Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

Jenova was moving her head restlessly from side to side, her soft hair loose and tangled about them. The fragrant scent she used filled the air as her body warmed. He buried his face in those tresses, and pushed that last little bit, deep into her body. And stopped, his own body shaking with the need to go slow, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

“I’m not hurting you?” he asked, in a voice husky with tension.

She laughed, almost a sob, and closed her arms even more tightly about him. “No, Henry, you are not hurting.”

“Not even if I do this?”

She groaned at his movement, trembling with the pleasurable sensations he was causing. He moved again, and she cried out, lifting her hips to allow him greater access. And he drove deep, once and again, suddenly as mindless as her in his need to find release.

As the wave of pleasure swept over them both, Henry was aware of an edge of frustration. He had planned to do so much more! He had hardly had a chance to explore her creamy flesh, to tease her into a state of heightened passion, to run his fingers and tongue over every swell and curve of her…. Where had his mastery gone, his self-control? It had deserted him. And now, even as he rode that long, wondrous wave of repletion, he wanted her again.

It was not ended, and he wanted her again.

How could that be?

Finally they lay still, clasped in each other’s arms. With his palm still on her breast, he could feel her heart beat, feel it slowing, her body languid with pleasure. For a moment all was quiet and well, all was perfection. In the midst of the storm they were at peace.

And then with a jolt, her heart began to pound and her body stiffened, and Henry knew that memory had returned. And with it, realization.

Jenova felt crippled with returning knowledge. What have I done? How could I have been so foolish? Both confusion and wretchedness beat at her like hard fists. Henry was her friend. What they had done had complicated that fact terribly, mayhap even destroyed their friendship forever. How would she ever look him straight in the eye again? How would she ever again turn to him with ease and trust? How could he ever look at her again without remembering how she had turned into a wanton in his arms?

Jenova felt tears sting her eyes.

She should have said no. Made a joke of it. Put an end to the situation before it had begun. She could have done that. She was well able to manage all manner of awkward situations. But Jenova knew why she had failed in this one. Because she hadn’t wanted to end it. She had been just as caught up as Henry in what had been happening between them. Maybe more so. She hadn’t been able to think of anything but the pleasure he’d been giving her. Nothing else had mattered.

She had never felt like this before, not even with Mortred, whom she had believed she’d loved and whom she had lain abed with many times. But never like this; it had never been like this. As if her body were awash with feeling, alive with need, as if she might do something wild and completely against her nature. As if a caged creature she had not known existed inside her had been set free.

She frowned. Of course, then there was the fact that Henry was a practiced seducer—he had had more women than there were trees in Gunlinghorn Woods. Aye, she had been his willing partner, but he would have known exactly how to play her body, how to dull her doubts, how to make her forget all her fears. If she was another type of woman, she would blame him totally for what had happened between them, accuse him of forcing her to desire him against her will.

But Jenova was a just woman, and she knew her accusations would be unfair. Besides, she was certain Henry did not want these complications any more than she. He might be a fine lover, but in this instance he had been as much a victim of their unexpected passion as Jenova.

It had happened, but it was over. Time to move on.

With determination, Jenova pushed Henry aside and stood up, holding the cloak about her like a shield as she moved to fetch her clothing from where it lay drying by the fire. The cloth was warm, and although not completely dry it was far better than before. She picked up her chemise and clutched it, and her courage, in both hands, before she turned back to face him.

Henry was sitting very still, naked, watching her. He seemed very much at ease with himself, at ease with his body and its perfection. Although, she remembered now, it wasn’t so perfect after all. There were scars upon that golden flesh, ridges of white where weapons had cut and slashed, where other men had tried to harm him. He wasn’t perfect, he was just a man.

His face was unreadable. He was waiting for her lead, she realized. Patiently waiting to agree to whatever decision she made. Jenova swallowed, pleased and yet dismayed by the power he was handing over to her. Whatever road she took now must be the right one, for both their sakes.

“This must never happen again, Henry,” she said quietly. Her voice was flat and serious, and she realized it sounded just like it did at the manor court, when she passed judgment on her wayward people. She reached up to push her long hair over one shoulder, and found that her hands were shaking. “We have been friends for so many years. To believe we could be more than that is ludicrous. Ridiculous. This was an aberration, and I am certain we will both be very relieved to put it from our minds.”

Henry watched the emotions flitting across Jenova’s face. She had never been able to hide her feelings—she had never had to. He could see she regretted what they had done, and that it confused and frightened her. Obviously she did not want him to trespass upon her further than friendship. She did not think him capable of more.

Henry knew, in that deepest secret part of him, that he was not worthy of more.

Nay, he wasn’t worthy of Jenova; he didn’t want the complications that would now plague them. But he could not help but wonder whether she would have felt more at ease with what had happened if it had been Alfric with her here, alone in Uther’s Tower. Henry could offer her advice on fortifications and help her sort out her problems with Baldessare, but he was denied the joy of being her lover. And yet she had let him into her body; she had near swooned with the pleasure of it. Would Alfric have been able to give her ecstasy like that? Henry asked himself a little arrogantly.

At once he stopped himself.

He was being unfair.

Jenova was thinking to wed Alfric, not Henry. Jenova was the one woman Henry had always felt at ease with because she was the one woman he did not physically desire. He did not feel he had to live up to his reputation as a master of seduction with her.

And now? How could he ensure that their friendship survived this moment of madness and did not simply deteriorate into a brief affair? Jenova’s friendship meant more to Henry than any physical pleasure, and it did not matter that he had found a pleasure with Jenova that he had never felt in his life before. He did not intend to lose it.

“You are right, Jenova, this must never happen aga

in.” He repeated her words back to her firmly, evenly, and he meant every one of them. And wondered why those same words suddenly felt like a betrayal of them both.