Twelve Kisses

by Lindsay Townsend

  Gently, he warned himself with the hard-won patience of the forge, while his blood thudded hard in his ears. This is a novelty to her, as it is to you. Even if she writhes in delight and clamors to be spanked, be careful, or she may loathe you after. Yet he would take a kiss.

  “You have the right.” Her prim response made him realize, he had spoken his wish aloud. “You may take, sir. You may take, though I will not give.” She clung to him like a honeysuckle on a tree, pliant as molten copper, and yet, contrary as only a wench could be, she still fought.

  “We shall see about that.” He kissed her now, not to silence or punish, but because he could no longer resist her.

  She tasted of mints and smelled as fresh as a newly-washed babe. Conscious for an instant of his own leather-sweat-horses stink, David almost drew back, wondering if he should speed outside and dunk himself in the water barrel. Then lusty good sense surged back—this was his wife, and he would have her.

  They had kissed before, he and Alis, but never like this. The light, tender embraces of his youth were as insubstantial as dandelion fluff, these searching, deep kisses were something else, far more.

  “Mother of Christ, you make my head spin,” he growled, when he could bear to tear his mouth away from hers. “Strip and into bed with you.”

  He had meant to be slower, to part her gown carefully, to divest her like a queen. But the want within him was as white-hot as a blazing forge, and whatever came next, he must have her.

  Years of war have kept us apart but no longer. Tonight you are mine.

  He released her with another light smack on her rump to encourage compliance and stalked to the doorway. “Be ready when I return,” he ordered, hating the stark commands issuing from his rigid jaw but unable to stop himself—he had to have her. “Do not dally.”

  Avoiding her stricken face, he flung himself out into the winter night.

  Chapter Two

  Naked under the soft warm sheets, Alis shivered, though not from cold. In truth, she did not understand this adult David—at times harsh, at times tender.

  He had smacked her; then stroked the stinging spot until her very loins felt to be melting with a new, disturbing sweetness. Never before had she been so aware of the moist space between her legs. Her breasts, too, had tingled, as if he’d caressed them, and her mouth...

  Alis traced the outline of her lips with a finger, wishing yet not wishing that David would hurry back and kiss her again.

  But I cannot be this way, yielding and slavish, or he will think all Yorkists the same. Twelve kisses, he has promised me. Twelve kisses for Christmas. Find a way for him to make good on that vow.

  Alis pulled the bedcovers up over her ears, planning in her mind. She counted off on her fingers. Do I trust him still? Yes. Is he honorable? Yes. Does he treat his servants well? Yes. Is he kind?

  “Yes,” Alis said aloud, surprising herself. His smack had been a warning, more a shock than a hurt. She had endured far worse, for less, from her parents. And he had wanted her to be safe, for in these dangerous times to speak too freely of the new king was treason. David wants me to be safe.

  She glanced at the table, where she had carefully laid her clothes—her dark blue gown, a cut-down from her mother‘s, her wifely cap, her belt of scarlet. Her new furs were there, bought for her by David. They were gray and white—mostly white—and very deep and thick. These must have been costly and possibly against the law for a simple woman like me, though we all ignore such foolish laws. His own cloak was tossed over a stool. It was serviceable but patched. David wants me to be warm.

  Her eyes ranged to the flask and cups, the fine soft bread and cheese, the bags of raisins, apples, and dried cherries. He had remembered she loved cherries. David wants me to be fed and comfortable.

  She smiled and rolled over to say her prayers.

  * * * *

  David found her sleeping, her long hair loose and draped over a pillow. He lifted a dark lock and kissed it, then dropped it, feeling foolish. She slept on, a half-smile on her lips, her dark lashes fluttering in a dream.

  I have been too long outside, seeking to master myself.

  Amused at his own misfortune, he dropped off his clothes and slid carefully in beside her. She sighed in her sleep and still sleeping, thrust out her bottom for him to curl up against her narrow back. He gathered her into his arms, aroused and wakeful, but curiously content.

  I will never sleep, but what does it matter? It is Christmas-time, a holiday, and I am here with Alis.

  He kissed the back of her neck and smiled.

  * * * *

  Alis dreamed she was shoving a boulder uphill, but as she reached the summit a man wearing a crown kicked it back again. She started awake and realized the “rock” was her new husband, snoring gently against her.

  She pinched his arm to encourage him to lift it off her, and he merely tightened his iron grip about her middle.

  “David, you hurt me,” she whispered, and he relaxed at once. Inspired, she whispered, “Roll over.”

  He did so, turning onto his back, and she was free to stare at him by the flickering fire. He looked younger in sleep, less grim, less massive. His mouth wore a faint smile in sleep, and his eyelashes were as blond as she had wished her hair to be when she was a girl. Flames burnished his short hair and his fair chest hairs. Shadows added definition to his tall, sinewy frame.

  She looked a long time, wishing to touch his thick blond eyebrows, or steal a kiss from his relaxed, generous mouth. Growing bolder as he slept, she lifted the covers and peered as well as she could beneath the sheets, blushing at her own curiosity.

  She had known he was strong, but not how beautiful his masculine body was. Each muscle curved where it should. His arms were sinewy from years in the forge, and his chest was broad, his belly flat, his legs shapely. His manhood—hastily Alis dropped the sheet, wondering if her staring was a sin.

  She ran her toes against his calves, relishing their strength. She brushed a fingertip against a scar on his right flank then a scar on his right arm. War wounds, she thought, wondering what horrors he had witnessed. He had fought for the enemy, but she knew he had not harmed her brother, nor any of hers. He would have told her, else. She kissed the scar on his arm and placed her palm against his ribs, feeling him breathe.

  “You are awake,” she said, flustered at having been found out in her spying. “Forgive me, should I bring you some ale?”

  He clasped her fluttering hand and placed it back across his navel. “You are lovely,” he said. “Do as you wish.”

  She wanted to do more but dared not. “May I ask—” The rest of her question became trapped in her throat as he leaned up and kissed her.

  “Happy Christmas, wife.”

  “Is that my first Christmas kiss?”

  He smiled, his eyes bright in the semi-dark. “Do you wish it to be?”

  * * * *

  She said nothing, but somehow he knew. In bed together, naked, nestled close like puppies, he felt close to her. Bed could be their own soft world, where he could spoil her, where he could forget wars and kings and be himself again.

  And she desired him. He knew from the moment he had stirred to find her lifting the sheets. He had heard her breathing quicken and felt her gentle fingers, more and more on him. He did not know yet if she still loved him—he hoped and prayed she did—but now it was a gift to him that she wanted him.

  The knowledge made him smile, made him confident; where before, he had been too arrogant. He longed to snatch her up and holler to the rooftop, but he lay quiet, letting the joy surge in him.

  “Oh!” She had noticed he was awake in other ways. Her cheeks darkened, but her eyes were limpid, and she did not flinch away.

  “May I claim my first Christmas kiss?” he asked.

  She lay looking at him, all eyes, and wet her lips with her tongue.

  Chuckling, aware of what she needed now more than she knew herself, he wrapped his arms and legs about her and pulled her gentl
y to him. He kissed her, allowing her to become accustomed to his long hard nakedness, his maleness. Smoothing her hair back from her flushed face, he kissed her eyelids, one after the other.

  “What do I do?” she asked, almost a wail. She lifted herself from his chest, her eyes hastening downward. “Does that… Does it hurt?”

  She had not known an aroused man. How could she, being a virgin? In youth, they had been closely chaperoned. Tenderly, he shook his head. “Do not trouble yourself, sweeting.” He kissed her chin then explored her mouth again with his. “Truly, it does me no harm.”

  In truth, he ached like the devil, but he would not trouble her with that.

  She worried at her lower lip, still uncertain, and he thought of a sweet remedy. He already knew she liked her bottom fondled, and it was certainly no hardship to him to do more. “Roll over,” he whispered.

  When she did so, he bundled the covers over her and hastily added more wood to the fire, to warm her. He poured ale for them both and handed her a cup. Alis sipped it like a child, propped on her elbows, her breasts brushing against the sheets. Gorgeous breasts, too, with pink nipples...

  “Lie down now,” he murmured and gulped his own drink.

  As the fire caught again and bloomed, he shimmed the sheets down to her ankles and slipped a pillow under her hips. The better to present those pert, round apples.

  He kissed the top of her spine. “Here is my first Christmas kiss.” He brushed her left shoulder blade with his downy chin. “And here.” Blowing on her right shoulder blade, he followed that with a kiss. Slowly he trailed his lips and more kisses down the length of her back. “And here.”

  Her bottom was perfect. He kissed one round, smooth cheek, inhaling her intimate, salty perfume. She made him at one and the same time rampant and dizzy with desire. To thrust into her was a need as painful as a toothache, yet he held off, struck by her trusting, languid state. He brushed his hand over her back and down, cupping her graceful nether curves. Her breath gushed out in response, and he saw her slim legs tighten.

  “More here.” He caressed and kissed, and she began to arch her back, lifting herself toward him. “Alis, sweet, Alis.”

  He covered her bottom with light, swift kisses and brushed two fingers slowly along her inner thighs. Her legs parted, and he heard her whisper, “Sweet, so sweet.”

  Gently, he touched her in her intimate place, easing and exploring her tender folds. His fingers became damp with her essence, and she gripped the sheet in her fists, moaned and reached for him, her dark eyes fixed on his. He meant to kiss her breasts, but the glow in her face, her yearning, was too intoxicating.

  “Close your eyes,” he murmured, increasing the speed of his roving fingers between her legs. “Feel me.”

  * * * *

  The sweet tickling in her womanly parts was increasing to a wild throbbing. Alis kept her eyes tightly closed, afraid he might stop otherwise. David's hands, his mouth seemed to be everywhere on her, and she wished to do the same for him, yet how?

  He was kissing her again—down there!

  Even as she tried to protest, to shift away, to push his large bright head aside, he pinned her to the pillow with his brawny arms.

  “Take it,” he growled. “Take my second kiss.”

  His tongue lavished and probed, and a voice was groaning, and the light and heat of the fire was in her head and exploding in her, exploding through her in pulsing waves of pleasure.

  * * * *

  “Over.” He turned her again and entered her as a stallion covers a mare, smoothly piercing her maidenhead. She yelped and stiffened, but he cupped and stroked her breasts and nuzzled her neck, giving her time to become used to him, now inside her. Soon she sighed, and her head dropped.

  “Alis, my wife.” He smoothed her hair and caressed her nether curls, feeling her smooth back rub against his chest and his manhood deep within her. “Truly my wife.”

  She sighed again and kissed his hand then turned her head to catch his mouth with her sweet lips.

  “Ready?” he asked, after another, lingering embrace.

  Her eyes widened. “There is more?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Taking care not to crush her with his weight, he began to move within her. He wanted to be slow, to build, but the feelings, the need, were now too urgent. He pounded into her, his hips slapping against her bottom, and she went up on all fours to give him more access. Soon her arms were trembling, and she was quivering; then suddenly, she gave a great cry and sank back over the pillow, her haunches still raised as her intimate parts clenched and embraced him.

  It was too much. Kneeling over her, he thrust and quickened and with a great roar, emptied into her, giving himself utterly.

  Chapter Three

  It had snowed heavily in the night. Alis could feel the snug warmth around the cottage and sensed the silence as she slithered out of bed. Moving carefully, so as not to disturb David, she dressed quickly and padded to the door.

  “Leaving me already?”

  She whirled about, seeing him sitting up, wonderfully disheveled, curls of bright gold shining by his ears. His hair was growing out, and she loved to see it. “I-I was just going to the well.” Why was she stammering?

  He yawned and opened his arms. “Come, bid me good morning.”

  But she would not be had so easily. “Good morning.” She bobbed a curtsey, seized a pail, and sped out.

  She had just broken a thin layer of ice on the well when David joined her, tying up his jerkin.

  “Wretch!” He pinched her nose with fingers cold enough to make her gasp and tramped off to the stable. Moments later, he returned, carrying more laden panniers. “My men came early this morning.”

  “Good, then if you wish, I can begin to teach you to cook.”

  He stared at her, clearly having forgotten, then nodded. “So be it. Go to it. But I must get this stuff indoors and tend our horses first.”

  He stalked to the house, his blue eyes stormy, leaving Alis wondering what she had said or done amiss.

  * * * *

  David groomed and fed the horses, cursing all the while. He should have remembered; he should have been more pleasant; he should have spoken.

  Why did I not explain that there was a message with the food?

  Truth was, the scribbled note, written on a scrap of parchment, had disturbed him. “Sir Roger asks to meet your wife soon.”

  Sir Roger was his lord. Why the knight wanted to see Alis, David was not sure, but he was uneasy, especially given what had happened in the past.

  I made it clear to him then, so why should he ask? What does he want? He scowled, suspecting it would be nothing good, no kind of wedding gift or well-wishes. At their last, tense meeting, he had told Sir Roger he wanted no part of his lord’s plans. One other thing he was clear—he must tell his wife.

  But do I tell Alis everything?

  Part of him wanted to, yet he was wary. He and Alis were lovers at last, enjoying each other and delighting in their time together. He did not want the bitter world of politics and dynastic alliances to intrude upon them.

  I do not want her to doubt me, not now, not ever.

  Scowling, he thought of a form of words and returned to their cottage, feeling a hot prickle of shame and alarm running across his head and neck.

  * * * *

  Back within the cottage, Alis understood at once after he explained why he had gone stamping outside. “You fear Sir Roger might doubt my loyalties?” Bad as this was, she was relieved it was no worse, now they were doing so well together. David cares for me, he really does, and I for him. Pray God it will soon be more for us, soon be love…

  Her husband nodded, looking like a lad caught out in a misdeed, shamed and defiant together. Her heart went out to him afresh, despite her fury at being considered disloyal.

  “Does 'soon' mean at once?”

  “No, he will not want us interrupting his feasting.”

  Alis breathed out and smiled. “Then we s
till have our Christmas, and all will be well.” Pleased to have surprised him again, she left the table and crossed to him. “All will be well indeed,” she repeated, with a sureness she did not quite feel, but she wanted him to be easy. She was grateful, too, that his present grim look was nothing to do with her.

  He smiled in return, and she snatched the moment to further the plan she had half-made the previous night. She was not bold enough yet to ask if he had enjoyed their first two Christmas kisses, but she could ask this.

  “Can you still make a man out of snow?”

  Chuckling, he took her hand in his and kissed it. “Is that your challenge to me today?”

  David was still anxious. She could see the strain in his bright blue eyes, but he was trying to please. “Yes,” she said.

  “And then breakfast,” he added. “And after that, it is my turn.”

  Suddenly, he looked as grim as he did while riding, but somehow she knew it would be all right.

  * * * *

  The day was bright and crisp and cold. Snow covered everything, encasing trees and fields and hedges in blankets of sparkling white, and the whole world was pure and silent. Alis pointed out the roving magpies and blackbirds, dark specks in the wide blue sky, and David showed her the tracks of a hare that had romped in the field before they had ventured out. They pelted the ash trees nearby with snowballs and then pelted each other, followed by a race to make a snowman each.

  His snowman, naturally enough, was tall and straight, as big as an ancient stone cross, with pebbles for eyes and a lopsided curve of a grin.

  “Yours is drunk,” Alis remarked.

  “Christmas feasting,” David replied, glancing at hers. “Is yours wearing a hat?”

  Alis knew her man was a poor thing, lumpen and tending to shed snow, but she thought she had fashioned his head well enough. “Mine at least can wend home,” she began but got no further, as David scooped her into his arms and dangled her over her snow sculpture, resisting her threats and scoldings.