by Jaye Peaches
She tested the beast sometime in the middle of the night. It had to be done. If promises were genuine, then what Gervais offered was a husband, lover, and possibly a father, whereas the Zalim would be her paramount, master, and officer of punishments. She would always need those sanctions.
He was between her thighs, his lips locked around her clitoris and his tongue flitting.
“Oh, please, please, give me your command,” she implored, uncaring if the whole world could hear her beg.
“Not so fast, little bird, you taste too good.” He resumed his feasting.
Her heart was fit to burst both with frustration and longing, so when she came, against his wishes, he must have felt the spasms in his mouth such was their strength and longevity.
Without a word, he rolled her over, dragged her over his lap and smacked her rump. She squirmed and giggled, quite aware both were inappropriate responses. He delivered a swift spanking, meticulous in its accuracy—the beast wasn’t careless—and sufficiently firm to calm her down. The giggles ceased and she stilled, allowing him to finger her between slaps. The soreness was paired to the tantalising drift of his hand along her furrow and slit, the plunge of fingers inside her pussy. Both sensations were bringing her close again to completion.
This time he granted her permission, and added without hesitation, “My Tilda, the tamer of my heart.”
When the last waves abated, he caressed the curvature of her bottom and thighs, and sighed lovingly.
“Thank you, beloved huntsman,” she murmured, her body slumped in all directions.
“My pleasure, little bird. I am a hunter, but do you trust the beast, now and forever?”
She twisted, awake once again, and looked over her shoulder. There was a strange pensive look on his face. “Yes, I do.” She spoke as solemnly as she had when giving her wedding vows.
He relaxed. “Then, the moonlight shall serenade us.”
He carried her over to the window and the long-cushioned bench that formed the low sill. There he bent her over, and with the beams of light in both of their upturned faces, he finally achieved his own climax. Hugged to his body, she absorbed his thrusts, hardened to their vigour, and felt the heat pool inside her.
If the other guests thought they heard a wolf howl that night, they were mistaken. It was Gervais’s Zalim crying out in joy, and she listened to it knowing she was cherished.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The hunt was on.
At midday, the falcons were back on their perches, their task complete—two pigeons and a wood fowl were trussed together on Lionel’s saddle. What followed the daily ritual of hawking was a ride in the forest.
Gervais always gave her a decent head start. She rode her palfrey to the highest point of the forest, then dismounted and set off on foot.
This was not the hunt of a Zalim. She wasn’t bare fleshed or scrambling desperately in any direction. She chose a path, picked wildflowers, and avoided the stinging nettles. The embracing cloak was thick enough to fight off the brambles and her shoes suitable for wet grass. She kicked a few pinecones and hummed to herself.
Gervais never took long to find her. He too dismounted, and carrying his bow, just in case he spotted a good-sized rabbit or an angry boar, he tracked her. Usually he found her by a babbling brook or under the shade of a large oak. There, he would lay his cloak on the ground, unstop his flask, and offer her a drink. They would talk a while on matters that most lords and ladies discussed: food supplies, taxes, and holes in the roof. When the business was completed, she lay on the cloak and closed her eyes. The sounds of the forest danced around them: birds singing, leaves rustling tunelessly.
She waited, and presently, he lay next to her, his hand surrounding hers.
The Zalim was still there, always. But Gervais’s contentment no longer came from wild hunts and debauched couplings in the undergrowth. In tune with her needs, he practised a different kind of lovemaking, one that suited them both, and it had borne fruit. She was with child.
“So, little bird,” he said, “shall we dally here a while longer, or return to the feverish castle?”
The bells had rung out that morning with the news, and the folk were already making merry. The marriage was a great success, according to everyone she entertained. She was well-liked by all, including the servants, who considered her kind, if occasionally a little petulant. Gervais dealt with such matters briskly and she respected his judgement.
She pondered his question. The sun was warm and the air fresh—what could be better for what grew inside her belly?
“Let’s stay here, just until the sun dips lower.”
He squeezed her hand gently and caressed it with his thumb.
“And then we’ll hunt again?”
“Yes, my lord. We’ll hunt again.”
The End
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More Stormy Night Books by Jaye Peaches
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