Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  Pushing the stool under the table, she folded both houppelande and shirt, and laid them on his chest.

  Alaun gritted his teeth and willed himself not to break.

  Returning to stand before him, she glanced into his face, then raised both hands to the heavy muscles that crossed his chest. Placing her palms against the warm skin, she let them slide, slowly, down over his ridged stomach to where his hose were fastened by buttoned tabs to his braier. His stomach contracted at her touch. Delighted, she unbuttoned his hose, quickly rolling them down his thighs. They slipped off easily, along with his soft leather boots.

  She set boots and hose aside. Her eager fingers reached for the twined ends of his braier, for the last knot she would have to undo; he closed his hands over hers. “Nay, lady. Not yet.”

  Surprised, Eloise glanced up.

  His smile was that of a lion hunting. “Tis my turn now, maid.”

  Understanding that being a maid gave her no right to argue, she acquiesced with a nod. Her breath caught in her throat. Her hand quivered when he took it in his. Reaching back, he shifted his chair, so that he could sink down upon it, his thighs widespread. Looking up, his smile slowly widened; as he drew her down to sit on one knee, she wondered what it would feel like to be devoured.

  He reached around her to unlace her gown. She kept her head up, her gaze fixed beyond him. When the laces where free, he brought his hands to her shoulders and gently drew the soft material down. It caught above her breasts.

  She looked down as he reached for her hand, holding it while he undid the small buttons that closed her sleeve from wrist to elbow. First one, then the other, sleeve was laid open. Then, his hands rose again. She could barely breathe, her lungs tight, parched. Slowly, he drew one arm, then the other, free of the tight sleeves. The soft fabric collapsed in folds about her waist.

  Glancing up, she saw his eyes, glittering, fixed on her breasts, outlined beneath her chemise. As the fact registered, her breasts swelled.

  Alaun’s fingers shook as he reached for the bow at the neckline of her chemise. One tug, and it was undone. Dragging in a breath, he tightened his grip on his surging passions. Maintaining the steady deliberation that he knew was heating her, he slipped his fingers beneath the gathered neckline of the chemise and spread it wide, then guided it down, off her smooth shoulders and down her arms. The edge caught on the peaks of her breasts. He lifted her arms free before running his fingers along the inside of the neckline, unhooking it from her nipples. Without allowing his hands to touch her skin, he pushed the soft folds of cote and chemise down, revealing her waist and the smooth flare of her hips.

  She sat on his knee, bared to the hips, the most delectable handmaid he’d ever had.

  And definitely the proudest. There was a calmness about her, a quality in her heavy-lidded, mysterious eyes that counteracted the quivering tension he could feel laying siege to her flesh. Her prideful assurance aroused him—he would get no meek submission from her.

  He raised a gentle hand to her face and turned her lips to his. Hers were soft, parted, very ready to be kissed. He spent long moments inciting her to kiss him. When one small hand fastened on his shoulder and she took the reins, he lowered his hand from her face.

  For one timeless moment, Eloise found herself poised, quivering, on some invisible threshold. His hands had disappeared, but his lips demanded her attention. Then the hand behind her rose to press in the small of her naked back; slowly, it stroked upward to her shoulder blades, long fingers caressing her nape as she gasped. Her body arched. The hand stroked back down to the base of her spine as his other hand closed, warm and firm, about her out-thrust breast.

  She shivered; liquid fire danced through her veins. As his fingers stroked and caressed, teased and taunted, she felt the flames heat her. The glow inside her grew, swelling with every pounding beat of her heart. His hand moved to her other breast, now eager for his attention.

  As he continued his unhurried play, the subtle pressure in the small of her back keeping her upright, she floated just short of heaven.

  She was firmly on some pleasured plateau when he finally released her lips. From under heavy lids, she studied the flames in his eyes, the intent expression on his face as he caressed and cajoled, coaxing her nipples into even tighter buds.

  She shivered again.

  He glanced at her, and smiled, slowly, sleepily. Then he looked down. His hands left her; he lifted her skirts. His fingers found her garters; he quickly dispensed with her stockings and soft shoes, then flipped her skirts down.

  His lips returned to hers for a long, slow kiss; the hand at her back moved, closing about her hip, while his other palm eased around her, pushing her clothes down. He gripped and lifted her slightly, his hand passing under her as he swept her gown and chemise down her legs. They puddled on the grass at her feet. He released her lips and drew back.

  A deep shudder shook her as the knowledge that she was naked, held on his knee where he could touch her at will, sank into her mind. She wondered if he treated all handmaidens so. The thought curved her lips; lifting her heavy lids, she glanced at him.

  He was looking at her, studying her, as if she was his next battlefield.

  Alaun wished he could shut his eyes, but they no longer obeyed his injunctions. They devoured her soft, indescribably sleek body—she was perfect; she was his. Tonight he would enjoy her fully, as she would enjoy him. Only the promise of the pleasure to come allowed him to harness the lust rampaging through him. Leashed, it waited, obedient but quivering.

  Another long shiver shook her. He smiled. The tent was too warm for her to be cold. In the morning, it would be freezing, but after the day’s sunshine, the air trapped beneath the silk was pleasant on the skin. And she would soon be so heated she wouldn’t feel the air’s touch. He lowered his head, finding her lips as he drew her closer, into the curve of his arm.

  Eloise relaxed, warm and secure, comfortable against him. One muscular arm was draped around her, holding her firmly, his large palm flattened over her waist; his other hand gently fondled her breasts, effortlessly reestablishing the haze of pleasure in her mind. His lips played on hers, drawing her from herself. Eagerly, she followed him into realms of delight.

  Only when he was sure she was totally enthralled did Alaun allow his fingers to leave her satin breasts, trailing down over the slight curve of her belly to tease the dark curls at its base. He touched her very gently, the lightest of lovers’ caresses, then let his fingers trail, tantalizingly light, over her ivory thighs, still closed against him. He repeated the actions, again and again, until he felt her shift, her body arching lightly in his hold.

  He drew back from their kiss and repeated the delicate torture. Her eyes were closed; a slight frown played between her brows. She shifted again. He caught his breath.

  “Open for me, Eloise.”

  Almost on the words, she parted her thighs. Victory pounded in his veins; he ignored it. He lowered his lips to hers; her hands rose to his face. Slowly, keeping his touch deliberate, he stroked her curls, then reached further. He parted her soft folds, damp and slightly swollen. At his touch, they swelled more; probing further, he found her slick heat. She shivered in his arms, but did not pull away. His jaw clenched, ignoring the ache in his groin, he gave himself over to caressing her.

  At first, the struggle to breathe consumed Eloise, then, discovering that her body seemed to cope despite the heated tension gripping it, she let the pleasure he was lavishing on her sweep her up, and carry her on to an even higher plateau of earthly bliss. Every stroke of his broad fingers evoked exquisite sensations. With each tender touch, she felt herself softening, blossoming, offering herself more fully for the next.

  When she was hot and slick, her honey scorching his fingers, Alaun drew back from their kiss. She lifted her heavy lids, her gaze darkly langorous. He met it, then he looked down.

  Eloise followed his gaze. The sight of his large hand between her thighs, of his fingers rhythmically strok
ing her, sent a shaft of erotic need shivering through her.

  He felt it and glanced up. His eyes, afire with golden flames, met hers. “Look down, lady-witch. Watch as I love you.”

  Driven by a compulsion even stronger than her will, she did.

  His fingers repeatedly caressing her heated flesh, Alaun watched her face. “Your lips are open for me, lady-witch, pouting and swollen and so soft.” He gently stroked them. “And here lies the nub of your pleasure.”

  He slid his thumb between the soft folds to where the tight button, aroused by his caresses, throbbed in the shadow of its hood. Slowly, he circled it; her thighs quivered.

  “And here lies the portal to your sheath, sweet lady-witch.” With one fingertip, he slowly circled the tight band then, deliberately, slowly, inexorably, he slid that finger into her.

  Eloise felt the invasion keenly. She arched, then shivered and spasmed, her muscles instinctively clamping about his finger.

  “Aye, lady-witch.” He rested his head against hers. “You are hot and slick, tight and strong.” His hand moved rhythmically between her thighs, his finger gliding easily in and out of her body.

  She gasped. Wild-eyed, she looked at him, and saw the flames leaping, gold in gold. She reached for his face, drawing his lips to hers, needing his kiss to anchor her as her body strained against its earthly bonds.

  Her unrestrained ardor sent fire surging through Alaun; grimly, he held on. He had a plan of campaign he was unwilling to surrender.

  As her flames rose higher, he continued his stroking, pausing only to slide another finger in alongside the first. She was alive in his arms, arching, straining against his hold, wild in her passion.

  Breathing was suddenly far too hard. Eloise let her head fall back, arching against his supporting arm. She gasped as she felt his fingers part slightly, stretching her gently. Then he probed more deeply; her fingers sank into his arm. “Will you mount me now, lord?”

  Alaun heard her breathless question. He gritted his teeth, only just finding the strength to say, “Nay, lady-witch. Not yet. Tonight, I would have you fly first alone.”

  Fly? Eloise thought she was already in heaven. Then she felt the soft touch of his hair on her shoulder.

  Carefully, Alaun caught one puckered nipple with his lips. He circled it with his tongue, and heard her shocked gasp. He suckled, drawing the sensitive nub into his mouth, then he laved it.

  Her body bowed, her head tipping back. The sound she uttered was a cross between a cry and a moan. It was the first true sound of passion he’d drawn from her. He tried the same trick on her other breast; the result was even more pleasing—a soft, almost sobbing cry. It was the sweetest music he had ever heard.

  “Sing for me, lady-witch.”

  It was a siren’s song that fell from her lips as he skillfully pushed her ever onward. As he felt her tightening, rising towards the final starburst, he moved hands and mouth in concert, orchestrating her sensitized nerves to give her the ultimate joy.

  When she gave one last cry and convulsed in his arms, it was the most deeply erotic sight he’d ever seen.

  As her muscles spasmed about his fingers, pressed deep within her, Eloise forced her eyes open. Struggling to find enough air, she whispered, “Will you come inside me now, lord?”

  She wanted to feel him inside her, to share the glory with him. It was beautiful, but it would be more beautiful yet if he was with her.

  A surge of anticipation flooded her as she heard his gravelly reply. “Aye, lady-witch. Tis time.”

  Drawing his fingers from her, Alaun stripped off his braies, lifting her slightly and rising an inch to slip the soft linen off. Then, juggling her, he swung her about so she straddled him.

  He’d intended to kiss her, then her lift her onto him without giving her a chance to look down; she defeated him, bracing her hands against his chest and leaning back to view him.

  He swallowed a groan. He didn’t have sufficient strength left to reassure her. But she ignored the urging of his hands and continued to stare.

  Resignedly watching her face, fully expecting to see fear, horror, shock, or any combination of the three, he was not at all prepared for the wonder that lit her eyes, nor the very feminine smile that curved her lips.

  She reached for him, her small hand closing about him with a knowing touch.

  He groaned and closed his eyes as she clasped and unclasped her fingers, then set them a-wandering.

  “Tis beautiful,” Eloise breathed, utterly captivated. She’d seen more than two in her lifetime, inevitable in a castle full of men—this one was a prize. A prize she wanted inside her.

  Her smile deepened. Feeling more consciously feminine than ever in her life, she glanced at him. “Will you mount me now, lord?”

  It was a delight to be able to surprise her. “Nay, lady. This time, you will mount me.”

  She looked down, then up at his face, brows lifting, the conjecture in her eyes more than he could bear. With a groan, wanting no more of words, his or hers, he lifted her, then lowered her. Slowly, easily, he sank into her.

  Eloise let her head fall back; the sensation of him slowly filling her claimed her mind. He supported her as he eased her down. And then he was there, high inside her, deeply embedded in her body. She tightened about him and heard him groan.

  Her thighs gripped his hips; his hands gripped her bottom. He raised her, then let her sink onto him again.

  They set the tempo between them, he lifting, she slowing her downward slide.

  The end was a holocaust of feeling, sensation after sensation shuddering through them both. Head back, she strained against his hold as the final, all-consuming spasm shook her. Boneless, she collapsed against him, her arms limp on his shoulders, her thighs spread wide over his, with him buried to the hilt inside her.

  Alaun paused only long enough to savor the strong ripples of her release, then he raised her slightly, his body coiling to plunge once, twice, deeply into her, and he, too, reached the bright pinnacle. The shudders that racked him flowed away, even as his warmth flooded her.

  His breathing hoarse and labored, he bowed his head and pressed a kiss to her temple.

  The last thing Eloise remembered was his arms locking about her; she clung to his warmth and strength.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  On leaving his pavilion the next morning, Alaun paused to look out over the countryside. Soft mists veiled the surrounding plains, obscuring the horizon. The air was crisp, the sky clear. He drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.

  Hoping he did not look as smug as he felt, he headed for the campfire. He’d left his prize with her maid, the robin busy brushing out Eloise’s long hair. He hadn’t seen the dark tresses free before; the sight had given him ideas, which in turn had driven him from the tent. Now was not the time to rush her, precipitous reactions or not.

  Roland appeared as Alaun was breaking his fast. His cousin looked refreshed and pleasantly disheveled, a fact he immediately explained.

  “I’ve reclaimed my tent. From your smug look, I take it tis unlikely the lady will be needing it more?”

  Alaun managed a frown. “Nay, she will not. But there’s her robin to house—we’ll need to find her some place to perch.”

  Roland waved expansively. “Rovogatti’s already got the robin in hand. Seems she’s found his tent to her liking.”

  Alaun grunted. “Just as long as I hear no complaints. The girl’s little more than a child, and under my lady’s protection.”

  “Nay, I doubt you’ll get any complaints. From all I’ve seen, tis wedding plans you’re more likely to hear.”

  “Already?”

  Roland turned to stare. “You’re one to talk.”

  “Tis not the same,” he mumbled, draining his ale. He lowered the mug, and encountered Roland’s amused glance. He scowled, “Tis time the wagons were loading.”

  The next hour went in chaos as the camp broke up and the column reformed.

  As before, Eloise found her
self on her mare, ambling alongside Montisfryn’s gray at the head of the long column. She was blissfully free of yesterday’s uncertainties, convinced beyond doubt that Montisfryn still wanted her.

  It was, she’d discovered, very nice to feel wanted.

  In the chill gray of early dawn, he’d shaken her awake, his hand warm and heavy on her shoulder. His soft, “Lady-witch, lady-witch,” had opened her sleepy eyes. She was sure she should take exception to being so addressed, yet his tone made it clear he meant the term as an endearment—a reluctant endearment which, to her mind, made it all the more endearing. By the time she’d decided that, he’d settled her on her back. Looming over her, he’d parted her thighs with his, his fingers finding her softness and coaxing a welcome from her. Then he’d lowered his powerful body to hers and possessed her. Utterly.

  Sternly quelling a shiver, she glanced at him. He was riding easily, the reins held loosely in one gloved fist. As usual, his powerful frame combined with the tawniness of his mane and his golden eyes left the distinct impression of a lion. Today, his clothes of ochre and brown further enhanced the image.

  He felt her gaze and looked sleepily down at her. “Pensive, lady? Of what are you thinking?”

  She couldn’t resist. “Why, that you remind me of a lion, lord.”

  The tawny brows rose.

  “A sleeping lion,” she quickly qualified. “As on your tournament shield.” Reminded of an earlier thought, she added, “Incidentally, to my mind, your motto is less than apt.”

  He eyed her impassively. “How so?”

  Seriously, as if debating a Latin declension, she offered, “‘Fearsome’ is not as accurate a descriptor as might be. To my thinking, ‘awesome’ is more fitting.”

  His eyes gleamed, embers glowing in the gold; his jaw firmed. “Twould be well for you, lady, an’ you let the lion sleep.”

  The comment, uttered in a low growl, proved too tempting. “Lack-a-day,” she sighed. “And here was I thinking it might be diverting to stroke him and make him purr for me.”