The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

Rose’s heart jolted. He took her mouth with his before she could reply. He had kissed her before, but not like this. He was forcing her mouth to cling to his, his tongue searching, overcoming her fears with the sheer strength of his passion. Rose swayed and leaned against him, afraid she might otherwise crumple at his feet. Her hands reached out and found nothing but warm flesh and ungiving muscle. He found her breast, cupped it through her robe, fingers rolling the hard jut of her nipple, and Rose moaned deep in her throat as her body arched involuntarily toward him.

He lowered his head, his mouth open and hot against her rounded flesh, suckling on her through the thin cloth, while his hands drew her in closer against him, until their lower bodies felt joined together from the hip down. Rose swayed back, his arm about her waist holding her safe from falling, and Gunnar obeyed the unspoken invitation she was offering. He kissed her throat, and then ran his tongue down into the opening of her robe, finding her naked skin.

The room was spinning. The ache between her thighs was reaching a dangerous level, making her reckless. Rose forgot her determination to remain in control, she forgot who was commanding whom. Forgot everything but her own urgent needs. His manhood was rigid against her belly and she reached down, and found him. Her touch was light, a mere brush of her fingers, and yet he seemed to throb against them. She heard his gasp against her breast.

Curiosity briefly overcame caution—she brushed him again, her fingers lingering, encircling the hard, satin rod. He moaned, his body going even harder, his muscles rigid with tension. Astonished, Rose froze and then heard him give a shaken laugh. “What do you command now?” he asked her in a hoarse, rough voice. He lifted his head, and his handsome face was as tense as his body, his eyes almost pleading. “Tell me quickly, Rose, because I am fast losing what control I have left.”

Stunned, she gazed up at him. Gunnar Olafson losing his control, just because of a little touch like that? But how could that be? He was always in control. That was one of the reasons she was so afraid to give herself completely over to their passion.

Tentatively, very carefully, as if she were handling a dangerous object, Rose wrapped her hand more firmly about him. He closed his eyes and shuddered. Rose ran her fingers up and down the long, thick length of him, gaining confidence, no longer afraid, sensing that whatever she was doing, he was enjoying it. He didn’t want her to stop. Amazingly, astoundingly, Gunnar Olafson, that male god, was now in her sway. And Rose liked that very much.

He groaned again as her hand tightened, and rested his brow on the crown of her head. His breath was hot, his arms were trembling. “I want…” He swallowed and tried again. “I want to be inside you, lady. Command that.”

Rose stroked him once again, smoothing her finger-tips over the broad head of his manhood, where it wept desire. He moved in her hand. She wanted to smile, she wanted to laugh, she felt as if she had been given a secret spell. This was power she had never known she had, power she had never had the opportunity to explore. And now, for some reason of his own, Gunnar was allowing her to do so.

So absorbed was she, she did not notice that her robe had fallen completely open. Not until his hands slid inside, eagerly exploring the fullness of her breasts with their dark pink nipples, running over the gentle curve of her belly and down, through the curls of dark hair to the moist, hot core of her.

Rose gasped and momentarily stopped her own explorations, pressing against his hand. He was watching her in a hungry, intent way. As if he wanted to remember her like this forever. But that made no sense, thought Rose dazedly, and then he moved his thumb against her, and she forgot to think.

“I command you to take me as a man takes a woman,” she whispered in a ragged voice, reaching for him again. “I command you, Gunnar.”

She expected…Rose didn’t know what she expected. Maybe for him to lay her gently on the bed and climb atop her. Instead he moved so swiftly she cried out. He reached down, gripping her firmly about the waist, and lifted her into the air until their faces were level. Her eyes opened wide in shocked surprise.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he said with quiet intensity, “and your legs around my waist.”

Rose slipped her arms about his neck, fingers twining in his hair, and then more slowly, uncertainly, she curled her legs about his big, muscular body. In such a position, she could not help but press herself intimately to him.

Blue eyes glittered into brown, and then his palms followed her curves down, closing on the soft flesh of her bottom. He shifted her, correcting her position, and just like that his manhood was prodding at her sheath, easing toward the slippery heat at her center.

She gasped, pushing at his shoulders, feeling herself trying to stretch to his size, her body stiffening in rejection. He hardly seemed to notice. Sweat was sheening his face, and his breath was shallow. The muscles in his arms tensed and hardened—he was holding her entire weight—and he lowered her a little more, filling her.

The sensation was beyond her experience, beyond anything she had dreamed of. Gunnar was making her his, and Rose had the feeling that she would never be the same afterward.

He moved again, easing her down on him, and she clung, moaning. His mouth covered hers, his tongue sought hers. And still he held her against him, her entire weight taken by his arms and hips and legs. Surely in another moment he would put her on the bed? Edric had never done such a thing as this—not that he would ever have been capable of holding her in such a way. In Rose’s experience men and women mated in bed in the darkness, beneath the covers, and they were quick and silent about it. They did not stand in the center of a room, naked, blatant, consumed by their passion.

Gunnar eased her up, until he had withdrawn almost completely, and then lowered her again. Deeper now, taking his time, accustoming her body to his. Rose let her head fall back, her hair a heavy tangle. Every thought was concentrated on the place between her thighs, where he was joined to her. He took the opportunity to bend his head and suckle at her breasts, his tongue deliberately circling each nipple and sending shivers of unbearable excitement rippling across her skin.

Rose felt her body clench about him, desperately trying to keep him inside her as he withdrew again. She tried to push herself down more quickly, leaning forward to kiss his throat, her mouth open and wet and wanton. Their bodies were damp now, slipping against each other, and she was tugging at his hair, pulling his head down, his mouth. He kissed her, and it was beyond pleasure.

He moved her upon him, harder now, still deeper, and sensation began to hum through her bones. “Gunnar,” she managed, “please. Please…” And as if he had been waiting for just that, Gunnar tilted her hips closer toward him, moving her in some way so that when he entered her the next time he brushed against that swollen nub within her dark curls.

Rose cried out, arching and twisting in his hands, shaken with the tremendous force of the release he had given her. He lifted and lowered her again, once, twice, until he was so deep within her she felt him touch her womb. His seed spilled out into her as her sheath squeezed and clenched violently, and at the same time he threw back his head with a hoarse shout so loud Rose feared the whole of Somerford must have heard.

And yet, as she slumped against him, wet and gasping and shuddering, wondering if she had the strength to ever stand on her own again, Rose knew she did not care.

Chapter 12

Someone was nuzzling against her nape, breathing in her scent, sprinkling light kisses across her sensitive skin.

Rose opened her eyes.

The candle by the door had burned down to a flickering stub of yellow grease, and the room was full of shadows. She was on the bed—he had carried her there afterward, laying her down as if she were the most precious of creatures, before stretching out beside her and pulling the covers over them both. For a time he had seemed content to just lie there, his arm heavy about her waist, his thighs tucked warmly in behind hers, his breath soft against her hair.

They had sta

yed like that, as comfortable as if they had known each other all their lives. They hadn’t spoken. There didn’t seem to be anything to say. Rose was replete, limp, unable to dredge up a single worry or care, and Gunnar was content to let her rest. She had even dozed, dreaming of nothing but warm darkness, cradling her, rocking her.

But now he was moving again.