The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch

by Shelly Thacker

  She moved as if she would slide down beside him, but his hands held her still, kept her on her feet. And then he reached down to draw the hem of her gown upward, his fingers lifting the fabric, his palms gliding up past her knees, her thighs, exposing her one glorious inch at a time.

  Until he could see those soft, dark curls glistening in the firelight.

  He bent his head and blew softly, felt her quake in his grasp, heard the low, sharp cry of surprise and excitement that came from her throat. Ignoring the throbbing hardness of his own body, he inched forward and pleasured her with the lightest kiss. Then he drew her nearer, his hands sliding behind her to knead and caress as he brought her fully against his mouth.

  He explored her softly with his lips, the tip of his tongue, until she was gasping, shivering with tremors, her hands braced on his shoulders. He sought and found the tender bud of her desire, licked at the small, hard pearl, urging it to fullness. Her breath broke, her hips beginning to move in small, insistent motions that brought a groan of approval from deep in his throat. He slipped one of his hands around to the front, stroking her with his fingers, gently, delicately.

  She twisted in his hold, her nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Her body shook with spasms that came faster and stronger as he continued the dual torment, sampling her with his fingertips and his tongue. Suckling … tickling … nibbling.

  “Royce.” His name tore from her, deep and demanding.

  But he would not stop, kept urging her onward, higher, wanted more, wanted to watch and to taste her fulfillment. He kept teasing that sensitive nub with his thumb, with his lips. And suddenly her whole body stiffened.

  He felt the first vibration against his mouth, felt her arching above him, curving away from him like a taut bow—and she shattered, caught in an explosion of pleasure that he could feel rippling through her as release took her violently.

  Before it had even passed, she collapsed against him, sinking to the floor as if her legs would no longer hold her, sliding down into his arms.

  He held her close as they knelt on the fur, caressing her, whispering in her ear. Assuring her that that had been but the first.

  That the next would be even sweeter, with him inside her.

  She uttered a husky sound that was half growl, half whimper and lifted her head, her eyes molten with desire, her body damp with perspiration that made the gown stick to her skin. His every muscle shuddering, taut with his own need, he removed the garment with quick, gentle hands, pulling it over her head, casting it aside.

  Sighing, she wrapped herself around him, her mouth meeting his, the feel of her in his arms so slender and soft, her curves so pale against his black tunic.

  Reaching for the discarded kirtle, he spread it on the fur behind her and gently lowered her onto it. Then he let go of her just long enough to tear off his own garments, kneeling beside her, reveling in the way her gaze traced over him—from his face, to his chest, to the rampant evidence of how much he wanted her.

  He had never felt more aware of his own sensual, masculine power than he was in that moment. Her expression as she looked at him with such passion and possessiveness made him feel …

  Like a king. Like a god.

  Kicking free of his tunic and leggings, he moved over her, pressing her back into the furs, set ablaze by the long-awaited friction of his naked skin against hers. Her moan of welcome was a softer echo of the sound that poured from him. Her breasts felt so exquisitely soft against his chest, her nipples hard and tantalizing against the mat of black hair. As his body covered hers, she slid her arms around his back to hold him dose.

  He feasted on her, kissing her lips, her cheek, her lashes, her shoulder. She tasted luscious and feminine, felt softer and silkier than the fur beneath them. He lingered over the hollow of her throat, pressing his mouth there to feel the throb of her pulse against his lips.

  He wanted to go slowly this first time, to treat her with such care and tenderness, to sweep her to the brink of ecstasy before he entered her. But she moved restlessly beneath him, instinctively lifting her hips—and he almost lost his grip on his control. The contact of her naked, downy triangle against his rigid arousal wrenched a strangled exclamation from him.

  “Royce, now,” she pleaded, raining urgent, hot kisses along his throat, his jaw. “Please, my love, now.”

  Her eagerness, her passionate demand unraveled the tether that held him in check. His lady was impatient to give him more, to give him everything, to share what they had waited so long to share.

  His lady, his love, his Ciara. His.

  Balancing his weight on one forearm, he reached down to stroke that silky center of her being, probing gently. With a throaty murmur of acceptance, of pleasure, she parted her thighs as he moved into position.

  He tried to resist the rising storm within him. God’s breath, she was so small, so tight. The urge to possess, to mate descended like a white-hot haze.

  Struggling for sanity, he fitted himself to her.

  ***

  Ciara’s head tipped back and she inhaled a long, slow breath as she felt that rounded, hard part of him nudging open the entrance to her body.

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth to keep from crying out—not because she felt any discomfort but because the sensation was more wildly exciting than anything she had ever known.

  He pushed forward, so gently, so carefully, despite the fact that his own desire had reached the same feverish height as hers. She could feel his strong, muscled body shaking with barely leashed power, could hear his breathing lashing the darkness around them like a storm.

  Her hands gripped his trembling, sweat-sheened arms, her fingers digging into his shoulders at the exquisite sensation of him becoming part of her. She felt stretched and filled and by all the heavens, he was so big, surely too big for the small, snug sheath that clasped him. He felt huge and hot and throbbing within her.

  But he brought her no pain, even when he came to the delicate barrier that was her heart’s gift to him. He made even that a gentle claiming. There was only a feeling of pressure, and then he arched his hips and she felt a single quick, sharp twinge, a giving way …

  And then he was there, fully inside her, hard and silky, embedded within her most feminine depths. Filling her as she had never imagined possible.

  “Open your eyes, Ciara.”

  She obeyed his tense, whispered command, not even realizing that she had shut her eyes as her mind spun out into bliss. She still held her lower lip between her teeth.

  He was gazing down at her, his face etched with strain and concern, his body trembling, rigid, utterly still, his chest heaving with the effort.

  She relaxed her grip on his shoulders and smiled up at him, beyond words, sighing in pleasure to reassure him he had not hurt her. Never had she known a sensation like this, this feeling of fullness, of sweet, intense completion that was so deeply satisfying.

  Threading her fingers through his hair, she pulled his head down to hers. Groaning, he kissed her, his tongue parting her lips even as that male part of him parted her below.

  And then he began to move, withdrawing and then thrusting forward. Silky, sliding, probing the depths of her body.

  She trembled at this new sensation, moaning into his mouth, caressing his tongue with hers. Sharing his breath, his body, his soul. Wanting to feel this complete, this cherished all the rest of her life.

  And then without conscious thought, she began to move beneath him, instinctively seeking and matching his rhythm in a passionate dance. Her hips rose to meet his long strokes, drawing a muffled growl from deep in his throat. Enjoying his response, she did it again, moving her hips in a slow, deliberate circle this time.

  He lifted his mouth from hers, shutting his eyes, clenching his teeth. “Ciara, be care—”

  “Mmmm …” Lost in the feeling, she repeated the interesting, provocative motion once more.

  And felt his entire body convulse as if whipped by a la
sh. He choked out a curse, pressing his forehead against her shoulder as he exploded within her, throbbing, pumping deep inside her for a long, endless moment, his seed and a muted roar of release pouring from him.

  Seized by spasms that she could feel rippling through his muscles, he collapsed atop her, pressing her back into the furs. She wrapped her arms around him with a smile, welcoming his weight, holding him tight, stroking his back, his hair. It was over rather sooner than she had expected, but that did not lessen her soul-deep joy and satisfaction.

  After his breathing returned to normal a long moment later, a different sound rumbled in his throat. He lifted his head, looking down at her from beneath his tousled black hair, those dark eyes glazed with passion and an unexpected spark of amusement.

  “There is simply no stopping you, is there, my little one?”

  She blinked up at him. “Did I do some—”

  “Nay,” he assured her quickly, dropping kisses on her nose, her lips, her chin. “Nay, you did naught wrong. God’s breath, you are the most … I have never …” He gave up trying to express what he felt in words. “It is only that I had planned to take longer,” he whispered in her ear, “and take you with me.”

  “Oh.” With a relieved smile, she nuzzled her cheek against his, secretly pleased in a thoroughly female way that she had made him lose control. “My apologies, milord,” she teased.

  Chuckling, he kissed her, long and slowly, before he eased himself from her body, despite her moan of protest. The instant he was gone from her, she felt a loss, an emptiness. As if she had lost part of herself.

  But he only moved to her side to take the soft kirtle from beneath her, and she saw the spots of scarlet, the stain of her lost maidenhood. He tenderly pressed the wisp of cotton against her, removing any mark from her, from him. When he moved away from her again, it was to place the garment in the fire.

  She felt many emotions, none of them regret. The strongest was her love for him, her joy at what they had shared. And a sense of contentment and pride and pleasure that she was no longer a maiden, but a woman—his woman.

  “Now, milady,” he whispered huskily, returning to her side, kneeling on the fur. “This time I mean to make good on my promise.”

  Her heart pounded with excitement as she saw that he was already aroused again, as she realized that their night of loving had just begun. She smiled at him in surprise and wonder and anticipation. Reaching up, she thought to draw him down to her, her breath quickening at the thought of his muscled body covering and claiming hers once more.

  But when he caught her hands, he instead pulled her up until she was kneeling before him. Sitting back on his heels, he gazed at her with sparkling eyes and a wicked smile, tugging her forward. She did not understand at first.

  But then he showed her what he wanted, using his hands and a few instructive whispers. With a little sound of curiosity and arousal, she moved until she was astride him, her knees parted wide, the silken core of her body hovering just above his hard length. She trembled, feeling very vulnerable and open.

  Until he arched his hips and pressed her downward, and the blunt tip gently invaded her. The sound of her groan matched his as she lowered herself over him, astonished at how deeply she could take him in this position. How utterly he filled her.

  His hands slid up and down her back, clasping her to him as he began to move, and they renewed their dance of ecstasy. It took only an instant for her to discover that she was perfectly positioned in another way—for him to lavish kisses on her lips, her neck, her breasts. He suckled and teased as she arched her body, as she sheathed that steely part of him within her softness.

  The tension whirled tight within her, faster and stronger this time, a wildness she could feel building even more powerfully than before. Caught in its grasp, she surrendered, clinging to his shoulders and meeting every stroke as he thrust deeper, harder.

  He drew her mouth down to his for a kiss, and when she lifted her head to gasp for breath, opening her eyes, she could see as well as feel what it meant to have him inside her. Staring down, she saw their bodies joined as one, bathed by the golden light of the fire.

  She watched in fevered fascination as he withdrew from her, letting her see that hard male part of him glistening with her body’s dew. He pulled out all the way, then rubbed against her, sleek and wet over the swollen bud of her own desire, pleasuring her while she watched.

  Uttering soft, sharp cries, she shifted against him, recapturing him, feeling the storm so close to breaking. He slid inside her, deeply but slowly, so very slowly. She felt him shuddering as much as she was, every rock-hard muscle of his body beginning to tremble.

  Moving urgently, rising and falling as one, they strained upward into the hot, bright, dazzling lightning. Faster now, they raced higher, soaring, reaching for it, wildly. Together.

  And then in the span of a single heartbeat they found it, plunged to the heights of a scorching shower of ecstasy that burst inside them both at once, ripping through them in a rain and thunder of power and pleasure. He held her fiercely as she felt him inside her, around her, shattering at the same time she did, his seed pumping deeply into the core of her being.

  Spent, moaning, collapsing together, they fell back onto the fur, Ciara tumbling atop him, and their lips met in long, slow, hungry kisses.

  He caught handfuls of her hair, loving her mouth as he had just loved her body. Passionately, deeply. Tenderly. And this time he did not leave her, remained joined to her.

  And a few minutes later, when she felt his body stir within her, when he rolled her onto her back and pressed her down into the fur once more, she welcomed him with whispers of love.

  ***

  It was more than an hour later that she stood near the closed window, wrapped only in a sheet, watching him dress.

  Watching as he donned the black leggings and tunic, the gloves, the boots. He had already blackened his face with soot from the hearth.

  She blinked away the moisture in her eyes. Refused to think of the dangers he was facing. Nine days, she told herself stubbornly. She would see him again in nine days. Until then …

  Dear God and all the heavens, she was not sure she could survive so long without him. Did not know how she was going to conceal her feelings for him during his absence.

  How could anyone look at her and not know that she had spent this magical night being thoroughly ravished in the arms of the man she loved? Saints’ breath, her body still burned from his touch. She felt certain she must glow like the sun.

  She would spend as much of the time as possible in her chamber, she decided, fearing that someone would notice her passion-bruised lips, a certain lambent look in her eyes. Now that her mission as a rebel spy was ended, there was no need for her to spend her time elsewhere. She would stay here.

  And pray for him.

  Picking up his ropes and equipment, he turned toward her, and she felt tears pooling in her eyes. Once again, she had to say farewell to this man she loved like no other.

  But she could not say it this time.

  “Come back to me,” she said lightly, smiling up at him. “And do try to be a bit cleaner next time, my sooty baron.”

  His grin shone white. “I shall do my best, milady.” He reached out and cupped her cheek with one hand, the leather of his gauntlet soft against her skin. “I will return in time for the wedding,” he whispered. “Our wedding.”

  “Do not be late.”

  “I promise” He brushed his thumb across her lower lip. “Farew—”

  She stopped the word with her fingertips, not allowing him to say it. “Until I see you again,” she corrected, her gaze burning into his. “Until I see you again.”

  Chapter 20

  Ciara stood at the entrance to the cathedral, desperately wishing that someone would awaken her from this nightmare.

  Dressed in her gold silk wedding gown, the long train trailing behind her, she stared down the aisle toward the priest.

  And her g
room.

  Prince Daemon stared back at her, his gaze colder than usual, his sneering upper lip drawn into a tight smile—which was purely for the benefit of the scores of nobles assembled in the pews.

  She had delayed as long as she dared. He was already furious with her for keeping everyone waiting all morn. Numb with fear and denial, she stepped forward, into the vast sanctuary made of gray stone and brilliantly colored glass, into the smell of incense and the chanting of the choir Daemon had brought in from Avignon.

  And she prayed that she would awaken. Now. Before this nightmare could go any further. Awaken … awaken … awaken …

  But she was not asleep. It was all horribly, inescapably real. As real as the heavy royal robes she wore, the jeweled crown on her head, the lords and ladies garbed in velvet and silk who had been awaiting her arrival for two hours.

  As real as the nine days that had passed, and the tears she had cried last night and this morn.

  Not blinking, not even breathing, she walked down the smooth, stone-paved aisle toward the altar. Toward her inescapable fate.

  With each step, the horrifying images filled her mind, the ones that had torn at her heart for days: of a black mountain too difficult to climb, of ropes shredded by glassy stone, of Royce pushing himself too hard and losing his footing, falling to the bottom of a cliff …

  She did not know what had happened to him. All she knew was that something had gone terribly wrong. Miriam had received no word from the men.

  It was as if the rebels had gone into the Ruadhans and vanished. Swallowed up by the greedy maw of the Gunlaug. The Maker of Widows.

  She blinked hard and the red-and-gold banners that swathed the cathedral danced in her vision. Even as she moved closer to the altar, conscious of all eyes upon her, she kept hoping. Waiting. Thinking that Royce would burst in through the church doors. Rescue her as he had so many times before. Carry her away from this place. This moment. This man.

  But he did not come.