by Jackie Ivie
“Plato was in on your surprise. He designed my chamber. There may even be musicians later to serenade us. Will you mind?”
“I doona’ understand, Zander.”
She watched him walk over to the table, pick up a goblet and fill it for her. Then he brought it back. Her eyes were brimming with tears, but she wasn’t about to weep. Zander FitzHugh was wearing his family kilt, a black doublet and wide-sleeved blouse. He was absolutely amazing, but he was acting differently than she’d expected. He had the complete right to touch her, and he wasn’t?
He held out the goblet for her. Morgan reached for it, and he shied away from the minute contact of her fingers, flushing strangely as she watched. She was shaking so badly she had to hold it with two hands.
“What doona’ you understand, my sweet?”
“You doona’ touch me,” she replied, then it was her turn to blush as he stared at her.
“I doona’ dare,” he finally answered.
“I am still Morgan, the squire,” she whispered.
“Aye, and I will be an unleashed beast if I touch you right now. I have been too long denied, Morganna. I know myself. I am not touching you for a reason. A very good reason. Now. Sip your wine, and cease looking at me with those big, gray eyes, while I kick myself for not seeing what was right in front of my own.”
She choked on the first sip of wine, and he chuckled, leaving her to pour his own. Morgan walked across the chamber, allowing every bit of swing of her hips that the ladies had instructed her on, while she did so. Zander’s reaction was like a balm as he pulled his head back and opened wide, shocked, midnight-blue eyes to her antics. Morgan decided there were a few things about being female that she could come to like.
“I would like to try some of your pudding, I think,” she said when she reached the table.
He was serving it on a platter to her before she was seated, and then he watched as she broke a piece off with her fingers and raised it to her mouth. Then, she half-lidded her eyes and licked at her fingers before she chewed. Zander closed his eyes and gulped. Morgan nearly giggled.
“You are na’ eating?” she asked when he opened his eyes again.
“I doona’ think I’ll be able to swallow,” he replied. Then he proceeded to show that for a falsehood by draining his goblet of wine and putting it back on the table. “Jesu’ Morganna, you are the loveliest lass I’ve ever seen. I canna’ believe I’ve had you with me night and day for almost five sennights and never guessed it. I canna’ believe I was so blind. I canna’ think! I can only close my eyes and welcome the shivers. Jesu’!” He finished the impassioned speech, and Morganna picked up another bite of her pudding.
“Open your mouth, Zander,” she whispered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Zander opened both his mouth and his eyes, and she watched the stunned expression as she placed the morsel on his tongue. Then, she put a finger on his upper lip and commanded him to close it and eat. He was trembling beneath her fingers. Morgan felt and saw him do it, and decided it was very satisfying to be female, actually. Then, she drank from her own goblet, allowing a few drops of the red liquid to sit on her lips before licking them off. Zander was choking at that. She sucked in on her cheeks and smiled.
She picked up a grape next, and rolled it between her fingers. “Zander?” she whispered. “Open your mouth again.”
He flinched and pulled back a fraction. Then, he was shaking his head in almost the same humming-bird fashion she’d done in the earl’s chambers not a fortnight since. Morgan did giggle then. She couldn’t help it.
Zander reacted by picking up her goblet and draining it, too. Morgan watched him do it. “Are you thinking to avoid me by getting yourself drunk?” she asked.
He put the goblet down and lowered his head. Her ears filled with a roaring sound so loud, he should be able to hear it, too.
“Oh, there will be no avoidance tonight, Morganna. I love your name, Morganna. Morganna...beloved of Zander FitzHugh. Morganna, mother to FitzHugh bairns. Morganna, uniter of the clans, champion of weapons. How many things you are, and will be, Morganna, my love, and I’ve just touched on the tip of them.”
She had to shut her eyes or he would spot the way his words assaulted her, wounding her to the bottom of her soul. She was none of those things, nor would she ever be. She wasn’t going to speak of it, though. She was taking care of her vow. That was all she was doing. All the things Zander said she was, and wanted for her, they were for a Morganna that didn’t exist.
She sucked in on her pain. She wasn’t here for love and she knew it. She was here to whore herself. It was what she had to do to right her wrongs. She was saving Sheila from herself, Plato from a loveless, hate-filled existence, Gwynneth from a self-inflicted death, and she was clearing the demons from her beloved Zander’s head, because he was too silly to see the truth for himself. None of it was real. It couldn’t be real. It wasn’t illusion, either. It was magic, pure and simply magic.
She opened her eyes. Zander responded by tipping his head and slurping the grape from between her fingers. Morgan snapped them away the instant his lips started sucking, for the contact burned hotter than had the pinpricks of blisters on the backs of her legs.
“Zander?”
“I would like another grape, I think,” he replied, tipping his head, and opening his mouth.
Morgan plucked one and held it gingerly atop his open, grasping mouth. Lips again burned, only this time he nipped a bit at the underside of her forefinger. Her eyes widened as he brought his head back up, to catch and hold her gaze.
“Another,” he commanded.
Morgan was clumsy, and lost the first one she plucked off. She was forced to grasp another and was shaking long before she had it hovering above his mouth. This time he had her wrist in his hand and she couldn’t move as he sucked the fruit from her fingers, and then kept sucking until he had the tip of her finger in his mouth. Morgan’s eyelids drooped half-way of their own accord, her knees started quivering and her lips opened to pant for breath before he let go of her hand and released her.
“Another one,” he commanded.
Morgan’s fingertips weren’t just burning, they were tingling with sensation and felt scorched raw with every contact from his mouth, then cooled with the shape and texture of the grape. She dropped two grapes before she managed to hold onto one this time, and her hand was hesitant when she held it out.
Zander’s hand had her wrist, he had the grape, and then he had his tongue on the sensitive part of her palm making miniature circles in the midst of it before she could gasp a reaction. Then he released her.
“Another one,” he commanded.
“I think...I need...to sit down,” she whispered.
He grinned, and went to his knees to make it easier for her. Morgan looked down at him, and swayed before catching herself against the table. Zander had his eyebrows up and a sparkle to those dark eyes before she fell into the chair, put one hand to her breast and caught the tremor.
“What is happening to me?” she whispered.
“Oh…that. ’Tis what you’ve fought against for years. ’Tis all that horrid love stuff. That is what’s happening to you. All that you denied yourself. All that is life. All that is play. Come along, Morganna, play with me. I have hunger for another grape, and I want you to feed it to me.”
He put his head on her knee and tipped it up to watch her. Morgan turned into the consistency of the pudding at the contact. Her eyes closed, she felt herself trembling, and when she opened her eyes back up, Zander’s midnight-blue gaze was still waiting for her. She got a grape, although the bowl rattled with the contact of her hand.
She was hesitant about giving it to him, though. Her hand moved out a bit, then a little further, before pulling back, and on the third try, he caught at it, had the grape sucked from her fingers, and his lips on her inner wrist before she could jerk it away. Morgan squealed, then quieted as he lapped at her skin, giving her bumps of shivers all the way to th
e centers of her freed breasts. Her eyes flew open at it, and she looked down at herself with no small amount of fear. All of which had Zander laughing delightedly when he dropped her hand.
“Another,” he commanded.
“I canna’,” she whimpered.
“I want another grape, Morganna, my love, and I want you to feed it to me. Now.”
She tipped the bowl sideways with her motion, and couldn’t quite get her fingers to work. It took three tries just to get one grape in her fingers. These same fingers that were so sensitive they could feel, aim and perfectly toss a knife, were having trouble with grapes? Morgan looked at her hands in surprise and a slight bit of dismay.
“My grape?” he asked.
“Zander?” She began, looking from her hand to him and back again. “My fingers...feel strange. I doona’ ken why.”
He laughed again, and caught her wrist before she had a chance to hold it over him. He had the grape sucked free and pushed her sleeve out of his way until he reached the sensitive skin of her inner elbow. Morgan squirmed on the chair, her head back and her mouth open as he tongued little designs into her flesh and then he lifted his head.
“Another,” he requested.
“I canna’!” she cried. “Doona’ make me! I doona’ ken what is happening. I dinna’ think I like it! Oh, Zander, help me!”
He had her plucked from the chair and held to him before she said another word, and his mouth told her everything she was crying out for. Morgan felt his hands shaking, where they were holding her beneath her arms, she felt the bulge of him where he held her atop him, and she felt the insistent demands of his lips as he plied hers open, his tongue grasping, demanding, and seeking.
“Oh, my sweet, my innocent, my love!” He was the one breaking the contact, pulling his head from hers with a furious motion while he glared at her, with eyes so blazing blue, she felt the burn clear to the deepest pit of her where her own body seemed to twinge. Her own eyes widened as she felt it.
“Zander?” she asked.
“Lovely Morganna. My Morganna, mine!”
He had fistfuls of her hair and was inhaling the perfumed oils the ladies had combed through it. And he was shuddering. Morgan felt every bit of it as the hardest part of him changed, softening a little, and she worried. She was still worried when he lifted his head.
“What is it, love?” he asked.
“You doona’ desire me...either?” she asked.
He chuckled, and arms wrapped about her, holding her close. “I desire you more than life itself, my love, I have to gain control of myself. I am na’ a young cock, able just to please myself. I want you to experience every bit of pleasure I can give, you ken?”
She shook her head. That seemed to make him even happier, and then he was kissing her again, every bit of her he could reach. Her nose, her throat, her chin, her shoulders where the dress slid.
Morgan was in a whirlwind no rainstorm could approach, then she was back in the chair, the hard wood beneath her contrasting to the warmth she’d just left, and the solid wood arms feeling vacant and cold. Her eyes flew open.
“Zander?”
“I thought I told you to feed me a grape, Morganna,” he commanded, his voice lower than she’d ever heard it.
Morgan reached to pluck one, but got two, and the stem, and then she was holding them out to him, watching her own hand shake. She concentrated on controlling it, but then he was sliding a hand up one of her legs, and there was no stopping the tremor. Then he stopped, and rolled his eyes as he came into contact with the dragon blade.
He didn’t move his gaze as he untied the bow and pulled the bundle of knife, binding, and kilt square out. Morgan held her breath, but all Zander did after glancing at it, was wrap the binding cloth about the blade and the gray fabric swath, before putting it atop the table.
“’Tis unsafe to unwrap you, Morganna, and you feared needlessly. We’ll na’ want to use it tonight,” he whispered and then he winked.
If he’d stopped there, she could have breathed out the gasp. Instead, he grasped her ankle and started up her leg again. Morgan slid on the wood, one foot against his chest while he slid a hand all the way past her knee, until he reached the top of a stocking. Morgan shook with whatever it was. She moaned aloud with it, losing what seemed like her one chance at another breath at the same time. She was melting in place. Her every limb turning into gruel, while he ran fingers back down her leg, taking the stocking with them. And when he had it off, he tongued the arch of her foot, gaining himself screams of frightened reaction.
“Zander? I doona’...I canna’..,” Morgan panted. Then she squealed again while he chuckled, breathing hot air on the moistness he’d just left on her ankle.
“You remember showing me balance?” he asked, one hand buried deep up her skirt where it flirted with the top of her other stocking, and just barely brushed at her other thigh at the same time.
“Bal—ance?” she asked, gasping out the word.
“Well, this is your first lesson in the world of off-balance,” he finished, and rolled her other stocking off.
Morgan had the presence of mind to pull both legs beneath her the moment he finished, and she had both hands out, palms toward him. “Oh no, Zander. Oh no.”
“Oh yes, Morganna,” he replied. “Oh, yes.” Then he grinned, stopping her heart, until she had to gasp to restart it. “I believe I owe you a lesson in sensitivity, too, doona’ I? Let’s see...how did it go?”
He caught both her palms and proceeded to show her exactly how sensitive they both were, with tongue licks, sucking and nipping every part of them. Morgan was in an agony of sensation, her every part attuned to what he was doing. Then he let both hands go, stunning her into dropping back against the chair as he began unbuttoning his doublet.
“Zander?” she whispered.
He grinned. “Frightened?” he asked.
“Aye, terrified,” she answered.
That got her a bigger grin, and then he shoved the doublet off. Morgan couldn’t take her eyes off the sight as he lifted the shirt from his torso, rising on his knees to do so, and showing her very definitely that he desired her, and very much so. Morgan’s eyes were wide, her breathing gaining her less than usual amounts of air and her hands gripping both sides of the chair hard enough to raise her above the seat.
Zander took it all in and grinned harder as he unfastened his feile-breacan.
“You ready to see a real man?”
“Nay,” she whimpered the word. “Not yet, Zander. Please?”
“Then doona’ open your eyes.”
His warning was too late, and Morgan’s breathing grew even quicker and more shallow with the panic. She put both hands to her cheeks and tried to hold it in. She had never seen what it looked like gorged and hard, she had never even guessed. Her eyes were as wide as possible as she moved her view up his body to his face. The love and adoration she saw there helped ease the fear, until it settled into a steady throbbing problem in her belly.
“Zander?”
“I love you, Morganna. I will do naught to cause harm, or hurt you. I promise, although faith, it looks large—”
“It will na’ fit,” she protested, interrupting him, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “I’ll be ripped apart.”
He grinned. “Nay, love. At least, that isna’ the usual response I get. Come. Give me your hand.”
She shook her head. He responded to that by reaching and plucking her from the chair and into those arms. Morgan shuddered, and then she was on his red sheets, her body tucked in between his legs, and feeling his instrument of torture trying to dig a hole into the side of her hip.
“Zander? Please stop,” she begged, when he lifted her hair to place his tongue at the back of her neck, just before he started sucking on the skin. That had her arching backward, allowing him to easily unlace every bit of her cording. The gown billowed out when he’d finished.
“Stop? Oh no, my love...my Morganna. My life.” He was crooning the
words, and easing the satin down off her arms and then into a pile of material at her feet, and he was dulling her fear with each low-timbre word. “My love...my beauty...my woman.”
The satin was shoved somewhere between the footboard and the mattress. Morgan only felt it missing by the increased awareness to air and light and heat, and then Zander had her chemise peeled down enough to reach her breast. He bent his head, and at the first touch, Morgan cried aloud, the sound high-pitched, filled with fright and the complete shock. Zander trembled with what had to be laughter as he tongued her nipple to what Plato had described, and Morgan’s cries turned into whimpers of delight. Then they became moans of absolute pleasure. Morgan was arching for a different reason then, to give him greater access to her. To make certain of it, she held his head where she needed it, all of which got her more chuckles from him.
From somewhere she heard music, and she only thought about deciphering why. Then, he slid out from behind and beneath her, to put his entire length against hers, and his hands were finishing the job of removing the last bit of clothing between them, lifting her where it got stuck beneath the swell of her buttocks, trembling as it hung up on the last foot.
Zander was relishing what he saw, and Morgan watched him with wide eyes and fright just below the surface.
“You’ve a well-conditioned frame, Morganna. I can see why you best me at push-ups.” He was running a fingernail all the way up her leg, the thigh muscles beneath her skin bunching without her volition, and then he was caressing the lumps in her abdomen. “I like it verra much. A warrior princess for a warrior. What better coupling can there be?”
“You doona’ mind?” she whispered when he reached the sinew and cording of her arms. “Truly?”
“Mind?” he asked, and then he repeated it, surprise flavoring the word. “Mind? Every other female pales in comparison. I think you’re a delight to the eye. I’m the envy of every true male. I vow.”