.”

He shook his head. “You asked for it.” He pinched her nipple hard and turned it, causing her to gasp and arch. “You will win no favors from me with your temptation,” he said in a low, husky voice. She reached up and tried to slap him, but he caught her wrist. He wrestled both her arms until they were bent behind her, underneath her as it were, and then he held the elbows. “Open for me,” he growled, indicating her thighs with his chin.

She laughed at her success and drew her knees up. He lowered himself and caught her sex with his tongue, licking and sucking. This—this magic he made with his mouth… She had only heard tell of such a thing before, and she had not believed it would be so incredible. She bucked against him with desire, crying out and trying to wrestle her arms free, but he merely tightened his grasp and continued to torture her with the intense pleasure of his tongue. She panted with need, aching for release, but he didn't give it to her. He pulled his head up abruptly and let go of her elbow long enough to slap the side of her arse. She jumped and gasped, still sore from the switching he'd given her the day before.

She struggled even harder to free her arms, but he held her easily. “What? You want these free?” he drawled. “I thought you wanted to be tied up and fucked, as you put it.”

“Aye, tied up, not twisted in torture.”

He slid her elbows out, then pinioned her two wrists together over her head, gazing down at her with a look of such heat and intensity that she felt as though steam might come out of her skin. He took her nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue, then nipping it hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. He made a growling sound as he twisted her arms under her knees and then pinioned her wrists together in the air, effectively lifting her legs and hips with them. He slapped her exposed bottom hard, and she bucked. She loved the way he dominated her so easily—he was so strong and huge compared to her. He mounted her in that position, he on his knees, she trussed up with her own tangled limbs so he controlled all four of them with the grasp of just one of his huge hands. He rode her rough, and he rode her hard, and the position did not allow for any softness about it. The sheer physicality of the way he took her answered some craving she'd never known she had. She wasn't afraid of him at all. The roughness provided a release for the tension and fear that had been steadily building since she'd been hauled out of London. She bit and struggled against him, and he took her like his cock was a weapon. When he tired of that position, he released her legs and she slapped at him, forcing him to hold her arms down until they climaxed in unison—a crashing, jerking, fingernail-digging frenzy. One like she'd never had before.