Entreat Me

by Grace Draven

  The fall back to earth left her limp, gasping for breath and with legs as wobbly as an old table. Ballard slid up her body enough to rest his head on her chest. Louvaen wondered if he could hear the gallop of her heartbeat as she strove to fill her lungs with air. She massaged his scalp, his hair damp with perspiration. “Who exactly is the beast in the bed, de Sauveterre?” she teased.

  A rumble against her sensitive nipple made her jump. He kissed the tip in apology and inched further up until they were face to face. A thin line of sweat trickled from his temple and down the side of his face as he gave her a smug grin. “Speak louder, woman. My ears are still ringing from that bludgeoning you just gave me.” His grin softened. He caressed her nose with a fingertip. “I’d be disappointed to hear only delicate sighs from so bold a woman.”

  Louvaen looped her arms around his neck and tugged him down until her lips ghosted his. Every muscle in her body thrummed from the aftermath of her orgasm, yet she wanted more, needed more of this man—so grim in his manner, so generous in his passion. She trailed a path with one hand from his shoulder, across his chest and the rigid muscles of his abdomen to the stiff cock pulsing gently against her slippery thighs. He gasped into her half opened mouth when her hand curled around him and stroked from base to tip. Her fingers came away sticky. She tucked them into her mouth, savored the faint flavor of salt as she licked them clean.

  “Gods, Louvaen, I’ll come before I’m inside you if you continue.”

  She reached for him a second time, holding his hips with her trembling legs. “That’s not a bad thing, Ballard, but I’d rather you came inside me.” She guided him to her, her tongue sliding between his lips as he slid deep with a single thrust. Louvaen groaned at the fullness, spread her legs wider to take him. She had not made love to a man since Thomas, and her body was no longer accustomed to the feel of a cock inside her. Ballard might not be quite the horse the lusty princess once compared him to, but he was endowed well enough to make her gasp in his mouth with every slow pump of his hips.

  He paused and broke the kiss. “Am I hurting you?” He waited, strung tight as a bowstring.

  She caressed his cheek. “No. We’re just a snug fit.” She smiled and tugged on his hair to bring him back to her. “Kiss me again.”

  Ballard obeyed her command, his tongue entwining with hers as he rocked back and forth, quickening from deep plunges to short, shallow strokes and back again. Louvaen locked her ankles behind his back, angled her hips and gripped his buttocks to bring him harder against her. He ended their kiss a second time only to bury his face in her neck and suck the soft skin between his teeth. She grunted at the pleasure-pain and clutched his arms as he went rigid, his breath gusting hot along her neck. He groaned into her hair. A swell of heat filled her belly, followed by a slow throb as Ballard settled heavy in her arms, spent.

  They lay together amidst a heap of tossed pillows. Content to lie beneath him and let him catch his breath, Louvaen idly traced the markings on Ballard’s body, fingers sliding down his back to rest at the base of his spine. She savored his weight on her, inside her. They were a sweaty, sticky mess, and she loved all of it. Each breath he exhaled pushed her deeper into the mattress; every twitch of his muscles caressed her skin. He finally lifted his head to look at her.

  “This is a small bed,” Ballard observed wryly. Louvaen laughed, cutting it short as her muscles tensed. He wrapped an arm around her hip to anchor her to him and rolled them to their sides. “Careful. I’m not ready to leave this sweet place just yet.” He kissed her softly, tracing the outline of her lips with his tongue.

  Louvaen returned the kiss, indulging herself by sucking his lower lip between her teeth to nibble at him. She released him at his faint moan and grinned. “It is a small bed. Is that why you offered yours first?”

  The crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Mine is much bigger. I’d not be dodging your knees and mine while I nibbled your thighs.”

  In their current position, the light from the hearth illuminated his features, casting the scars in high relief. She recalled the portrait in the corridor, the dour ruthlessness stamped on his unscarred face. He told her he’d been born and raised a warrior, a Marcher lord skilled in the arts of combat and bloodshed. She’d seen him spar with Gavin, taking the bigger, younger man down several times before Gavin got the best of him a time or two. He hunted boar alone, a dangerous endeavor even amongst a group of armed hunters. She didn’t doubt he’d make a deadly opponent in any fight. That he once relished warfare had been evident in the painting. Not so much now. He was neither gentled nor softened, but something had tempered him, blunted the thirst for battle simply for battle’s sake. Despite the many scars and twisted magic marking him now, Ballard de Sauveterre was far handsomer and more intriguing than the man who’d stood impatiently for the portrait.

  Louvaen twined a tendril of his hair around her finger. “Your bed next time.”

  His arms tightened on her. “Next time?”

  He tried to hide it, but she heard the wary hope in his question. She kissed the lock of hair. “Many next times. Besides, I’m not in the habit of doing things I might later regret.”

  Ballard’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ll remember that the next time you shoot at my castle, break my nose and threaten to kill my son.” He winked.

  She sniffed and tugged hard enough on the wrapped lock of hair to make him wince. “You forgot eviscerating your magician.” She paused. “Then again I’m not sure I’d regret that.”

  As if her words summoned him, Ambrose’s voice sounded beyond her door. “Mistress Duenda, it’s Ambrose. Open the door.” A series of hard raps against the wood emphasized his demand.

  Louvaen’s eyes widened. What did the magician want with her, and now of all times?

  Ballard’s expression reflected the same surprise before it darkened into a thunderous scowl. “I’m going to kill him.” He slipped out of her, kissing her in apology when she squeaked a protest. He rolled out of bed in one smooth motion and padded toward to the door.

  Louvaen scrambled after him, pausing to yank one of the blankets off the bed and wrap it around herself. “Wait. Wait! I want to see this.”

  She made it to his side just as he yanked the door open. Ambrose stood before them, dressed in one of his many robes with its embroidered symbols and potions stains. He held a goblet in one hand and eyed the pair of them as if he’d stumbled upon some newly discovered and possibly dangerous animal. One eyebrow arched at Ballard’s nudity before his gaze paused on Louvaen, touching on her hair, her makeshift blanket robe and her bare feet. She resisted the urge to pat her hair. “I’ve seen haints livelier looking than you,” he said. He barely dodged the punch she threw at him.

  Ballard grabbed her by the waist to hold her back. “Your timing could get you murdered, Ambrose. State your business and make it quick.”

  Despite almost having his eye blackened, Ambrose smiled and offered Louvaen the goblet he held. “An ice water bath isn’t always invigorating, nor is a tupping. This is a restorative to chase away the fatigue. You look like you need it.”

  Startled by the unexpected kindness, even if it was offered on the back of an insult, Louvaen took the goblet. “Thank you.” She peered at the ruby tinted liquid in the cup and sniffed. Her head snapped back at the fumes, and her eyes teared. She thrust the goblet at Ambrose. “No thank you. I think I prefer drowning over poisoning.”

  He pushed it back to her. “My poisons are sweet.”

  Ballard plucked the goblet out of her hand and sniffed the contents. Like Louvaen, he reared back and turned his head to cough. “What kind of piss is this?” he said when he caught a breath.

  Louvaen frowned. “Probably something he made with the venom and scales of the world’s most evil viper.”

  “Oh, you have a twin?” This time Ambrose took a long step out of striking range.

  Ballard uttered a strangled sound, quickly masked by a fake cough. Louvaen smacked him on the arm. Her
appreciation of Ambrose’s sharp quip, along with the lingering gratitude that he’d taken the time to brew something to help her feel better, softened her annoyance. Ballard’s lovemaking had left her sated, content and so tired she was sure she’d sleep for months. She could use a restorative even if it did reek like the dead. She took the goblet from Ballard. “Does it taste as bad it smells?” she asked.

  Ambrose’s eyes glittered ten shades of malice. “Worse.”

  “Of course it does. How soon until I drop dead once I drink it?” She ignored Ballard’s sudden frown and kept her gaze on the sorcerer.

  “If I’m lucky, I’ll witness that pleasurable event before the dominus sends me on my way.”

  “I should have done so the moment I opened the door,” Ballard muttered.

  Louvaen pinched her nostrils shut and brought the cup to her lips. Her throat muscles flexed, and her stomach flipped in warning. She glowered at Ambrose over the goblet’s rim.

  Ballard stroked her arm. “You don’t have to drink it, my beauty.”

  Ambrose’s amused gaze sobered and sharpened for a moment before he shrugged. “It’s entirely up to you, mistress. If it encourages you, your sister is beside herself wondering how you are. You’d do well to put in an appearance downstairs very soon.”

  She downed the restorative in one gulp. “Gods’ knickers,” she wheezed out and immediately clamped her lips shut as her stomach roiled, and her mouth flooded with saliva.

  Ballard caught the cup as it fell from her nerveless fingers. “Louvaen?”

  She didn’t dare open her mouth to answer him. If she did, the swill in her belly would come right back up. Ambrose looked positively gleeful at her distress. If her mind didn’t reel at the idea his vile brew would be worse coming up than it was going down, she’d vomit on his shoes.

  The nausea faded, leaving her with a growing sense of vigor and lightness. The drowsiness threatening to nail her eyelids shut disappeared, along with the lethargy weighting her muscles. She eyed Ambrose with renewed admiration. “It’s working.”

  He snorted, affronted by her surprise. “Of course it’s working. ‘Tis a simple decoction. Any hedgewitch with a toe on the left hand path knows how to brew it. Your mother likely made it when she first embarked on her studies. The difficulty isn’t in the making, but in keeping it in your belly.”

  “Thank you—I think.” Anxious to scrub the foul flavor out of her mouth, she left both men in the corridor. The small cupboard near her hearth held personal items—a brush and comb, a hand mirror and hair ribbons she’d brought on her second trip to Ketach Tor, as well as a small box containing coarse salt and crushed rosemary.

  Ballard returned to find her vigorously scrubbing her teeth with the last two. He waited until she spat the last remnants of rinse water into the fire before speaking. “Ambrose warned me if I kissed you I’d be sorry.”

  Louvaen popped a dried rosemary leaf into her mouth and chewed until the astringent herb made her tongue tingle. “Is that a general statement or just a reference to his revolting concoction?”

  Ballard chuckled and came to stand behind her. “Hard to say with him. He’d be wrong if it were the first. I’m not at all sorry for kissing every part of you. I intend to do it as often as possible.” He caressed the length of her arm, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. “If the second, well, I’m willing to take the risk.”

  Louvaen’s eyes drifted to half mast. She craved his touch; far more seductive than anything she imagined or dreamed. “As much as I hate to admit he’s right, you’d do well to heed his warning.” She spat the chewed herb into the fire, thankful to only taste its cool, sharp flavor. “Drink that disgusting stuff and you can slay a dragon just by breathing on it.” She smiled when she caught sight of his attire from the corner of her eye. Like her, he had retrieved one of the blankets and wrapped it around his middle. It rode low on his hips, emphasizing his lean waist and wide shoulders. “Catch a touch of the chill in the hall, did you?”

  He slid an arm around her waist and urged her against him until she stood within his embrace, her back to his chest. He buried his nose in her hair. “More like a touch of prudence. I have to return to my room and dress. Ambrose doesn’t much care if I’m flashing my bits, but if I encounter your fair sister during an attempted rescue, things could get...awkward.”

  The image of such a scenario made her laugh. The laughter turned to sighs as Ballard pushed aside locks of her hair to place a line of kisses that started at her nape and danced across the slope of her shoulder. Louvaen laid her hands over his, tracing the bony knuckles and dark nails. “I wish we could stay here all night.” Longer even, but she kept the thought to herself, fearful of the emotions welling inside her. How tempting it was to succumb to the fantasy of remaining at Ketach Tor, looking forward to long nights in this man’s arms and countless days spent in his company.

  His arms tightened around her, hard enough to make her squeak. He loosened his grasp and nuzzled the underside of her jaw. “Your wishes are far more modest than mine, Louvaen,” he whispered in her ear. “Come to my chamber this evening.” The knot she’d tied in her blanket came undone under his hand and fell to the floor. She shivered at the contrast of cold air washing over her body and the heat of his palm where it rested on her belly. “You’ll not sleep much,” he warned, “but you’ll be warm beneath me.”

  She sagged in his embrace, moaning softly as his fingers slid lower and slipped between her thighs to stroke and tease. Ballard scooped her up, intent on her carrying her to the bed when another knock resounded on her door. Louvaen choked back a snarled “go away!” when she heard Cinnia’s muted voice.

  “Lou? Lou, it’s me. Are you awake?”

  Ballard halted and set Louvaen down. She put a finger to her lips. They were acting like lady and stablehand creeping about her bedchamber, but she didn’t feel up to explaining to an outraged Cinnia why having Ballard in her room was quite different from letting Gavin’s into Cinnia’s. Ballard rolled his eyes but did her bidding when she motioned for him to hide out of sight.

  “Louvaen, wake up! I’m worried.”

  Louvaen found her night rail and shrugged it on, uncaring that it was inside out. “Coming, my love,” she called. “Give me a moment.” Unlike Ballard, who had thrown the door wide to greet Ambrose, she eased it open barely enough for Cinnia to catch a glimpse of her.

  The girl’s shoulders sagged. “Thank the gods, you’re all right.” She frowned as her gaze took in Louvaen’s appearance. “You aren’t sick are you? Because you look like the dead.”

  Louvaen scowled at her. “I’m fine, love. I just needed some rest.” She offered a weak smile. “Why don’t you tell Magda I’ll be down for supper after I change my clothes and tame my hair?”

  She tried to close the door, but Cinnia pressed her hands against the wood, resisting. Her eyes darkened with worry and lingering fear. “I can help you. Fix your hair or do up your lacings.” She wedged a foot in the doorway. “Let me in, Lou.”

  This wasn’t going to be easy. Louvaen had no intention of letting her sister into her room while Ballard lurked in the shadows. Even if he wasn’t, Cinnia would question why the bed linens had been thrashed in a whirlwind. She didn’t have the heart to order her to leave. Ambrose’s words echoed in her mind. Cinnia wanted reassurance her sister had come away from her near drowning unscathed. Louvaen reached out and clasp her sister’s wrist. “Give me the privacy to use the chamber pot, Cinnia.”

  Cinnia looked chastened. “Sorry. I’ll wait out here until you’re done.”

  Louvaen wanted to bash her head against the door. The soft laughter rumbling from the shadows behind her didn’t help her frustration. She thought fast. “Do me a favor instead. Let me borrow your brush. It works better than mine on the bad tangles.” A trip to Cinnia’s room for a hairbrush would buy Ballard enough time to slip out of her room and out of sight before her sister returned.

  Cinnia backed away. “I’ll be right back. Do you ne
ed anything else? You’re terribly pale. I have a balm with angelica. It might give your lips some color.”

  “That’s fine.” Louvaen shooed her off with a wave of her hand. “Bring whatever you think best.” She closed the door and whirled around, only to find Ballard right behind her.

  He caught her to him. “You lie so well,” he taunted.

  Louvaen struggled free and took his hand to lead him to the door. “I didn’t lie. Her brush is better than mine.” She cracked door open once more to peek into the hallway. It was deserted, but Cinnia would make quick work of gathering her things. She pulled on Ballard’s arm. “Hurry. She’ll be back in no time.” She gasped when he yanked her into a hard embrace.

  “A kiss before I go, dragonslayer.” He leaned in to capture her lips with his.

  She clapped a hand over his mouth. “Ballard,” she whispered furiously, “we don’t have time for this.”

  He pushed her hand away. “We’ll make time, Louvaen.”

  His kiss stole her breath. Her fingers dug into his arms as his tongue thrust into her mouth, gliding over her teeth to entwine with her tongue. Louvaen buried her hands in his hair and promptly forgot her sister, her surroundings and even her own name. He bunched her night rail in his hands, raising it until he could reach under the hem and cup her bottom. She wrapped a leg around the back of his thighs, tangling her foot in the blanket he still wore. She loved his taste in her mouth, his scent in her nostrils. The kiss, at first harsh and aggressive, turned languorous, ending abruptly when the sharp slam of a door cut through Louvaen’s muddled thoughts.