The Knight's Prisoner (Medieval Discipline 1)

She took his thumb into her mouth again and, like a squire having a girl for the first time, he started to lose control almost immediately. He grasped her shoulder to brace her as he drove into her with more force and speed, driving to climax before the poor girl ever had a chance to find pleasure herself. He held her tightly in his arms, enjoying the pleasant ripples of enjoyment that rolled through him. “Come 'ere,” he grunted, and untied the rope from his hand, leaving her wrists bound. “Sit on my face.”

Her eyes widened and he wondered, suddenly, whether, in her profession, anyone ever bothered to show her pleasure. Well, at least that was one thing he was able to give her. He saw desire burning in her eyes as she climbed over him and slowly lowered herself over his face. He grasped her luscious thighs and held her in position over his mouth, making circles around her pearl of pleasure with his tongue, sucking the little nub, then penetrating her with his tongue. He repositioned her and licked a circle around her arsehole, then made long strokes of his tongue from her sex to her arsehole and back again. She was rocking her hips and panting with need, making little cries of pleasure that reawakened his own desire.

“Sit on my cock,” he instructed and she repositioned herself, still holding her bound wrists in front of her, helpless to use them. He grasped her hips and helped her ride him, watching her face as her head fell back and her mouth opened. The little cries began to sound quite pained, and her hips started to grind purposefully into him on each upswing, catching her pleasure point until she cried out and squeezed him tightly with her thighs, her climax rippling through her beautifully. He had another small climax watching her, and then he laid his head back contentedly.

His hand stroked up her side, then pinched her nipple rather hard. She didn't seem to mind—in fact, she smiled lasciviously at him. He took his time to slowly unravel the rope binding her wrists, rubbing the red marks that were there, despite the linen he'd used underneath the knots.

“I liked ravishing you with your hands still bound,” he mused. “It made me feel like a marauding Saxon or something.”

She looked for a moment like the wind had been knocked right out of her, and he realized his mistake too late.

“Oh shite, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Danewyn. You're probably a product of one of those rapes, aren't you?”

She didn't seem able to recover her breath, and he saw her tongue was moving inside her mouth as if she were choking on it. He pulled her down and pressed her head against his chest, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “Little flower, I didn't mean to make light of such a thing.”

She tried to pull away but he wouldn't let her. “Say something, Danewyn.”

“Let me up.”

“No.”

She struggled futilely for a moment before giving up with a heave. Then she pulled his chest hairs.

“If I could stuff your ears with wool, we'd get along just fine,” he said wryly.

She picked up her head to give him a quizzical look.

“I always say the wrong thing to women. It's the second reason I can't ever get a woman to my bed—save when I bind her to my body.”

Danewyn rested her chin on his chest and gazed at him. “The first being?”

“What do you think?”

“Your scars?”

“Aye.”

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “Fire, we think. Or some kind of burn. I was abandoned in your foul London as a tot. I was dressed in finery, so they brought me to the Duke of Umbria, who was staying there at the time. He took me home to foster.”

She stared at him, unsuccessful at masking her horror. She swallowed. “Well,” she said shakily. “I rather like them.”

He tried to snort as if he didn't believe her—as if he didn't care what she thought about them.

“I do. They suit you. They make you look tough. Or mayhap rugged is a better word.”

“You have to say so,” he said, trying to sound light. “You're my prisoner—bound and trussed to my body all night, forced to sit upon my face in the morning.”

She giggled. “I was under the impression I had a choice. Did I not?”

He stroked her silky hair and grew serious. “I would never take you against your will. I pray you realize that.”

She nodded her head, suddenly serious. “I didn't think you would.”

“And you don't owe me this. You didn't have to—” he stopped, noticing her hands had clenched into fists and her blue eyes were flashing. “What?”

“Is that what you think? I'm still trying to curry favor?” she demanded. “You felt it for yourself—I wanted you.”

He blinked at her and his hand involuntarily went to his scars. “I can't account for that,” he muttered.