Carefully, he pulled her legs open and watched the full, pouting lips of her vagina part. He glanced up at her face to find her head tilted back against the wall, her eyes closed as she sobbed shallowly. Inching her legs wider, he watched the line of her sex unfold—rutted, pink and glistening—moist with her female essence. Pulling her body forward to the stool’s edge, he caught a glimpse of her opening and the wet rivulet that seeped from her vulva to dampen the stool’s seat.
“Dye,” she moaned, and he watched the hard tips of her breasts as her back arched and her nipples thrust upward, her body desperate for some kind of release. His dick was rock-hard again as he dragged her hands down to her pussy, and used her fingers to massage the top of her cleft. As she whimpered and gasped beneath her own hand, he massaged her until her slit was streaming. Abruptly, he stopped.
“Open your eyes,” he demanded harshly. “I want you to see what you’re not getting. Open your legs. All the way, Martigay.” Dissatisfied with her idea of “all the way”, he spread her legs with his elbows.
With his hand casing his shaft, he pumped himself as he rose to align his cock with her pussy. “Pay attention, Martigay, because this is what you’re not getting. Open your eyes,” he commanded roughly.
Her eyes opened in time to see his hot shot of release jump from his dick in a silver stream. As it hit her clitoris in a hot kiss, she exploded into orgasm, rocketing into a long, searing arrival with a cry that was almost painful.
Her body was like an explosion. Ruthlessly, Dye contained her as she jerked violently between his body and the wall, the length of her arrival far exceeding his own explosive release. Finally, she drew in a long sobbing breath and shivered. Dye’s forehead hit the wall and for several moments they leaned against it together, panting, damp with perspiration, wet with sex shared and consummated.
By the time he caught his breath, he found himself on his knees between her legs, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, his face buried between her breasts as her lips stirred in his hair. He knew he was in trouble. Knew he wanted more of her, knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until he got more of her.
Feared he’d not be satisfied until he got all of her.
Thankful that the eroticant had apparently worn off, Dye heaved out a shuddering sigh of exhaustion. He remained kneeling while he pulled his ties to cover his damp, sticky cock, and watched Martigay move her legs together as she reached for her leggings and searched the floor. With a start of realization, he reached backward to grasp her jerkin, shaking it out while she pulled her doeskins up her legs. When he held it out to her, she slipped an arm through one hole as he brought the rest of it around her back.
It felt good, he realized—felt good wrapping her clothes around her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and keep her there, wanted to wrap up that warmth and keep it for himself, alone—for the rest of…Mithra. What was he thinking?
Her chemise was still evocatively parted and her breasts hung, lush and full in the narrow opening, teasing his male senses with pitiless provocation. On his knees before her, he watched with a pang of regret as her cleavage disappeared beneath the strings she tightened across her chest.
Rising to his feet, he couldn’t resist pursuing some sort of connection. He pulled her up with him and kept her hand. Awkwardly, he rasped her fingers in his as he struggled for something to say. “Did you…plan anything for dessert?” he asked finally, a little lamely.
She nodded down at her ties then looked up at him. Her face held a sad little smile. “I almost got it, too.” When she withdrew her small hand from his, he relinquished his claim, but only with reluctance.
Brushing past him, she wobbled across the room and through the kitchen’s arch.
“Martigay,” he called out to her. She stopped in mid-wobble, turning back to him, but Dye didn’t look at her. “You’ll join me tomorrow evening at lastmeal.”
“Dye… Sir?”
Looping a knot into his ties, he crossed the room to the table and picked up a piece of parchment. “I’m expecting guests from Khal. The new king and his wife. Davik of Khal is bringing four thousand Khallic volunteers to join our forces before we continue south.”
“What!” Stunned, she bit the word back. “You’re…going to have a pawyn sitting at your table along with your lieutenants and half the royalty of Khal?”
Producing a blue ribbon, he threw it on the table.
Martigay stared down at the bit of blue. Her voice started out an icy whisper, rising as she continued angrily. “You’re going to promote me so I can have lastmeal with you! You’re going to promote me so I can join your lieutenants and eat with you!”
Seeing the storm in her eyes, Dye moved to put the table between himself and the furious girl.
“I worked months for my promotion to sergeant. I saved a wagonload of your army’s supplies for my next promotion to captain.” As he dropped into his chair, she slammed her palms on the table and leaned over him. “Keep your damn ribbon and your effing promotion, man. Buy yourself a girl somewhere else.”
She turned.
“Martigay!” He stood suddenly. “Pawyn or captain,” his voice scraped, “you’ll join me for lastmeal tomorrow.” Martigay stood her ground. “My sister is wed to Davik of Khal. My lieutenants won’t be joining me at the table. Only my sister and her husband. His brother, Warrik, will be there—my friends. I could use a woman at the table, company for Petra.”
Slowly, Martigay turned back to face him. She looked angry at first, then haughty, then almost laughed. “As your date?”
There was an instant of silence wherein his jaw hardened. “If you’d like to think so.”
“So you’re asking me? It’s not an order?” She watched a tic jump in his jaw. “I accept,” she said quickly.
Dye nodded curtly. “You’ll want to wear something…appropriate,” he told her without looking at her worn doeskins. Stepping toward a trunk, he caught the lid with the toe of his boot and kicked it open. “I think you might find something to wear in here,” he said, again without looking at her. “You’d look good in red,” he told her as though it were an order.
“And put the ribbon back in your hair,” he said more softly. She bit back her response as she watched him turn away from her, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. “I…was wrong in taking it from you.”
Without excusing himself, he strode through the inn’s door, leaving Martigay alone to rummage through the trunk. Frowning critically, she considered the heavy scarlet gown the king had…suggested. Cut out of thick velvet, with long sleeves and a high neckline that bordered on prim, she didn’t think it was going to do the trick. She was having a hard enough time getting the king on the mat, without covering herself up in a wallowing great tent.
Martigay sighed. Generally, men weren’t so reluctant to bed her. And normally it didn’t require vast quantities of cadaridaes to get a man’s cock out of his leggings.
Not that there’d been so many men.
But she did enjoy sex and took her woman’s herbs every morning to prevent pregnancy—so she couldn’t see any reason to deny herself the pleasure of a man’s body. Martigay snorted. That didn’t explain why she was holding out for the stubborn redhead. He was a challenge, she decided. That’s why she hadn’t…bothered with anyone else since she’d laid eyes on him.
He was a challenge, all right, she thought, considering the length of red velvet again.
Martigay shrugged. She liked a challenge.
From all indications, he’d be worth the effort. She nodded to herself, resurrecting the vision of Dye’s thickly bowed flesh gripped in his fist as he pumped himself to splash between her legs. With the length of heavy velvet in one hand, she wandered toward the chair he’d occupied earlier. Her hand lingered to trail along the chair’s wide back as she moved behind it. Coming around in front of Dye’s chair, she lowered herself to sit, snuggling her bottom into the seat as she let her head fall back to rest her neck on the chair’s broad back. Afte
r lifting a knee to drape over one of the chair’s arms, she was ready to fully explore her feelings for the king.
The stubborn man fought his male instincts with such iron resolve and steel determination!
And he was all male!
He’d make someone a good husband, she decided with a nod to herself. Closing her eyes, she smoothed the lush fabric across her cheek and over her mouth, a deliberate effort to re-experience the light, velvet touch of Dye’s cock head dragging over her lips, his male flesh a captivating combination of tender vulnerability and uncompromising steel.
As hard as lightning’s blue edge, and as soft as a candle’s warm glow, she mused.
Dipping her tongue into the corner of her mouth, Martigay lapped at his lingering taste, all rough and male and overpoweringly…Dye.
A rattle at the door opened her eyes. Dye stood just inside, staring transfixed as she sprawled in his chair, her legs spread in what must surely appear an open invitation. His lightning blue eyes burned beneath the warm glowing fire of his hair. Slowly, she smiled at him in an attempt underline the invitation.
Folding his arms across his chest, Dye leaned against the wall just inside the door as he continued his intent observation from the other side of the room.
Finally pulling her legs together, Martigay got to her feet. Andarta, the man was stubborn!
She could be stubborn, too, she decided, tossing the red dress aside.
Chapter Eight
Dye stared at the green dress hugging Martigay’s glorious curves, the décolletage slashing almost to her waist, showing a good deal more of her cleavage than he wanted Warrik to see. “Perhaps I’m a fool,” he said in a voice rimmed with ice, “but I thought you were told to wear red.”
“You’re right, sir—you’re a fool.”
This argument was interrupted in the next instant when a giant blond burst through the inn’s doors. He took one look at Martigay and halted.
“Where’d you find this?” he exclaimed. “And tell me where I can get one.”
“Where’s your sword, Warrik?” Dye asked and Martigay wondered at the taunting edge that accompanied the question.
The big blond frowned at Dye. “I left the old battleaxe at home,” he said, grasping Dye’s forearm.
“And where’d you leave my sister?”
“Petra and Davik are right behind me…I think.” Warrik shrugged. “You know how it is. A woman gets dressed up in something nice and she looks so good that…twenty minutes later she’s getting dressed again.” Grasping Martigay’s arm, he pulled her close and kissed her with a great deal of energy.
“Don’t let his enthusiasm fool you,” Dye said when Warrik finally let her go. “The man’s in love with his sword.”
“Sir?”
The king made a face. “Call me Dye, Martigay, at least for this evening.”
“Sir?”
“That’s an order, Martigay.” He pulled a chair out for her and she slid into it but was standing moments later for the King of Khal and his wife—Dye’s sister—Petra.
Martigay felt like a shrimp.
They were all so tall, beginning with Warrik, who must have gone six foot seven, followed by Dye, a mere six-three, then the King of Khal, a few inches taller than his wife at perhaps six-two.
Both brothers were blond with blue eyes, though Warrik’s hair trended more to gold than his younger brother’s straw-colored mane, and Davik’s eyes were more aqua than his older brother’s cornflower blue.
The biggest surprise was Dye’s sister who looked nothing whatsoever like her brother. Petra’s skin was warm caramel as opposed to Dye’s tawny tan, her eyes so dark a blue that they were almost as black as her long cascade of hair. The frayed ends of her hair tapered to tips of white, a telltale indication of Westerman blood.
With that thought, Martigay’s gaze swung immediately to lock on Dye’s. Her eyes narrowed as she observed the tiny black pinpoints that were centered in the volcanic blue of his irises. Westerman eyes! No doubt the king’s night vision was as good as hers on a bright, cloudless day.
“This is Warrik’s second time around,” Dye was telling her.
“Sir—Dye?”
“Warrik was killed in the Civil War.”
Warrik laughed. “You ought to know.”
Dye nodded. “Warrik fought for the south. But, upon his death, Andarta resurrected him—”
“Andarta! The goddess Andarta?”
“So he could save her sisters,” Dye finished.
Martigay looked impressed as she regarded the giant blond with new appreciation—appreciation that rubbed Dye the wrong way.
“Only with Dye’s help,” Warrik demurred gruffly and Dye felt a rush of gratitude toward him when Martigay’s gaze swung back to his own face.
“It’s a long story,” Dye told her. “There’s a full account written down somewhere. A pair of old harpies working out of a cave put it to paper. I’ll try to find you a copy if you like.”
“I’d like that.”
Dye returned his attention to his friend. “What are you doing now, Warrik?”
Warrik rolled his huge shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve come down in the world,” he admitted with a grin. “The man who was once the Heir to Khal is now leading a unit of Khallic Ir…regulars.”
“Irreg—Northmen?”
Warrik nodded.
“My Northmen?”
Again, Warrik nodded. “Most like, you know some of the troops. Come by in the dawning and say hello.”
At that point, the king’s cook appeared at the door, directing a half dozen men with platters of food. Martigay smiled at the cook. “Feeling better, Sergeant Coopman?”
“Captain?” The king’s cook took a second to check Martigay’s hair and assure himself of her current rank. “Captain Martigay?”
Martigay’s eyes flickered uncertainly from the cook to Dye and back again. “I thought you were ill yesterday.”
“No, Captain. I was given the evening off.”
Slowly, Martigay’s eyes moved to connect with Dye’s.
He returned her accusatory gaze without apology. “Sergeant Coopman,” he said, “would you inform the captain of your new orders—your new orders concerning her.”
The cook straightened and saluted his commander. “Sir. Henceforth, Captain Martigay is not permitted within ten paces of the kitchen. I am to use any and all means to secure the kitchen from Captain Martigay, including but not limited to the use of large, flat objects.” Perfunctorily, the sergeant glared at the young woman in green.
Dye smiled, his eyes still on his captain. “Thank you, Sergeant. I don’t think Captain Martigay will present much of a problem.” He raised his eyebrows at her as she smiled back.
A commotion outside preceded a guard’s hurried entry. “Sir,” the guard announced breathlessly, “the Princess Bruthinia has just ridden in.”
* * * * *
Without thinking, Martigay stood. “I should leave,” she stated.
“Nay,” Dye countered, standing abruptly. “Nay. Stay.”
There was a rustle of expensive fabric as the Vandal princess swept into the room—just in time to find Dye and Martigay facing one another, separated by about a foot of breathless space.
The princess took in the situation at a glance. Taking the chair that Warrik offered, she slowly drew off her embroidered gloves. “At this point, Dye,” she said, her voice a quiet threat, “I think it would be only polite for you to ask your lover to leave.”
“I’m not his lover,” Martigay said quickly.
“Captain Martigay was invited before I knew of your coming,” Dye told the princess.
“You’re embarrassing me, Dye.” The princess’s voice was a cold slice of quiet.
“I’d be embarrassing my captain if I asked her to leave. What are you doing here, Bruthinia?”
“Just keeping an eye on my interests.” The princess stared coldly at Martigay.
“I’m not his lover,” Martigay repeated.
The princess ignored her. “The king will be giving up a lot after he’s wed,” she announced in a voice like brittle ice.
At this announcement, Dye’s eyes narrowed to a blaze of blue fire but his gaze never left Martigay’s face, and he didn’t take his seat again until his captain was back in her chair. A great deal of commotion ensued as the cook’s assistants hurried to set a place and pour wine for the Vandal princess.
Unruffled, the elegant blonde ignored most of the people at the table, with whom she seemed to have been previously acquainted, and struck up a conversation with Davik’s handsome brother. “You might be interested in checking out my new black, Warrik. She’s descended from Morghan’s Hoyden.”
“Warrik’s destroyer is from the Hoyden line as well,” Davik pointed out.
The princess nodded as though this was common knowledge. “Through what dam?”
During dinner, the conversation centered around horses which led the princess to make the following suggestion. “Might I propose a race tomorrow to see which is the purer breed?”
Warrik laughed good-naturedly at the princess’s arrogant insinuation, knowing his destroyer equal to any of Hoyden’s line. “Ten gold?” he suggested as a wager.
“Is that the best you can come up with?” the princess returned in sultry pout.
Warrik raised both eyebrows.
“I propose a forfeit from the loser,” she put forth suggestively. “The winner can make one demand of the loser…any demand,” she continued, flirting ruthlessly with Warrik and ignoring the man to whom she was betrothed.
“How if I just ask for your horse, in forfeit?”
The princess shook her head. “You’re disappointing me, Warrik. It can’t be a material item like a horse, or jewelry, or gold.”
“How if I asked for your Kingdom?”
“That’s not mine to give as I don’t rule—yet.”
Warrik eyed Dye as his lips came together shrewdly. “Let’s have it written down, then,” he said as Dye stood to fetch a sheet of parchment from the table behind him. “Davik can hold the wagers,” Warrik said, scratching out the agreement, “and we’ll have Martigay, here, drop the flag to start the contest.”
Dye's Kingdom: Wanting It Forever Page 6