by Joy Nash
She bit her lip. He fisted his hands in her hair.
Tilting her head up, he claimed her mouth in a long, drugging kiss. Then he maneuvered her closer, urging her to kneel in the water. He guided her head to his …
Marcus bit off a groan, pressing his spine into the oak’s rough bark, reminding himself that he was alone in the woods, not secluded in the bathhouse with Gwen. His shaft was rigid; he was beyond fighting his need. His shaking fingers worked the ties of his braccas, loosening the fabric until his erection sprang free. He wrapped his hand around his shaft, working smooth skin over iron-hard muscle. Gods, how he wished his rough hand was Gwen’s delicate, wet mouth.
He stroked once, twice, a third time, and gave himself up to the rhythm.
Chapter Eight
Gwen paced the forest trail to which Breena had directed her after they’d emerged from the deserted smithy. “Marcus is probably out throwing knives,” Breena had declared when she noticed her brother’s favorite set of daggers was missing. “He does that whenever he needs to think.”
Curious, Gwen had gone to seek him out while Breena returned to the main house to check on her mother. Gwen’s footsteps slowed as she caught a glimpse of him through the trees. She was suddenly very glad Breena had not accompanied her, because Marcus was not throwing knives. Nor was he thinking.
He was … pleasuring himself.
Gwen stopped short, staring, her heart slamming her ribs. Her head felt as though it were about to float off her shoulders. She put out a hand to steady herself, blindly reaching for the nearest tree. Great Mother. She hadn’t realized a man might seek fulfillment without a woman. But there was no mistaking what Marcus was doing.
He stood with legs spread wide, his broad shoulders supported by the trunk of an ancient oak. He’d discarded his shirt, leaving his powerful torso, sprinkled with curly dark hair, bared to her view. His lean hips were thrust forward, his fingers wrapped firmly about his shaft. His arm moved in a jerking, almost brutal rhythm, his wrist flexing with every stroke. Each tug vibrated deep in her own belly.
His eyes were closed. He could not have heard her approach. She’d intruded on a moment of intense privacy—if she had any honor at all, she’d turn and flee. Apparently her honor was in short supply, because she stayed.
And watched.
Silently, like a moth to a flame, she crept closer, emerging from the shelter of the woods. The expressions playing on Marcus’s face fascinated her. The angles of his countenance were set in harsh contours, his generous, mobile lips pressed into a grim line. His breathing was shallow, his cheeks flushed. Gwen’s mouth went dry. In all her dreams of Marcus, she’d never pictured him like this—she hadn’t known enough to imagine it. A peculiar hunger gnawed her belly. He was so beautiful, so purely masculine, so strong and so vulnerable, all at once. She could not look away.
She must have made a sound, for Marcus’s eyes snapped open. Their gazes locked; the distance between them—barely ten paces—seemed to melt away. His hand stilled, but didn’t unclench from his erection.
She bit her lip. His gaze shot to the small movement, his eyes darkening to midnight.
“Come here.”
His voice was hoarse, his tone harsh. The command vibrated with such power and need that Gwen did not even consider disobeying. Slowly, she picked her way through the sea of grass that separated them, feeling as though she had stepped onto a shifting raft adrift in tumultuous waters.
She went to him as if in a dream, where time slows and fades, and all paths merge into one. This was her path—the only one she wanted. She stopped before him. His eyes were deep, dark pools of unsated desire. Beads of sweat stood out on his temple, his jaw, his neck. She was struck with an urge to collect the drops with her tongue.
His hand dropped to his side. Her gaze flicked downward. His sex was big and thick and erect, jutting from a nest of dark hair just visible between the flaps of his braccas. Her womb clenched and wept; dew seeped between her thighs.
“Touch me, Gwen.”
Her eyes flew to his; her lips parted.
“Touch me.” His voice was strained, barely in control. “Please.”
Hesitantly, she obeyed. Her fingertips brushed his broad, blunt tip. The round knob was softer than she’d expected. And hotter. A drop of moisture beaded on the crest. She touched it with her fingertip. He sucked in a sharp breath, his jaw clenching.
Gwen snatched her hand away. “Oh! I’m sorry. I did not mean to hurt—”
He made a harsh sound midway between a laugh and a groan. “You … didn’t.”
Each word he uttered seemed to cost him dearly. He stared at her, his throat working, then caught her wrist in a punishing grip. He guided her hand, pressing her palm to his hard flesh. He molded her fingers around his shaft, shaping them to his length. And holding her there.
His skin was like the softest doeskin. Beneath the unexpectedly supple veneer, he was hard as iron. She flexed her fingers and a shudder passed through him. He closed his eyes; his head tipped back against the tree. He was hot in her hand, hotter than she could have imagined. And alive. His life’s blood pulsed against her palm.
“Stroke me.”
“Marcus, I—”
“Stroke me, Gwen.” His hand began moving as it had been just moments before—except this time, he was teaching her. Her pulse quickened as she accepted his guidance. She learned his length, from thick hilt to broad, rounded tip. The soft outer skin moved over the hardness beneath; he shuddered when she circled his shaft’s wide head.
Slowly, tensely, as if he feared she would bolt, he released his hold on her hand. His arm came around her waist, pulling her tightly against his side. She laid her head on his shoulder and continued stroking. The quick, almost desperate rise and fall of his breath matched her own.
“Gwen … gods … that feels so good.”
Urgency pooled in her stomach. Instinctively, her grip tightened and her rhythm quickened. Marcus groaned; his hand went to her nape. He grasped her damp braid and wrapped it once around his wrist, pulling the strands taut. His legs were shaking now; the muscles in his thighs rock hard. Her own limbs were no better; her knees were in danger of buckling.
He tugged her braid back, tilting her head, forcing her to look up at him. His pupils were dilated, his gaze unfocused.
“Faster,” he rasped. He swallowed hard, his throat working convulsively. “Harder. Please.”
She did as he asked, until the muscles in her upper arm burned. His mouth descended on hers, his lips hard and bruising, his tongue probing with blatant possession. One hand held her head immobile, the other came up to cover her breast. Her nipple tightened into a hard, aching pebble. He caught it between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed gently.
Fire streaked to the dark place between her thighs. The hot, coiling ache inside was becoming unbearable. She pressed into the jut of Marcus’s hip, seeking relief. Somehow, the contact made the ache better and worse at the same time. Her grip on Marcus’s rod tightened. Incredibly, it grew even harder inside her palm. His body went taut. His breath was harsh; his male scent surrounded her. She sensed his savage satisfaction, his masculine triumph, his urge to dominate her completely.
The wolf inside her sensed it, too. It raised its head.
Nay! She jerked back, snatching her hand away, summoning the spell that banished the beast. At the same time, Marcus released her, gasping, wrenching himself roughly to one side and milking his shaft with such violent motion that Gwen feared he would injure himself. He braced his free hand on the oak, his big body shuddering. A groan tore from his lips as his seed spurted on the grass.
He stood motionless for a long time afterward, his eyes closed. Gwen did not move; she couldn’t. Her heart pounded as if she’d been running full pace in the forest. The wolf had retreated, but the effort of banishing it so abruptly had left her dizzy. Witnessing Marcus’s release had not helped her composure. The place between her thighs throbbed with dark, relentless yearning. S
he felt so … empty. Her body was weeping. She wanted him inside her.
But even if she’d known how to ask a man for such a thing, she didn’t dare. Not with the wolf lying in wait.
Marcus’s eyes opened. His beautiful, dark, expressive eyes. The emotion they conveyed took her breath away. He devoured her with his gaze—and she was shocked to realize his hunger had been barely sated by what they’d shared. His shaft had not softened in the least.
She wanted to touch him again; feel him touch her as intimately as she’d handled him. Her lust was like a towline drawing her across endless black water to a dark and dangerous place. And, Goddess help her, she wanted to go.
Then Marcus drew a breath and seemed to come back to himself. The hunger in his eyes changed into wry embarrassment. The bridge of his nose reddened; he shot her a sheepish smile as he did up his braccas.
“Next time,” he said mildly, “perhaps you could make a bit more noise when you approach me.” Retrieving his shirt from the grass, he shook off a few insects and pulled it over his head.
Gwen blinked, unsure of how to answer. Her face flamed; Marcus, for all his forced naturalness, was studiously avoiding her gaze. Striding across the clearing, he began retrieving daggers, one by one, from a scarred wooden target.
Gwen started to follow him, then drew up short and blurted, “Was this … was this like an encounter with one of your brothel women?”
His hand stilled on the grip of a dagger. “What do you know of brothel women?”
“Breena told me—”
“Pollux. Breena should keep her mouth shut. No doubt she’s filled your head with nonsense.”
“Nonsense.” Her tone sharpened. She was angry, she realized. Though she was not precisely sure why. “Is that what ye call what we just did? Nonsense?”
He spun about. “No.” The word echoed across the clearing. “No. This was … nothing like … gods.” His hand shook as he wiped the blade of a dagger with a small rag, slid it into its sheath, and laid it atop an oiled cloth he’d spread on the ground. “Is that what you believe? That I consider you no better than a meretrix? A whore?”
The ugly words shook her. “I … I don’t know what to think.”
The look he gave her was unreadable. He cleaned and sheathed three more daggers, then bound them together in a heavy roll of oilskin. Only when he was done did he straighten and face her again.
“Gwendolyn.”
The sound of her name on his tongue felt like a caress on her skin. His voice was low and vibrant, touching her in places already sensitive from the intimacy they’d shared. “I have burned for you with an unquenched fire for more than a year. I have done things to you in my dreams that would shock you so badly that you would turn and run were I to tell them to you. Then, one morning, you appear out of nowhere, on my doorstep. And I realize the … reality of you is so much more than any pale, thin dream could ever be.”
Approaching her, he took her hand and pressed it once more against his groin. Her fingers closed on him convulsively, remembering and wanting him again. He was still hard, the bulge of his rod straining the seams of his braccas. When she would have taken her hand away, he did not let her go.
“Do you feel that? You do that to me. And you’re not even aware of it, are you? All you have to do is look in my direction, and I can hardly breathe from the force of wanting you.”
“I … do not know what to say.”
“Say you want me, too. Say you’ll come to my bed.”
“Marcus … I …”
“You want me, too.” He kissed her lips and drew her flush against him. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
That was one lie she couldn’t bring herself to speak. He took advantage of her silence, kissing her again, then drawing her body tight against his. He fingered the sleeve of her borrowed tunic.
“This is Rhiannon’s.”
“Aye. Breena gave it to me. She sent my old tunic to be washed.” It felt odd, speaking of something so ordinary with her breasts pressed to his chest. “I’m taller than she is. ’Tis too short.”
“The color suits you, though. Green, like springtime.” A small smile played on his lips as he traced the neckline, his finger leaving a hot trail on her skin. He toyed with the lacing at the shoulder. His hand drifted lower, cupping her breast. With a sudden motion, his head dipped. Before Gwen quite knew what had happened, he’d covered her breast with his mouth, his teeth dragging the moistened linen across her sensitized nipple.
She gasped at the sensations that shot through her body. Desperately, she grasped a handful of his hair and tried to push him away. “Marcus, this—”
He bit her softly.
She couldn’t repress her moan. “This … is not right. I am to marry another m—”
His head came up, his eyes sober and intense. “You haven’t yet accepted the Caledonian.”
“That makes no difference.” She tried to pull back. His arm tightened around her. “I will accept Trevor eventually. Or another Druid.”
“But for now, you are free.”
She shook her head. “Ye don’t understand. There are other reasons we cannot do this. I—”
He silenced her with a kiss, his tongue slipping into her gasp of protest to stroke the slick inner lining of her mouth. He plundered her mouth like a conqueror, giving her no quarter. His palms molded her buttocks, pulling her close. His arousal pressed against the part of her that ached for him.
By the time he released her mouth, she was panting. He kissed a trail along her jaw to her ear. “You’ll return to Avalon and your lifetime of duty soon enough. It’s likely we’ll never see each other again. But while you’re here with me—your life is your own. Not your grandfather’s, not your Elders’, not Rhys’s. Yours. You can choose to whom to give yourself.” He nuzzled her neck. “Choose me, Gwen. Please. I will treasure the gift all my days.”
Gwen shut her eyes against a sudden wash of tears. Marcus was right—she wanted him. Wanted a memory to take into her loveless future on Avalon. How could she make him understand why she dared not accept what he offered?
She eased out of his arms, her eyes fixed on the ground. He let her go, reluctantly. She couldn’t bear to utter the words that would turn him away. I cannot lie with ye because I do not control the wolf. I do not control my own magic. I am afraid it will destroy you.
She should say those words. Set him free. But oh, how it would hurt when he turned away! She summoned her courage and opened her mouth, but Breena’s sudden call through the woods silenced her.
“Marcus? Gwen? Are you here?”
Marcus quickly stepped away, bending to roll his daggers inside the oilcloth as his sister tromped into view.
“Oh, there you are! I told Father I’d likely find you here. He’s looking for you, Marcus.”
“What does he want?”
Gwen was astonished at how calm Marcus sounded. If she were to attempt speech, she knew her voice would fail.
“Some problem with one of the plows,” Breena told her brother. “He’s in the west field.”
“I’ll go to him,” Marcus said, tucking his oilcloth bundle under his arm. He sent a meaningful glance toward Gwen. “We’ll continue our discussion later.”
She watched him stride away. Breena turned to her, her eyes bright with curiosity. “What were you speaking of? The sword Marcus is to make for you? No doubt he already has a good idea of how to proceed.”
“Aye. He does.” She had no idea if it were true.
“Ah, well,” Breena replied. “If that’s the case, you’re assured of success. Marcus never fails once he’s set a goal.”
That, Gwen thought grimly, was precisely what she was afraid of.
The smithy door was open. Intent on his drawing, Marcus was not aware of Gwen’s presence until she stood almost at his elbow. He jerked, his head whipping around. The back of his hand smacked the ink jar, knocking it over.
“Hades!” He righted the jar, but not before the ink spattered across th
e table.
“Oh! I’m sorry.”
“No matter,” Marcus mumbled, grabbing a rag he kept nearby for just this purpose. He sopped up the mess, scrubbing across his worktable as Gwen snatched several drawings out of the path of the spreading ink. “You can tell from the stains on the table I’ve spilled ink before,” he muttered under his breath.
He was a bumbling fool. And he’d proven it by nearly assaulting Gwen in the forest, spilling his seed at her feet, then insulting her by insinuating she was needy enough to fall into his bed. Even if she were inclined to take a lover before sacrificing her life to her grandfather’s whims, what possessed him to think she would choose him? She hadn’t even appeared at dinner afterward, pleading a headache. It had been plain enough to discern what that meant. He’d disgusted her with his crudity. He’d retreated to his smithy and spent half the night trying not to think about it.
But he’d known sooner or later he would have to face her. She needed him to forge her sword.
“Did ye not hear me enter?” she asked, laying his drawings on a clean spot on the table.
He straightened and looked at her. Her front teeth worried her lower lip, and her eyes avoided his gaze. Her cheeks were pink. She was nervous, he realized. Perhaps even as nervous as he. His mood abruptly improved. “I get very absorbed in my work,” he told her. “Breena knows to bang loudly on the door.”
“I’ll remember that trick in the future.”
Marcus felt her eyes on him as he crossed the room to dispose of the soiled rag in the barrel by the door. He was a disheveled mess, he knew. He’d slept in his clothes, and he had ink stains on his sleeves. He’d meant to bathe at dawn …
He glanced out the door. “Why, it must be near noon,” he said with some surprise. Last night, contemplating the problem of Gwen’s sword, inspiration had struck. Once he’d put pen to paper, he’d completely lost track of the time.
“Past midday.” Reluctant amusement threaded her voice. “Do not tell me ye were up all night again.”