by Jackie Ivie
“I’ll na’ take you rapid, lass. I’ll na’. ’Tis worth too much.”
He was crooning words as she strained at him, alternately bucking her hips upward and then shoving them down into the well of space he’d made with rock-hard thighs, and feeling everything on him react if she made contact. Up again. Slamming down as far as he’d allow.
“Vincent,” she began.
“Your potion has a strange effect, love,” he answered.
“Please?”
“It has given me walls that move, mattresses that do the same, and a vividness to every bit of this, that makes it…more.”
“More?” she asked.
“Much more. Worse. Better.” He was speaking against her neck, sucking on the flesh there and causing a riot of shivers to flood through her.
“Vincent!” It was Sybil grasping for his mouth and making him change the direction of his attention.
“Aye, Sybil lass?” he asked.
He had a lopsided grin on his handsome face, and if she hadn’t been convinced of her love yet, that expression would have done it.
“I need…I want…Please?”
“Aye, love. I ken. Exactly. I’m a bit…worried.”
“What?” she asked, and then said it again in a louder, higher pitch.
“I’ve done many bad things. Many.”
“Vincent!”
“I’m afeared this may be one of the worst.”
“Is it…that bad?”
He turned his head again and looked her fully in the eyes while she suffered every increased thump of heartbeat in reaction.
“Oh nae, lass. ’Tis that good.”
“Truly?”
“Lass. I’m trying…for a bit of honor here. And strength.”
“Honor? Now?”
“Things…are na’ as they seem.”
“Nae?” Sybil lowered her chin and favored him with a lash-shadowed glance such as he used.
He gulped. Looked away for a moment, and looked back. “I’ve near gone too far. I’m na’ certain that once I…we…I’m afeared.”
“Of what now?”
“Pleasure.”
Sybil tried to make sense of that. She tried to get her mind to work. It was useless. She was a liquid ephemeral being, and that liquid was molten fire. Every bit of her was screaming for something, and she didn’t even know what.
“Tell me how, then. I’ll do it.” Sybil was bucking and roving and straining, and he was opening his legs a fraction, letting her touch him more often and with more effect, if the vibrating strength that cleaved her buttocks was any indication. He was also moving. Regardless of his intent, and his words of honor and fear and whatever else he was mouthing, his entire lower torso area was lifting, bringing him closer to her with every plunge she made.
“Now, Vincent! Tell me now!”
“We canna’! I canna’!”
“Blast you, Vincent. Please! Tell me what I need to do. I’ll do it! Please? You’ll be blameless. You hear?” She was sobbing the words, holding to his neck and using her legs as anchors to slide up and down the ridges of his lower belly, and it wasn’t enough. She knew it wasn’t enough. If he didn’t tell her soon, she was going to come out of her skin with the anxiety and strength of need.
Then hard, strong hands gripped her waist, his thighs slackened their cage of restraint, and the very next moment, he was slamming her down and impaling her fully onto what she’d already known was going to be enormous and rigid and strong. She just hadn’t counted on the pain and blood.
“Oh dear God. Dear God. Let me go. Dear God. You hear me? Oh, Vincent. Please?” Sybil felt the tears splashing to her chin more than knew she was weeping them. She’d never cried. It was stupid. She lifted one hand and palmed at the wetness. “Please?”
“’Tis too late, lass. You canna’ change…this…now. Jesu’!”
His answer was garbled and said through clenched teeth. He was shaking, too, until the hands on her waist slipped, but he immediately had them back, holding her in place and not allowing a hint of movement, even if she had wanted to.
“Dinna’ move, lass. Nothing. Not a finger. You ken?”
He wasn’t moving, either. He wasn’t even breathing. Sybil had her gaze locked on the view of Vincent arching backward onto the mattress, holding her firmly latched to him the entire time. The action stretched and pulled and sent more arcing burn to where they were joined. He didn’t know the agony he was causing. He couldn’t, or he’d not be so ungentle. There was nothing about the love act that was pleasant. Nothing.
“Vincent?” she whispered.
Her answer was a huge intake of breath, making her rise with the volume of it, and then he opened his eyes, connected to hers, and at the first instant, her body pulsed heavily, involuntarily.
It was then he moved, grabbing her to him and rolling, flinging her onto her back on the mattress. The entire time, keeping one hand securely at her back and holding her pinioned in place. For him.
“Damn you! Blast and damn—!”
He cut off his own curse, moved to slam both hands onto the mattress to either side of her, denting it with the mass of weight, and then he lifted himself. Sybil’s eyes went huge as she looked and couldn’t seem to stop looking. Vincent had every bit of him taut and rigid and perfectly defined. He didn’t have to warn her that he wasn’t interested in anything gentle.
Then he was pulling out, giving her a moment of respite before filling her again, fully. Totally.
“Put your legs about me,” he hissed, and Sybil tried, regardless of the pain. She didn’t dare argue.
“Latch your ankles. Now. Do it.”
He didn’t know what he asked, and the agony radiating through her back told her of it. He didn’t wait, either. He had one hand behind him, securing her ankles together at the small of his back, showing the full scope of his brawn and beauty as he held himself aloft with one arm to assist her. The moment she was readied, he dropped back to the angle he’d been in, and then he was pummeling, alternately filling her and releasing. Filling. Releasing. Over and over, and again, and again, breathing deeper and with more stridency and depth, and showing every bit of stamina and strength he’d claimed to be worried over.
His movements grew stronger, faster, more savage, and his breathing kept tempo with all of it. As did Sybil. She wasn’t in control of her own limbs any longer. All she knew was a terrific pounding that was taking over her hearing, her vision, her experience. It had sparked into being during his movements, and with each thrust was made stronger, more grasping, more needy, more wild.
She had her legs locked to him, her body driving into his, and just when she thought her heart couldn’t make one more beat, it felt like lightning hit, sending shoots of light and ecstasy rocketing through her and making it impossible to hold in the cry. She slammed her eyes shut but couldn’t prevent the keening moan that accompanied it.
And still he thrashed into her, sparking more of the ecstasy and fulfillment into being before giving great lunges, followed by a series of small, quick-paced bursts that rocked the mattress beneath her.
“Oh…sweet! Lass! Love!”
He was still sending words through gritted teeth, if the sound was any indication. And then he was sobbing a long, drawn-out cry before subsiding into a mass of tremors. Sybil had her arms wrapped tightly about him as shudder after shudder ran through his frame and into hers.
And that’s when she knew fully what love was.
Chapter Twelve
He’d heard that Ireland was a good place for a man to start anew, gain a new plaide and allegiance, with nary a question asked. Not that he wanted all of that, but Vincent didn’t think he’d survive the thrashing his cousin, Myles, was bound to give him when he found out. Vincent hadn’t been allowed to touch her. Sybil Eschon was to lose her heart but nothing else. That was the bet, and it had been filled with warning.
Vincent sighed hugely before reaching forward to pat Gleason’s mane. The horse responded with a
nod and a whiff of air that simulated his master.
It wasn’t all Vincent’s fault. He’d been spelled! He hadn’t been in control of his faculties or of his lust. He hadn’t been in control of anything. He’d never experienced the love act as he had with the little enchantress, and it terrified as much as enthralled him. All of which was no excuse, but he could swear each inhaled breath carried her scent and each step of the horse resounded with a remembered lunge of her body against his. While each movement of the saddle against his loins brought renewed craving to mind. Even the ground mocked him when it turned into a field of bloomed heather, covered with the pale sheen of dawn and looking the exact shade and texture of that pink chemise of hers.
There was nothing for it but to reach Aberdeen with as much speed as possible, find a filling meal, and hop a ship bound for the Emerald Isle. Or find a ship with a good supply of foodstuffs, and fill his belly then. Although the belly was the least of his troubles at the moment.
Vincent adjusted himself atop the saddle once again, sorely aware of the throbbing reaction occurring in his groin. Again. No wench had affected him to the point that everything itched and ached for a repeat. Especially not after the third time he’d taken his pleasure of her body. And that just before dawn. He probably had made walking difficult for the lass today, which was just as he’d promised. She’d be feeling the soreness and the effects of depletion. He’d made sure of it. But he’d never suffered the same things.
Vincent huffed out another breath. The mushroom powder she’d given him wasn’t the only reason, and he knew it. He was making excuses for what had been the most fulfilling, amazing experience of his life. He’d done it for the third time because not only was it satisfying to the extreme, but he hadn’t been lying when he’d spoken about how much the deed was costing him. Taking that lass had lost him the bet that was all the gold he could carry, and it had made him a Donal clan outcast. It was a hefty price to pay, and he was going to get as much pleasure out of it as possible so it would be worth it.
And strangely enough, he felt that it had been.
The heather thinned beneath Gleason’s hooves, and Vincent looked up, blinking as he thought he spied Waif. The dawn had been spreading while he meandered, losing track of the why behind his journey to Aberdeen with the remembrance of that lass. Sybil was gifted in ways no woman should be. Her kisses held the key to passion, and her body gave pleasure with every thrust, every movement, every silken caress and every single contraction she’d made around him, the thought of which gave him more bother and soreness and itch where he least needed it. Vincent reached down to adjust himself atop the saddle and wondered momentarily at the odd feel of little where there should be a fairly large size and substance.
The sun was starting to peek from behind him. That cleaved the cliff line in front of him into a solid line of black. For some reason, that had him thinking of her hair…its length, smell, and feel. Like rain-washed silk. And that changed any thought of why he was feeling smaller into why there was an odd pain within his ribs, almost like he’d swallowed too much air along with a tankard of ale. He licked his lips. He could do with a bit of brew. Or a large skillet of fried gruel topped with gravy. Mayhap some sausage crumbled within it, while heavy clotted cream was baked into a golden crust atop the concoction. Vincent sucked on the dry feel of his mouth at the thought of what a breakfast that would be. Such a meal might help a bit to take his mind off why his own body didn’t feel like it belonged to him. It might also take his mind off Sybil Eschon.
Gleason stopped, brought to a halt as Vincent pulled on the reins and watched with a touch of awe as the sun dappled the flat span of ground before him. Which was even more odd. Vincent didn’t have time to fill his senses with vistas of wonder and great breaths full of dew-kissed air. He had to get to Aberdeen. He had to get to a ship.
He had to get to Ireland. And find enough mead to forget.
Sybil didn’t open her eyes for what felt like hours. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want the experience to be over. It was well past her usual rising time, anyway. If she wasn’t under house arrest, her services would have been required long before dawn broke.
She moved her legs and then arms beneath the cool linen of her bed covering, marveling at how wondrously sore everything felt. Everything. Everywhere.
She’d been initiated into womanhood by a master of the art. She hadn’t even suspected that talent of his. She should have known after hearing his expertise with a mouth flute. Musicians and artists were rumored to be sensual and giving lovers. Vincent Danzel was every bit of that…and more. So much more that Sybil giggled aloud and hugged herself. She hadn’t known love felt like this.
“Lady Sybil?”
There was a tap and then a light whisper at her door. Sybil lifted her head and looked in that direction before dropping back to the mattress. She hadn’t the strength to move her head? That wasn’t good.
“Lady Sybil?” The tapping came again, making a repetitive drumming sound.
“Aye?” Her voice came out a croak. Sybil moved a hand to her throat and massaged the skin. That was another thing she hadn’t known. All her silent cries throughout that man’s lovemaking had taken a toll. She’d need to make herself a posset to relieve the soreness. When she managed to get up, that is.
“You’re requested below.”
Sybil huffed out her amusement. Her limbs felt detached. She hadn’t opened her eyes yet, she still trembled with remembrance, and they wanted her below? “I’m…ill,” she replied.
“Ill?” came the answer.
“Aye.” And filled with ecstasy, satisfaction, and joy. She probably glowed with it. Nobody had told her of that part of the love act. Especially not her sister Kendran. That woman was by all accounts dizzily in love with her husband, the Donal laird, and well-satisfied with her life. The last person she’d tell of love was her half sister, Sybil, who had tormented and teased her about all of it.
“I’m to escort you to the great hall.”
“Ill,” Sybil replied again. Louder.
Kendran probably didn’t thank Sybil for any of it, although it was Sybil’s influence that had kept sanity in the Eschon household just one Middlemas and half a year ago. Kendran had repaid her with a Christmas wish of an unsuitable man…and that was the reason behind everything. Sybil moved her hands away from her torso and trilled them down her arms as she unfolded them, enjoying every shiver the motion engendered in her flesh.
And why? Because that wonderful, blond, Viking, godlike man had made her a woman…his woman. Throughout the night. All night.
She should be blaming Kendran for her part in this. She wasn’t. Still keeping her eyes shut, she pushed the covers aside, welcomed the chill of air against the tender feeling blanketing all of her, and slid to her knees as her legs folded and refused to hold her. That had her giggling yet again. Sybil’s kneeling position was perfect for thanking Kendran for that Christmas wish of an unsuitable love. That was what had brought the little dwarf man into Sybil’s sphere. It was also what had given her the idea to ravish Vincent, and the audacity to carry it out.
“I’ll go for help.” The serf at the door was announcing it, his voice showing his relief at leaving rather than going through with what he’d been assigned. His words were as stupid as his reaction. Lady Sybil was their only healer. There wasn’t anyone else to help.
She didn’t need a healer anyway. What she needed was solitude and time. Solitude to enjoy every bit of the memory of last eve and the time to store it away. She slit open her eyes, brought the mattress edge into focus in front of her, and tipped her head. It looked a bit dented still where she was looking, the edge smashed by one of his hands as he’d lifted himself, leveraged himself, and driven into her time and again. And again.
Sybil sighed, put a hand where she was looking, and another around the headboard post to brace herself, and pulled herself upright. Then she had to wait, swaying the entire time, as her legs decided they would hold her up, a
lbeit in a shaky fashion. Sybil watched her thighs tremble with the effort of standing. She also noted the myriad of thumb-sized areas darkening in spots about her skin. She instantly recognized the large, hand-sized positioning and what the bluish marks signified. And, as she swiveled to look over the rest of her, she could see the same pattern of light bruising on either buttock, and even about the area below her knees.
It was definitely a blush that happened next, starting a film of moisture to coat her and bringing the smell of their mating back every time she moved. It also made her very aware of the sticky feeling between her legs, where most of the soreness was emanating from. Sybil let go of her hold on the bed and made her way to her privy, holding her arms out for balance and taking small, careful steps until she was secreted behind the screen and staring at her reflection in the mirror. Tangles of black hair puffed about her face, framing it and messily trailing down her back. And her eyes looked enormous. Or maybe it was that her skin looked so white, especially with the pink spotting her cheekbones and spreading down from there to her collarbone. He’d called her wild, winsome, and wanton.
She looked to be all three.
Sybil smiled at herself and dipped her fingers into the water before tossing palms full onto her face. She’d done what she set out to do. She’d given validation to why the dwarf, Sir Ian, needed to withdraw his marriage offer. No one would doubt her now. She definitely looked like she’d received a man. And more than once, too.
Sybil was still giggling at the thought while she changed the linens soiled with the smell of him and the blood smears before she fell back to sleep.
Blast the wench!
He’d been more than spelled. He’d been cursed. Everywhere he turned, there was a reminder of her. Even the stream where he’d knelt to gain a full belly of cold water had sounded like it was soundlessly crying to him, much as she had done throughout the night. The gurgle of the burn had even sounded like it was crooning of ecstasy and pleasure, exactly as she had, more times than he could count. And more than he wanted to remember.