The Dragon Lord's Daughters

by Bertrice Small

  His big mouth pressed strongly against hers. His big hands stroked the firm globes of her bosom. She attempted to concentrate upon both of his actions that she might understand better, but her head was beginning to spin, and she was really beginning to feel quite weak. She pulled her head away from his. “My lord . . .” she began, but he found her mouth again, and continued to kiss her. His palms cupped her breasts one at a time. Then his thick thumb and his forefinger gently pinched a nipple. Junia shivered as a bolt of sensation pierced her.

  “Are you beginning to feel the pleasure?” he asked her, and she nodded. “Good,” he said. “Now, Junia, let us lie together in this bed that was built for a man and wife.” And when they were side by side he began to caress her body with a tender touch. His fingers moved from her breasts back up to her face. He touched her cheekbones, ran a finger down her nose, and across her lips. His fingers trailed across her torso, and her belly. They moved leisurely over her mons, and she trembled.

  “Why do you have no body hair?” he asked her, remembering the golden down on Adele’s legs, and the tufts beneath her arms. He was fascinated and not just a little stirred by Junia’s smooth skin.

  “Gorawen says a woman is more delectable when she is not covered in fur like some animal,” Junia explained. “She taught my sisters and me how to make a paste that removes our body hair. If it displeases you I will not use it.” The touch of his hands moving with such sure skill over her body was exciting, Junia thought to herself. Simon had never touched her in such a thrilling manner.

  “Nay, I find your silken skin kindles my desires greatly,” he told her, and then he kissed her a slow kiss that left Junia breathless. “Now, wife, I mean to touch you in a secret place, and you must not be afraid,” he told her.

  Junia felt a single finger press insistently through her two nether lips. To her surprise she seemed wet, for his finger seemed to swirl about in that hidden cavern of her body. Then he touched her in a place she hadn’t even realized was there, or that would respond in such a heated manner to his touch. She tensed.

  Feeling it he murmured softly in her ear, “It’s all right, Junia. I am going to give you your first taste of the pleasure a man and a woman can have together. I don’t want you to be fearful. Trust me, wife.” The finger grazed and glossed over that sentient little nub of flesh he seemed to have discovered. It chafed and it fretted at her, and it was with great surprise that Junia began to feel that bit of her begin to tingle. And the tingling grew until she was moaning and straining against that finger. She felt as if that piece of her flesh was swelling and swelling, and the tingling increased in intensity. Junia suddenly gave a surprised cry as the pleasure burst, and drowned her in sweet sensation.

  “Oh, William!” she said, using his name for the first time. Her eyes, which had been open were now shut as she experienced the feeling he had given her as it drained away.

  “Now, Junia,” he told her, “your body is well prepared for a husband.” He mounted her, and gently pushed himself forward. She was tight, but wet, and his manhood slipped easily within her. He had, to his surprise, been aching to possess her.

  She felt him filling her gently, and for a moment she was surprised, for when Simon had had her it had hurt. Now she was very aware of her husband’s tender lust as he began to fill her completely, and then his pubic bone pressed against hers. She was fully impaled on his firm manhood. She was so aware of the length of him. Of how hard he was, and yet he was not hurting her. It had not been this way the last time. She had considered that she might not be able to bear him taking her, yet now as he began to gently move on her Junia realized that she was eager for his passion. She could feel him trembling in his great effort not to harm or frighten her. And he wasn’t harming or frightening her. Indeed, she had enjoyed every moment of their congress so far.

  “William,” she whispered into his ear, “it is all right. Make love to me now, and show me the rest of the sweetness, for having had a foretaste, I am eager for it all!”

  “I will not be able to cease until we are both well satisfied,” he groaned.

  “I do not think I will ask it of you, my lord,” she murmured back at him. “Oh! I can feel you throbbing within me!”

  Her speech aroused him to passionate action. He began to move on her, within her, and he could indeed not stop. Her little cries of excitement drove him onward.

  “Wrap your legs about me, Junia!” he cried out to her, and when she did he slid deeper into her, and he felt her fingernails clawing down his back in the heat of her desire. He didn’t think he could hold back much longer. He so desperately wanted her to be completely fulfilled, and then he felt the tremors within her sweet body beginning, growing in intensity until she was crying out with her pleasure. He released his love juices at that same moment.

  “Ohhh, William!” she sighed gustily.

  “Ohhh, Junia!” he replied.

  And nine months later in the midst of a howling February blizzard, Junia gave birth to twins, a son and a daughter. Both babies were sound, and strong of limb. The boy was baptized Simon. The girl, Adele. And looking down at his children, cradled in their mother’s arms, William le Clare knew why his first wife had smiled when he had said he would never love again, for he had fallen deeply in love with his second wife, even as she was in love with him.

  “When did you know?” he asked her as he admired their sleeping offspring.

  “From that first night,” she answered him, “but I dared not admit it to you.” And he understood. “When did you know?” she queried him.

  “I think from the first moment I saw you,” he replied, “though I dared not admit it even to myself. It seemed so disloyal.”

  “I know,” Junia said. “I felt the same way.”

  “You promised always to be truthful to me,” he teased her with a loving smile.

  “I did, but I did not promise to tell you all, William,” she responded pertly, and he laughed softly.

  “You have given me the greatest gift a woman can give her husband. Our children,” he said.

  “Nay, William, you have given me a far greater gift,” Junia told him.

  He looked puzzled. “What was that?” he said.

  “You have taught me to love,” she said, and then Junia smiled a radiant smile at her husband, and William le Clare smiled happily back at her. The world was theirs now, and as far as he was concerned it always would be.

  Epilogue

  The summer that Brynn Pendragon turned eighteen he was married to the granddaughter of the Prince of the Welsh, by one of Llywelyn’s illegitimate daughters. She was fourteen, and her name was Enit.

  For the first time in many years the Dragon Lord’s children were all under the same roof. Averil at twenty-four was still beautiful. She had given Rhys three sons and two daughters. Maia, now twenty-three, was the mother of three—two daughters and a son. Her husband, Emrys, was content with his mortality. And Junia, now twenty came with her husband, William le Clare. They had two sons, and a daughter. The love that they had finally been able to admit to had but grown over the last four years. And Junia had finally made peace with her father.

  “I am forgiven, then,” he said.

  “Aye, I forgive you, Da, but I still believe that you were wrong to slay poor Simon de Bohun,” she told him.

  The Dragon Lord was wise enough to be content with her forgiveness, and speak nothing of the rest. He looked about his hall that night, satisfied with what he saw. His family burgeoned. He had his women, his children and his grandchildren. They were far from the constant strife that seemed to plague their prince in his neverending struggle with the English for the autonomy of Wales. The line of descent from Arthur Pendragon, the once and future king of the British, was safe, was assured now, and would continue on. It was more than enough.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BERTRICE SMALL is the author of thirty-three novels of Historical Romance, and four erotic novellas. She lives in the oldest English-speaking town in
the State of New York with her husband of forty years, George. She is the mother of Thomas, mother-in-law of Megan, and grandmother to Chandler, Cora and Sophia. Longtime readers will be happy to learn that her dearest feline companions, Pookie, Honeybun and Finnegan are still keeping her company as is Nicky the cockatiel.

  Readers are invited to write her at: P.O. Box 765, Southold, NY 11971-0765, or at: bertricesmall@hotmail.com. I also hope that you will visit my Web site at: BertriceSmall.com.

  God bless and good reading from your most faithful author,

  Bertrice Small

  Please turn the page for a tantalizing excerpt from

  PURE SILK

  by Susan Johnson

  Coming in January 2004 from Brava

  On his passage to the grotto, fatigue suddenly overcame Hugh in a wave. Perhaps his weeks of drinking had finally taken their toll or maybe the warmth of the brazier had been too much after not having slept for so long.

  The bath house was steamy and warm, the hot water heavenly after their long, cold journey. The tray of food left for him beside his bed was superb. Lord Yabe, monk though he might be now, kept a distinguished kitchen.

  Hugh was surprised to find himself housed in the same room as the princess, but fell onto his mattress beside hers without undue contemplation. The grotto was small. Perhaps the abbot was beyond issues of desire and temptation. It didn’t matter in any case; Hugh was asleep in seconds.

  The secret chamber had been built by a pious noble of the Heian era who would retreat from the world on occasion to meditate and pray. In his search for nirvana, however, he preferred worldly comforts, and the small apartment beneath the temple of Amida was rich with ornament executed in the finest of materials—coffered ceilings in gold leaf, exquisite screens painted by the great artists of his time, colorful lacquerware chests and tables fit for a potentate, all the architectural detail and carved friezes picked out in shimmering gilt, marquetry and niello work. When Hugh had first seen the rooms two years ago, he’d been dazzled and amused and remembered hoping the Amida didn’t take points off for ostentation when considering which souls to guide in the true path to salvation.

  But no luxury was so blissful as the soft silk mattress and quilts in which he was cocooned. For the comforts of this bed, his weary soul might have given serious thought to reciting “I call on thee Amida Buddha,” the salvation-by-faith-alone phrase that made Amida Buddhism so popular. The pleasure of uninterrupted sleep was indeed paradise.

  Some time later, deep in slumber, swathed and muffled in her quilt, Tama rolled in a languorous flow from her futon to the one beside hers. Meeting the solid warmth of the captain’s body, she unconsciously pressed closer to the blissful heat.

  In a dream state detached from substance and reality, Hugh felt the small form drift into his back, curve along the contours of his spine, melt into his body. Shifting minutely, he sought to heighten the pleasure.

  His dreams were of the princess, her image floating whimsically in and out of his imagination—as she looked last summer, elegant and refined, a princess in silken garb . . . or as she had appeared tonight, wet and muddied, her delicate beauty fresh scrubbed and pure despite her drab attire. And she would smile in his dreams from time to time and laugh.

  He stirred in his sleep, wanting to reach that illusive smile.

  And she purred in response, a hushed, breathy sound.

  After years of playing at love, his senses were attuned to dulcet murmurs, his receptors alert to female longing. He came awake. Lying utterly still, his nostrils flared at the scent of a woman, and a smile slowly curved the corners of his mouth. Perhaps paradise was being offered to him in this hermitage at Amida’s feet. Perhaps he was being rewarded for his kindness.

  Under normal circumstances he would have known what to do. He would have rolled over, wakened her with a kiss and taken what Buddha offered. Under any other circumstances he wouldn’t have hesitated.

  So why was he now?

  There was no one here to stop him. No one to hear. No one who even cared if he did what he wanted to do to her. And surely, when a woman purred in that flagrantly voluptuous way, ethical issues of morality ceased to exist. Right? “Damn right,” he muttered inadvertently.

  Her hand came up in response to his utterance and she gently stroked his shoulder—as though to comfort him.

  It did the exact opposite, of course, and he silently cursed every god in creation for putting him in this untenable position. If he acted on his impulses, he’d be sorry as hell the second after he climaxed. If he didn’t act on his impulses, he’d be even more afflicted.

  In some misguided attempt to act the gentleman, he eased away, putting a small distance between them. Perhaps she wouldn’t notice and he could slip away and sleep in the other room.

  She did, though.

  Clutching his shoulder, she pulled him close once again, slid the quilt from his shoulder and nestled against his naked back. Clenching his teeth, he silently counted to ten backwards in every language he knew while her breasts burned into his flesh.

  All he could think of was mounting her and plunging deep inside her over and over and over again, until he couldn’t move, until she couldn’t move, until every urgent, ravenous desire scorching his senses was sated. His cock was so hard his spine ached up to his ears and if he knew any useful prayers he would have prayed like hell for help.

  Don’t, he kept telling himself. Just don’t.

  You’ll live if you don’t fuck her.

  Maybe.

  He wasn’t sure of anything right now.

  Then he felt her move again, felt the quilt slip down farther, felt her soft silky mound against his buttocks and any further gentlemanly motive fell victim to lust. Rolling over, he took her face in his hands and kissed her gently. He intended to woo her softly, but sharp-set lust wasn’t so easily tamed when they lay flesh to flesh. His kiss deepened with feverish haste, ravenous need and opportunity fierce stimulus.

  She came awake—but not in fear . . . lazily, as though intrigued by the violence of his passions, and tranquil and yielding, she uttered the smallest of sighs.

  “Hello,” he whispered, his breath warm against her mouth.

  “Konnichi-wa.” She half smiled.

  As they lay side by side, he felt her smile under his hands, the inhalation of her breath, the inherent acquiescence in her quiet greeting. But he wanted sanction too—or perhaps only the pretense. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he whispered.

  “Yes . . . no . . .” She shivered faintly as a streak of longing quivered through her senses. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He wasn’t about to ask for clarification. “You’re cold. . . .” he murmured, pulling up the quilt.

  “No.” She stopped him. “I’m warm; you’re too close.” Or her dreams had been too graphic.

  “Should I move?” He already knew the answer, the scent of female arousal pungent in his nostrils.

  “I should say yes . . .”

  “But?” His voice was assured, impudence in his gaze.

  He was too confident; she should refuse. “I don’t usually—I mean—this is . . . very—disconcerting,” she stammered, trying to repress the ravenous desire coursing through her blood. “Do you suppose the food was drugged?” she blurted out.

  “If it were, I’d have an excuse,” he gruffly replied. If he were sensible, he’d leave her alone.

  “We shouldn’t,” she said, as though reading his mind.

  “You’re right.” Abruptly sitting up, he stared off in space as though some remedy to his frustration lay just beyond the lantern glow.

  “And yet. . . .”

  His gaze snapped around. “And yet, what?”

  “Never mind.”

  He was about half a world past “never mind,” his throbbing erection immune to practicalities. On the other hand, did he really want to get involved? Or more to the point, what would she expect of him afterward? “Perhaps we could work something out,” he heard him
self saying as though he were negotiating the price of rim-fire cartridges. “It depends,” he said.

  Coming up on her elbows, her gaze took on a sudden directness. “On what?”

  Also, please take a sneak peek at another treat from Brava—

  THE BOOKSELLER’S DAUGHTER

  by Pam Rosenthal

  Coming in January 2004

  They stared at each other, his eyes bright with unspoken questions, hers shining with a new confidence.

  The path took a fork. She pressed his hand, guiding him away from the river and toward an empty barn. They stopped and peered in at the dust motes turned to gold by sunbeams streaming down through a hole in the roof to the straw heaped on the floor.

  “You have to get to work,” Joseph murmured.

  “Not quite yet,” she lied, leading him inside.

  His kiss was gentle, tentative at first. She put her arms around his waist, and he sighed and pulled her to him.

  “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this,” he whispered. “I’ve driven myself half mad with my resolve not to touch you. And there’s still time to stop. Are you sure it’s what you want, Marie-Laure?”

  Never surer of anything. But she’d show him. Reaching her hands to his shoulders, she gently moved him backwards and onto the pile of straw, dropping to her knees beside him. Lucky she’d worn Gilles’s breeches so often, she thought, because if she knew nothing else about this business, she knew the pattern of the buttons, and how to undo them. Just one more little pull, voilà, and . . .

  “You’re sure?” He put his hand on hers to stop her from going any further. “You have to say you’re sure.”