The Warrior

He clenched his teeth, holding back the raging desire he felt for her, forcing himself to wait until she could accept the pleasure of a man’s fullness stretching her and probing deep. His powerful thighs kept her slender ones parted wide, his broad chest barely touching her breasts. Her breath was coining in shallow pants, her eyes tightly closed.

“Ariane . . . look at me.”

She obeyed reluctantly, her lids fluttering open to reveal luminous gray eyes misty with tears.

His own eyes smoldered with fire. “Is it better?”

“Y-Yes . . .” she answered honestly, although her breathless reply held little confidence.

“Can you take me deeper, sweeting?”

She frowned thoughtfully, staring at him with skepticism. “There is more of you?”

His smile, slow and sensual, was as tender as it was amused. “I fear so. But I can refrain from seating my shaft fully.”

“No . . . please . . . I want you . . . fully.”

Even as she spoke, her hips moved tentatively, tilting a little to give him better access.

Ranulf drew a sharp breath. Her slightest movement made him wild to go deeper, but with a fierce effort, he forced himself to rein in his impatience. Slowly he shifted his weight above her, purposefully grazing her breasts with his furred chest.

Her sensitive nipples tightened at the arousing contact, the throbbing ache echoing between her thighs, yet he could not make her forget entirely what the rest of his body was doing as he penetrated her, submerging himself fully, imbedding himself deep inside.

Ariane tensed, holding her breath. . . . It was odd, but the hurt had faded, leaving behind a burgeoning ache that was not entirely painful. In truth, she felt a traitorous warmth stir within her, blurring the edges of her pain and apprehension.

Then Ranulf’s lips settled over hers, and she tasted her scent on his mouth—a taste that was both shocking and erotic. Ariane quivered as his warm tongue thrust into her mouth with surprising softness; of their own accord her hips rocked against his.

She almost moaned in protest when she felt his rigid length withdrawing from her body.

But Ranulf had no intention of withdrawing entirely. Instead, his hand slipped between their bodies, his fingers finding the hot, sleek bud that was the center of her desire.

Stunned by the spasm of pleasure that rippled through her, Ariane whimpered and reached for him, her arms twining tightly around his neck. Blindly she murmured his name in a plea for mercy, but he ruthlessly went on stroking her, his back arched, his eyes half shut. She felt the shudder that quivered through him moments before her body caught fire again.

The world disappeared for her, leaving only flame-hot desire. Her hands clutched at the broad, straining shoulders of the man above her, her hips writhing.

“Yes, sweeting,” Ranulf rasped in hoarse approval, encouraging her wild abandon.

She was only dimly aware of his husky voice murmuring in her ear, barely conscious of the ridges of scarred flesh beneath her fingertips as she clawed at his back. Reduced to pagan need, she clung to him, frantic for release from the incredible tension in her body. In mere moments she arched in the next convulsive climax, her gasping cry of pleasure rocking Ranulf to his very core.

“Sweet Jesu!” He stiffened for an instant, his eyes closing in sensual pain. Then no longer able to help himself, he began to move his hips, thrusting in and out in a hot, urgent rhythm. Striving to remain gentle, he drove into her carefully while Ariane clung to him and trembled and quaked.

The raw, primitive explosion that ripped through Ranulf held such a violent intensity that it clamped his teeth shut. And then he could no longer control even that. He cried out in his own savage release as he poured into her with pent-up wildness, his body clenching and shuddering.

For long moments afterward, they lay fused together, unmoving except for the ragged tempo of their breathing. Desperately Ranulf drew air into his heaving lungs as he tried to focus his thoughts. His skin was drenched with sweat, his body hot with need, his rage of desire dulled but not sated.

He wanted her still.

His body felt heavy and languorous, yet he was half hard already. He didn’t want to leave the hot haven between her thighs, but he knew for Ariane’s sake he must. Slowly, with effort, Ranulf eased from her body, shifting his weight to one side, and raised his head.

He had been far too rough with her when he meant to be gentle and considerate of her inexperience.

“Forgive me . . .” he murmured, looking down at her exquisite, flushed face framed by the wild tangle of her hair. Her breathing had quieted; her eyes were closed.

She made a soft sound that might have been agreement, yet Ranulf could not excuse his conduct so easily.

It stunned him that she could have made him lose control that way. He had not been so inflamed by a wench since he was a stripling lad. True, he had been celibate for some weeks now, but even that did not explain his violence, or his fierce desire for Ariane. He had experienced orgasm too frequently to dismiss the savage ferocity of his release, or the shattering satisfaction afterward. Or his continued state of arousal now. He felt the same alertness he experienced after battle, nerve endings tingling, blood pounding. There was an urgency still within him, a fierce need for this woman that could not be sated by a single possession.

Such a response was unique in his experience. Once he had possessed her body, his lust should have dimmed. And yet his attraction for Ariane was as fierce as ever. . . .