The Conqueror

He was demon-fire, danger to her soul, and she reveled in it.

Griffyn knew it, too. When she bent her knee, when she begged for more in wet whispers against his chin, when she let him lift her hips, he knew something unforeseen had happened. She was falling into his blood, his bones, his very being. The breath locked in his throat, unable to fathom the crashing awareness drowning him. A well-dammed river of tenderness—years of work—was beginning to overflow.

Stop now, or never.

She whispered in his ear and called him saviour.

Never.

He tore off his shirt and braies with one hand while the other roamed her body. She moved against him wherever he touched, her body a wave of desire under his command. He knew what her body wanted and gloried in knowing it, in making her half-lidded eyes close in ecstasy, in releasing the breathy, pleading pants from her lips, in knowing he could bring her lush, curving body shuddering right to the edge.

His hands spread out around her breasts. His thumbs flicked over the russet nubs until she cried out and arched backwards into his arms. He took one breast fully in his mouth, sucking, his tongue flicking across her nipple.

Her breath shot out in a gasp, and Griffyn pushed her gently back onto the bed, feeling drunk on the sight of her body spread out beneath him: high cheekbones lit by firelight, tangled ebony hair spilling all around her face. Her eyes were just barely opened, a glint of green behind the lids, her rosy, kiss-swollen lips parted.

He slid his hands over her hips, down to her trembling thighs. Pushing them ever so slightly apart, he slid his fingers up her inner thigh, until he hovered against the pink folds dripping with slippery juices. His hand was determined and sure, gliding across the wetness that trickled along the line of her folds. One gentle brush against the sensitive flesh brought the desired moan. His confident fingers searched and, as her body shuddered, he found the small spot at her apex and flicked it gently, lifting his head to watch.

Her head jolted back and her hips bucked into the air. Her tongue clung to the edge of her mouth, as if holding on for life. Her breath drifted out, heavy with moans. Slowly one eyelid opened and a green eye locked on his.

“What are you doing to me?” she whispered, her voice pale and ragged.

A corner of his mouth curved up. “Making you mine.” He slipped one finger fully within her pulsing wetness and she flung her head to the side. Her hips arched up instinctively.

“You are ready,” he whispered with hoarse satisfaction. Rising and putting his weight on one knee, he spread apart her legs with his other.

Her hips came up against him, moving in a natural rhythm that surged lust through him so fierce he had to stop, hold himself still and look at the wall, counting backwards.

“Please.” Her soft voice almost drove him over the edge.

“You’ve ridden horses your whole life, lady?” he asked raggedly, positioning himself between her thighs.

She nodded, interlacing her fingers around his neck.

“Then

mayhap ’twill be without any pain, this first,” he growled against her ear. The idea of being the first man to delve her depths but bring no pain was a powerful, head-spinning notion.

Gwyn felt soft hardness, velvety hot flesh push against her thighs, move up between her legs. She arched backwards as cords of heat whipped through her body. His hardness strained against her, then he slid the tip of his manhood along her seam, wetting his erection. She threw her head back, banging the wooden post she’d somehow slithered close to, and whispered the only thing she could: “Pagan. Aye.”

He nudged her legs apart even further and pushed the tip of his hardness into sensitive flesh already throbbing in spasms of pleasure. She cried out in breathy words, indistinct, uneven, and fully charged. More. He clenched his jaw for restraint. Then she lifted her hips.

Slowly he entered her, one smooth, effortless plunge that brought her nails raking down his back. He pressed in further but felt no barrier, only her wet warmth, urging him on. He moved inside her again, holding back, filling her in long, slow strokes so she could grow used to the feel of him. It was exquisite torture. Wet and tight, her flesh was hot, swelling, sweet womanly depths. The muscles of his back and legs were taut with restraint. Another slight push forward made her sigh, a breathy, wanton thing. The small, aching whimper pounded lust through his blood. He growled and shifted his hips, nudging in further.

“Oh, that feels good.” Her voice came up like a sigh, and she lifted her hips, widening his entryway.

With a ragged groan, he lifted himself into her with a long, unstoppable thrust. Needing to fill her, to feel her hot slippery pulsing along the entire length of him. Dropping his head, he bent his elbows on either side of her, muscles flexed and gleaming with sweat, and lowered his head to her breasts. Their hips met in another long, slow thrust.

“Jésu, woman,” he exhaled in a ragged voice.

“Don’t stop,” she whimpered.

As if he would ever stop again.

The desperate passion built with furious swiftness. Her neck was arched back, the top of her head pressed against the pillow, her mouth wide and panting, her hips pounding against his in the reckless rhythm. Shifting his weight to one elbow, he put his other hand beneath her knee and bent, lifting it into the air.

“Oh, Pagan.”

Her flesh shuddered and rippled around him. Growling, he lifted himself higher into her. Thrust, slide, hold. Thrust deeper, slide longer. Push.