Knight In My Bed (39 page)

With a look of pure adulation, the little dog grasped the toy and bolted off with it before her heart could even comprehend the gift, the pleasure, this braw and strapping man's simple gesture had bestowed upon her wee champion.

How easily he'd won her dog's affection and trust.

How easily he'd won hers.

Her affection, if not quite her trust.

"Be you wise, my lady," his deep voice cut into her musings, "you shall make ready and give yourself to me of your own free consent, trusting and loving me as wholly as your four-legged companion."

He reached for her, taking her hands in his. "Be warned, for would you deny me, naught shall stop me from taking you." His dark eyes gleamed. "Not any dread consequences your misguided minions might attempt to visit upon me, not all the terrors of hell combined."

He squeezed her hands, a light but firm assurance he meant his every word. "Willing or otherwise, I shall have you."

"I have denied you naught." She looked up at him, knowing he meant more than the mere giving of her body, yet unable to break free of the one strand of resistance yet binding her heart.

The ghost of her sister yet rising between them, a barrier so impenetrable, physical need and not even the yearnings of her heart could breach it.

"You have had me in many ways and your touch pleases me greatly." She attempted a lightness, a teasing note, she didn't feel. Anything to case the tension thrumming through

Through her.

Desperate to steer him away from that which could only pain them both, she pulled her hands from his. Hooking her fingers behind her neck, she twirled in a slow circle. "How shall I please you this night?" she sought to entice him. “Voice your will, and I shall indulge you."

Feeling quite the temptress, she said, "I have already heeded one of your desires. I wear naught beneath my skirts.”

Donall's roguish smile reappeared. "Then dance for me," he said, scarce recognizing his own voice, so choked with lust were the words.

His desire surged, over-manning even his great discipline. Seizing her, he pulled her hips against the swollen length of his need, forcing her to accept his passion even if she wouldn't take his heart.

His love.

"Damn you, Isolde of Dunmuir," he swore, hating his weakness, thanking the saints for the loud clap of thunder that buried the terse words in the resonating rumble of its own ire.

"Dance for you?" she finally responded, her delicate brows lifting with interest.

He could see the spark of lust the idea put into her blood, and seeing her thus intrigued, fired his own passion.

Donall's loins tightened, his manhood swelling, while his heart hammered low and hard, fueled by the image of what he wanted her to do. By the vivid memory of the carnal dream he'd had of her so many weeks ago.

"Dance for you?" she asked again, her eyes limpid. She twined her arms 'round his shoulders, threading her fingers through his hair.

Mutual desire charged the air between them, while her arousal perfumed the damp night. Slipping her hands from his hair, she reached, trembling, for the ties of her bodice.

"For a kiss, I shall dance for you in any manner you desire, Sir Knight," she agreed, her fingers already plucking at her gown's bindings.

"You shall have all the kisses you desire," Donall promised, planting a light one on her freckle. "After you've danced for me."

"Knight's kisses?"

His heart melting, Donall flashed her a wicked grin. "Knight's kisses and many other kinds as well."

He lifted her hands from her bodice, gently urging them to her sides. Scarce able to draw air through the gathering thickness of his lust, he smoothed his palms over her back in slow, soothing circles. Massaging her, easing away her tension and coaxing her into a relaxed state lest she balk at what he wanted her to do.

"Have you a length of silk, my sweet?" he asked when she began to sway into his caresses. "Any length of silk?"

She shook her head, puzzlement clouding her eyes. "I told you, I have no taste for such luxuries."

She moistened her lips then, and Donall's control snapped. With a low moan, he caught her to him, pulling her flush against him as he took her lips in a searing kiss. His fingers dug roughly into the sweet rounds of her bottom, urging her closer still.

He drank of her, absorbed her taste, her essence, loving her with his mouth until all her doubts and hesitations loosened and fell from her.

Until she sagged against him, weak and besieged. Only then did he lighten the kiss. He eased back from her, but
 
kept hold of her hips, his fingers gently stroking her.

"Do you truly not have a length of silk?" he asked, pressing his forehead lightly to hers.

She shook her head, brushed a soft kiss along his jaw-line. "Nay, I do not. I possess no frippery at all," she said, and blushed furiously. "Naught save
Ev
... my friend's bauble, and that was borrowed."

"And 'tis no need you have of such ornaments either. You shall dance for me without the silk, and I will be entranced," he promised, his lust straining hard against his braies and hose, his pulse keeping bold rhythm with the pulse of his need.

“I do not understand what you want of me," came his lady's soft voice, its magic wooing him back from the dark depths of want pounding through his veins.

“You will in a moment." He flashed her his most seductive smile. Holding her gaze, he lowered himself to the floor and stretched out on his back upon the recently strewn rushes.

Ignoring her surprise, he pushed up on his forearms and gazed up at her, the bold look on his face daring her to misunderstand.

And she didn't.

Evelina had told her of such things, had claimed indulging a man's basest craving in this manner would drive him wild. She swallowed thickly, and her breath grew rapid, shallow.

Excited.

He didn't say a word. Simply watched her, one brow cocked, a look of fierce want on his handsome face. Without breaking eye contact with her, he lay back and folded his arms behind his head.

"Step over me, Isolde of Dunmuir," he spoke at last. The request weighted her belly with warm, heavy
pulsings
of desire. "Come, my lady. Lift your skirts and stand o' er my face so I can truly see you."

Her whole body went liquid. She moved toward him. pausing but a heartbeat before she did as he' d bid, gave him what he desired.

A deep, feral groan carne from his throat. He curled his hands 'round her ankles, held her fast in place, his grip pure iron,
viselike
.

Incredibly rousing.

"I cannot see you well enough," he said, his tone hot and smooth as the warmth pooling betwixt her thighs. “ `Tis too dark, my love. You must raise your skirts above your hips.”

Waves of intense pleasure flooded Isolde, washing away all but her burning need.

"Hold your gown out and away from your body," he said, the words a command. "Lift and air your skirts o'er me, so I can gaze upon your sweetness."

Heat, fluid and languorous, twisted inside her.

Pulsed and throbbed, there where he desired to gaze on her.

Gaze on her while she moved her hips as Evelina had instructed her to do should he beg such a favor from her, should he desire to look on her whilst she circled her womanhood so lasciviously above him.

The sheer wantonness of such an act sent intensely pleasurable tingles whirling over and through her most sensitive parts.
 
Seized by the rapturous sensations, Isolde dug her fingers into the folds of her skirts and began inching them higher.

So high as he desired.

Chill night air kissed her exposed skin as she met his demands, the bite of the cold, damp air soothed and tamed by the warmth of his hands moving up and down her legs.

"Higher. I would see more," he urged, letting his caresses roam higher as well. His stroking fingers stoked the flames of her own passion until any remaining shreds of embarrassment unraveled and spun away.

A moan slipped from her lips as sheer, visceral passion claimed her. Giving heed to the pleasure spun by his hands and the heat of his gaze, Isolde gave another little cry and yanked the bunched fabric over the tops of her thighs, gathering the whole of it up and around her hips.

“Sweet Christ..." Donall groaned, near spilling himself. The fire's glow slanted conveniently across her, gilding the lush bronzed vee to a gleaming gold, blessing him with a most tantalizing view of all she'd exposed.

“Circle, Isolde," he said, so drugged by lust he could scarce form the words. Too fired by his own need not to. “Move your hips slow and easy. 'Round and 'round, until I tell you to cease."

She did, and the sight of her lush intimate curls, her tender woman's flesh, circling so provocatively above him, yanked fiercely on his swollen shaft. A heated tug so urgent, his entire body shuddered with the force of his thirst for her. The power of his love for her.

Smoothing his hands up her thighs, he slid his fingers into the tangle of damp curls, let his fingertips graze softly along her middle. Again and again, until her moans gave price to the pleasure she took in his touch, in having him look upon her so intimately.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured, his words glazed with need.

And then he stayed her, grasping hold of her thighs until she remained poised above him, unmoving and still. Biting back his own nearing edge, he played at her. Stroking her sweetness, caressing and toying with her curls and tender flesh until her own sharp cries of desire matched his.

Isolde screamed, a loud and unrestrained cry worthy of the night's wild magic. A raw and savage demand. A plea for release from the tight, coiling mass of exquisite throbbing centered at the very core of her femininity.

Wind, a loud and keening gale, raced into the chamber then, a surge of power so bold it knocked her legs from beneath her, its sheer force toppling her to her knees.

There, where he needed her to be.

The cry, so fierce, Donall could scarce believe it'd be ripped from his own throat, rivaled the scream of the win. Beyond control, he pulled her down to him and slanted mouth over her femininity.

Incredible need, blinding and ravenous, consumed him. He licked and laved at her, inhaled deeply of her, filling himself with her heady scent. He savored her as the prize she was, losing himself in the glory of her until she went limp beneath him.

Her legs began to tremble, unmistakably revealing the approach of her release. Balancing on the edge of his own ease, Donall touched his tongue to the center of her passion.

"You are mine," he breathed against the tight little bud. He drank in the damp musk of her, the fingers of one hand tearing at the cords of his hose as he suckled her sweetness, teased and drew on her.

He fanned her desire, carrying her to the precipice of a fevered need so powerful she couldn't deny the possession be meant to take of her.

A claiming not only of her body, but of her very soul.

"You are mine," he swore, half-crazed from the softness of her nether curls, the musky tang of her arousal. "Do not
 
e'er attempt to deny it.”

"Aye, yours," he thought he heard her whisper, but the words lost shape, blended into a lusty, passion-tinged cry, when he grazed his teeth over the tiny bud of her arousal, drew even deeper on her.

Shaking with his own pressing ardor, Donall shoved down the hampering fabric of his own clothes, pushing the hose and braies just low enough on his legs for him to move over her.

For him to take her.

Rising up on his arms, he met her gaze, saw the same burning that consumed him mirrored in her beautiful amber eyes. He drew back his hips, holding her gaze as he reached between them to position himself, but her hand nudged his away.

She curled her fingers 'round him, easing him to her. The gesture, the feel of her hand on him, so soft, warm, and determined, near undid him The last tenuous bands of his restraint
 
tore free, and he plunged into her, claiming her with a bold and relentless force fitting of the night.

She reveled in the feel of him. Of his hard length, thick and full gliding in and out of her, possessing her as only he could. His movements -- masterful, slow, and knowing --- laid claim to her heart with the same skill he used to carry her body to the very edge of her desire.

And just when her need verged so tight she could scarce stand it, he guided her over the threshold, and she fell in on herself, imploding into a brilliant splintering of countless shards of pure, spinning bliss.

And still he moved in her. Slow moves. Long, gentle
glidings
, until he, too, collapsed atop her, his cry of release dark and full-bodied as the night around them.

Gradually, and oh-so-softly, she drifted back from the whirling abyss he'd plunged her into, barely noting he'd rolled onto his back and held her cradled securely in his arms. The solid comfort of his body cushioned her against the floor's prickliness, warmed her from the chill air.

With a sigh, she snuggled closer, gladly resting her head upon his shoulder. His nearness, the comforting shelter his knightly arms, lulled her into the sweet oblivion of sleep.