MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (27 page)

He began his descent down her body once again, stroking her breasts, her thighs, rubbing his palm over the ebony triangle, slipping his fingers within it, dipping deeply into her. His mouth touched her breasts, her belly. He watched her face as he descended. Her eyes had closed again. She did not touch him.

Her fingers were wound into the sheets. He stroked her thigh, lifted, then slowly slid his tongue upon the tender flesh his touch had so recently awakened. She did cry out then, trying to turn. His hand was firm on her leg, his weight strong against hers. A “no” formed upon her lips, but the desperate whisper didn"t quite reach the air. He slid his tongue very slowly over her once again, felt the wild pull of her body, the trembling, the arching. Then his touch was not so light. He stroked and delved, tasted, plunged.

Her fingers moved, tearing into his flesh, his hair, the sheet again. A searing heat shot through him as he felt the response of her body, tasted its sweetness.

Mercilessly he continued his seductive assault upon her, ignoring the thundering in his skull, the agony of tension and desire that gripped him.

A cry suddenly burst from her. She writhed and went as taut as stone. A wave of victorious pleasure swept over him, and in seconds he felt the hot burst of her body"s sweet release. He had longed to arouse her, seduce her, and he had done so. She was incredibly wet and warm now, and that very fact seemed to goad him to a greater, white-hot desire.

He rose, kicking off his boots, stripping down his chausses. Even as he did so, she tried to curl within herself, turning from him, drawing her knees to his chest.

“Nay, lady!”

He drew her back, heedless that his shirt remained upon him. He straddled her, fanning her hair out in an ebony arc. Her eyes closed, she sought not to see him, not to meet his gaze.

Not to face the truth of just how swiftly and surely he had touched her.

But he brought his lips to hers again, forced them apart, forced his tongue within.

“Taste our love,” he whispered, then wedged his weight determinedly between her thighs. His sex throbbed with a fury, and she swallowed hard, feeling it against her. He touched her, carefully thrust the smooth tip of himself just against her. She was as pale as the sheets. She bit into her lower lip. He pressed farther. She gasped, and bit her lip again, determined not to cry out. He moved as slowly as he could, but his next movement at last drew a ragged cry from her. He wrapped his arms tenderly around her, aware that she reeled with the pain. “It"s over,” he assured her, and held her against him. He felt the pulse of himself inside her, the desperate need to be assuaged. He held her close, caressed her buttocks. She buried her face against his shoulder, fingers gripping like steel into his arms. He could no longer bear it. He began to move.

She was slick, warm, yielding. Her body closed around his like a fitted sheath, each stroke driving him to new heights of searing desire. He held her achingly tight against him, thrusting himself more and more deeply, his rhythm growing with his need, with his thirst for release. He filled her again and again, impaled her, held her, began his storm anew. He kept his hand firmly upon the smooth beauty of her rounded buttocks, molding her to him, forcing her to meet his thrust, to come, to arch against it.

To writhe.

To seek something herself once again, the sweet surcease she barely knew.

Hot, slick, wet, their bodies met and melded. Then Conar felt the heat of a thousand flames burst forth within him. He climaxed wildly, thrusting, thrusting again, filling her with the burning rush of his seed from his body, once, again, again. His climax was volatile, exquisite, a storm. It swept over him, shook him, riddled him. He nearly fell atop her with the full bulk of his weight, yet caught himself in time.

And in time to feel the arch and trembling of her supple form against him, the proof that he had reached her, touched her.

He eased himself swiftly to her side, gasping raggedly for breath. Long moments passed before he gazed her way and saw that her eyes were open, dazed, and fixed upon the ceiling once again. She must have felt his gaze, because she lowered her lashes swiftly and turned away from him.

He clamped down hard on his jaw, amazed at the pleasure she had brought him, bitterly disappointed by the hostility she still seemed to bear him.

“Was that too barbaric, my love?” he mocked softly.

“You told me I must be willing!” she hissed in return.

Her back was to him. Incredibly tempting. He stroked his fingers up and down its length. “I"m ever so delighted that you were.”

“I had no choice.”

“No, of course not, you gave your word. Yet I truly thought you might run again, denying me.”

She swung on him suddenly, her eyes a tempest in violet. “And if I had?

What then? Would you have let me be?”

He smiled, leaning upon an elbow, fascinated anew by the view he was now receiving of her full, dusky crested breasts.

“Perhaps.”

She let out a strangled oath of fury and tried to turn away again. He caught her, encircling her in his arms even as she struggled. He laughed. “But probably not. I am Viking. I would have found you and ravished you one way or the other. Is that what you want to hear?”

She clenched her teeth hard in fury. “Is it what would have happened?” she demanded.

“We"ll never know, will we? Because you were here, bathed and perfumed.

Waiting … and at least pretending to be … willing.” Her lashes fell again. “Well, then, milord, you are well served. All is yours.

The marriage is legal—and consummated. Perhaps now you will be good enough to let me be. You"ve everything that you wanted.” He stroked one of the magnificent tresses of ebony hair that fell over her shoulder and lay tangled between them. The touch against his flesh was as soft as silk, sensual, enticing.

He smiled. “I told you, Melisande, that I wanted you.”

“And all that goes with me.”

“You,” he said firmly.

He sat up, ripping his shirt from his shoulders at last. Her gaze fell upon the breadth of his chest, the ripple of muscle within his arms.

Then it fell lower upon his body, down the length and strength of the shaft bulging there once again, growing even as she stared.

“No!” she murmured, starting to draw away.

“Yes,” he returned, and slipped her beneath him once again.

Her hands strained against his chest.

But her lips …

Her lips parted sweetly to his kiss.

Chapter Thirteen

At some point she at last slept, and in sleep the night seemed to take on the soft, hazy unreality of a dream. Yet there were solid elements within that dream. The feel of his arms around her, that of his shoulder beneath her head, the soft stroke of his fingers, even when they lay at rest. The dreaming was sometimes sweet. She felt that she had fought so bitterly, surrendered so completely. But in her dreams she dared marvel at the intimacy between them, at the tenderness he offered when he chose, of the magic in his rough touch.

While dreaming, she could forget that she should have fought herself as well as him, should have stayed strong, should have kept her pride, her dignity, her soul, all away from him. She could remember the outrage of each first intimate touch he so arrogantly took and demanded, but then the memory of the excitement it created would sweep upon her, even in her dreams. She couldn"t have fought him and won. But surely she could have waged a better battle with herself.

She would deny him forever, she promised herself.

But the promise was no good.

Several times it seemed that he reawakened her when she had just fallen asleep at last. Yet he did so in such a slow and sensual manner that she was doing his bidding before she awakened once again.

It seemed she had slept deeply for a long while when she opened her eyes and discovered his searing gaze burning into her, studying her face. She was startled by the intensity of his stare, and for one unwary moment she was also startled by the striking, rugged handsomeness of his face. She didn"t want to see it, didn"t want to admit in any way that he was arresting, yet how could she deny it now? Even as he stared at her, she felt a trembling begin deep within her. He always managed to cause some passionate stirring of emotion inside her. Now things had changed, and she could never change them back again.

Now she could never escape him.

Most of all she didn"t want to care about Conar, didn"t want to wonder or care whether he slept through the night. He took what he desired and would then do what he chose, and she had yet to learn why he had come.

Except for this.

But why now, when he had let her be for so very long?

His hand cupped her cheek, and he murmured harshly, “No annulment, Melisande. There will be no annulment.”

Had she ever mentioned the possibility of trying to get an annulment to anyone before she had so swiftly and rashly whispered the words to Gregory yesterday? It seemed like eons ago. She might have been a different person, living in a different place. She closed her eyes, still exhausted, shivering. He would have found her last night, she thought. If she had not stayed, if she had not kept her word to him, he would have found her anywhere she might have gone. He had been absolutely determined to consummate their wedding vows.

His voice stroked her ear now. “You know that now, milady, don"t you?” She rolled to her side, curving her back to him. It was no deterrent. His hand moved lightly but possessively over her naked hip. There was even a feel of tenderness to the touch. Oddly, after everything else, that brought a glistening of tears to her eyes.

“There will be no annulment,” he repeated. The words were soft yet fierce.

She had to respond to him, lest he take his touch further once again.

And she respond once again.

She clenched her teeth tightly together, then spoke. “Aye, milord Viking, I am aware that there can be no annulment now.”

She hoped that he was satisfied with that. Perhaps he was. But his fingers remained splayed upon her hip, and though her back was to him, she was keenly aware of the incredible muscle structure of his shoulders and chest, and the soft feel of the golden hair where his sex nestled. She was also very aware of
that
now. It seemed to live a life of its own, imposing even at rest, so quick to grow and bulge and pulse and demand.

Just the touch at her spine made her remember, made her burn, made her feel again. She"d never been prepared for this, never. Never these feelings, never this longing, this aching. This needing.

And hating every minute that he saw all he so easily achieved.

He was silent, though she was certain he didn"t sleep. She felt his touch, the slick length of him. She closed her eyes again. She could not sleep with him so.

She could not dislodge him.

In time her exhaustion overrode all else, and she did close her eyes and sleep deeply.

When she awoke again, late in the morning, she was alone. Her eyes opened very slowly, and she didn"t think that she"d ever awakened before to feel so exhausted. Nor so torn by such a tempest of emotions. His scent lingered with her, his down pillow retained an indentation from his head.

Ah, yes, his mark lay all upon her, she could feel it still, from head to toe.

She was incredibly sore, yet it was exquisite. She still trembled to remember how he had made her feel. He was good, he compelled, he seduced, he demanded. She had thought to endure the night with fortitude, she had never imagined just what the darkness might bring.

Ah, but now daylight was with them! She had never been so sore, so torn, and so alarmed, she thought, tugging the sheets up around her breasts. It was a very strange tangle of emotions. Over time she had struggled with two possibilities, one being that she would come of age, manage to get an annulment, return home, and perhaps acquire a husband of her own choosing.

Then, of course, there had always been the possibility that Conar would actually come for her and take her as his wife. She had always been wary of him, impressed by him, and infuriated by him. Perhaps the attraction had always been there, perhaps that had bred some of her hostility. She had even realized at times that her fury was compounded by his lifestyle—Conar did know what he wanted and with whom. She was supposed to be chaste and pristine, while he went about his life. There was the woman in Dubhlain and probably one in France. And there was Brenna, with him so frequently, quick to dip her blond head and laugh at his words, quicker still to touch his arm, softly advise him. Bede, of course, had been amused with her fury against the injustices of life and had reminded her that a woman"s lot was different since she was meant to bear her husband"s heir. Naturally it was necessary that she therefore cling to a husband, even if the husband was unaware that she did.

Yet Conar had received his great inheritance through her. Therefore, nothing seemed fair at all.

Of course, Bede had also warned her that she could not expect the world to be fair.

But she had long deplored her situation with Conar, and yet it had been bearable. He hadn"t been with her enough to wield his power.

Until now.

He had managed to wield a new power over her. One she had never expected.