Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (21 page)

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BOOK: Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02]
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“Morwyn.” Her name fell from his lips, wild and raw, and he slipped one finger from her to tease her sensitive bud.
For answer she hitched herself up a minute degree and jerked his erection under her without care for his comfort. But he didn’t care for comfort, not when the entrance to her wet channel teased his throbbing head. Not when his fingers caressed her exposed pussy and his probing cock, when she slowly, too slowly, lowered herself onto him.
He dragged his fingers, drenched with her fragrant juices, along the length of his shaft as he invaded her welcome depths. She enveloped him in a snug embrace, sinking onto his rigid flesh, and his fingertips caressed her passion-swollen lips as she sucked him into her delectable body.
Jagged gasps of impending climax gusted from her luscious mouth. She gripped his arse with her hands, jerking him upward and into her, and counterbalancing each thrust with a violent one of her own.
Gods, but he wanted her naked, wanted to feel her succulent breasts against his chest, feel her hard nipples stroke his flesh, see his cock pound into her with every frenzied beat. And then it didn’t matter as her head dropped back and inarticulate moans fell from her tongue, so excruciatingly erotic his testicles hardened in instant reaction.
Her fingernails gouged his arse; her legs threatened to crush his ribs. And her convulsing sheath shattered the last remnant of control as he hammered into her, coming with savage abandonment and primal roar.
Morwyn clung to him, limbs trembling with delicious fatigue, as he rammed her against the door. She could feel his hot seed pumping into her with every frenzied thrust, flooding her channel and filling her womb, and an odd sense of contentment bathed her soul.
For long moments they remained melded together, harsh pants rending the air, erratic heartbeats echoing through her mind. He made no move to disengage, and despite the hardness of the timber digging into her back, and the first twinges of cramp that threatened her calves, she had no inclination to push him away.
Instead she indulged her secret desire and lost herself in the mesmeric green of his eyes. Eyes that no longer glinted with distrust but smoldered with embers of uninhibited lust.
She had turned her back on Carys for this.
The thought drifted through her mind. For a moment it felt perfectly right. And then, with sluggish realization, she recalled the rebellion back in Cymru.
That was the reason she had left Carys. To join with Caratacus. How had she forgotten, for even a moment?
Her Gaul’s beautiful eyes captured her attention once again. How extraordinary she should think them beautiful, but they were. A startling counterpoint to the harsh, unsmiling visage he presented to the world.
Except when he smiled. When he smiled, she could see the man he might have been, if he hadn’t turned his back on his people and joined the enemy forces.
But the thought was distant, almost inconsequential. Because despite the feeble attempt at self-delusion, she knew exactly why she had returned to him.
Because
of him. Returning to join with the rebels was only a secondary consideration and something she didn’t want to think about. Not now, when he was still inside her, when he still held her and looked at her as if she meant something more than a quick fuck.
The thought glinted, an uneasy prickle through her mind. What else was he, what else could he ever be, but a quick fuck? So why did she want, for even a fleeting moment, to be more than that to him?
“What are you thinking about?” His voice was hoarse but his gaze was steady. And his grip on her as secure as ever, as if her weight didn’t tire him at all.
She pushed all thoughts of the disposed Briton king aside. Plenty of time to think of such things later. When she left her Gaul.
“I’m thinking you satisfy me quite admirably, for my enemy.”
His lip twitched, but a stab of disappointment sliced through her when he didn’t allow himself a full smile.
“And yet you didn’t scream.”
She’d scarcely had enough breath to stay conscious, never mind anything else. And her heart had thundered so violently it was a miracle it hadn’t burst from her body.
Words of explanation almost tumbled from her lips but something stilled her tongue. It was easy to flirt. But she’d never lost her voice during sex before and couldn’t quite believe she had just now. After all, she had screamed most adequately last night.
But she had to say something in response.
“Then next time, you’ll simply have to try harder.”
A silent laugh shook his body, as if he knew full well how deeply he’d satisfied her. Fascinated by his reaction, she stared at him. She always enjoyed flirting and only once in her life had she been involved with a man who had taken exception to her particular brand of humor. They had barely lasted one night together.
But never before had she made so many potentially disrespectful comments. Then again, she’d never before been abducted, and as far as she was concerned he deserved every word she’d slung at him.
Yet that initial animosity had passed, and now that she considered the matter she realized there was something about pushing this Gaul’s limits she found irresistible. When else had she insulted a lover’s performance while they were still joined as one?
Any man would feel justified at taking offense. If she believed the outrageous claims of Carys’s husband, then Dunmacos wasn’t the sort of man to allow a woman to utter such slurs without savage retribution.
Yet all he did was smother a laugh. Because he knew she didn’t mean it. Knew she’d been so consumed with mind-shattering orgasms she’d all but passed out.
It was unnerving, to consider he knew such things about her. Because until this moment she hadn’t even known them herself.
“I will, if you will.” His husky whisper, threaded with amusement, nonplussed her for a moment, until she realized what he meant.
Gods, he was flirting in the same manner. Why was that so arousing?
“That depends.” With stiffening fingers, she tugged the hem of his tunic. “I’m tired of fighting your cursed clothes. Next time I want naked flesh.” His name thudded in her brain, and incomprehensibly her heart hammered in sudden nerves.
Say his name.
How hard could it be? She sucked in a sharp breath and forced the name between her lips before she could change her mind.
“Dunmacos.”
His half smile froze, and his eyes became chips of wintry ice. Bemused by such a swift change in his manner, she stared at him, uncomprehending.
“Don’t.” His voice was harsh, bitter, as if she had just accused him of—She couldn’t imagine. She’d insulted his heritage, his loyalties and his sexual prowess and he hadn’t so much as tossed a genuine frown her way. What had she said now?
A glimmer flashed through her mind, but it didn’t make sense. Why would he not want her to say his name? That couldn’t be the reason. There was something else.
“Don’t what?”
He eased out of her, leaving her chilled and exposed and oddly rejected. But that was insane, because every copulation ended with withdrawal and never before had such a natural action invoked such a feeling within her.
“Don’t call me that.” Now his voice was as cold as his expression, but not nearly as cold as the hard knot that lodged midway between her stomach and throat.
“Then I won’t.” Hating him more than she thought possible to hate anyone without plunging a dagger into his neck, she gingerly unhooked her ankles and slithered ungracefully down his legs. At least he didn’t let go of her backside until her feet were firmly on the floor.
She remained leaning against the door for support and glowered at him. She had left Carys to be treated like this? As if she truly were his slave and unworthy to utter his name to his face?
An odd spasm twisted his features, as if her glare pained him. Once her blood was properly flowing and she could feel her legs again, she would certainly give him pain. A swift knee between his thighs should suffice.
“Only my enemies and acquaintances who wish me dead call me by that name.”
She stared at him in disbelief, thoughts tumbling in disarray. He sounded as if he’d never said such a thing before, and never would again.
He sighed heavily and, as if he didn’t realize what he was doing, gently brushed a damp curl from her cheek. His finger lingered on her flushed skin as if he couldn’t help himself.
She didn’t knock his hand aside. Even though her pride insisted.
“Do you still want me dead, Morwyn?” There was no hint of vulnerability in the question. He sounded exactly what he was. A tough auxiliary who worked for the Romans.
Except for the fleeting glimmer in his eyes. The glimmer that said so much more than his words ever would.
Something twisted inside her chest, a burning pain that coiled on itself, burying deep inside. Oddly it felt as if it was her heart, but that was absurd. All she felt for this Gaul was physical lust. That didn’t—couldn’t—touch her heart.
And yet, she didn’t want him dead. She didn’t even have to consider his question because the thought of him lying at her feet, bleeding, dying, was enough to churn her stomach.
Her enemy. The enemy of her people. But she no longer wanted him dead.
“No.” The word was low, dragged from her soul, betraying everything she had ever fought for. “I don’t want you dead, Gaul.”
His calloused finger traced the outline of her face. Gentle and erotic and, bizarrely, somehow comforting. He looked as if he was about to say more, as if he struggled with an internal battle, and finally he exhaled a sigh as if in defeat.
“I believe you.”
But that wasn’t what he had wanted to say. She knew it, as surely as if he’d told her himself. And yet conversely she also knew he
did
believe her. So what had he wanted to say to her before his cursed military training had curbed his tongue?
“So I’ll continue to call you the Gaul, shall I?” The stinging hurt scalding her breast had subsided, almost vanished. And, strangely, she preferred calling him
the Gaul
to his given name. Dunmacos was a stranger whom Maximus knew. A man she had never encountered and never wanted to.
But the Gaul—her Gaul—he was the man standing in front of her. The man cradling her jaw in the palm of his hand, as if she were something precious and fragile.
Unnerved by the errant direction of her thoughts, she tried to recall the cold look on his face from a moment ago. The ice in his eyes.
And failed.
Chapter Seventeen
“You can call me anything,” he said, “except for that hated name.”
She let out a breath, unaware she’d even been holding it. “A bold statement. You might wish to rethink your stand on that.”
For answer, he wound his arm around her shoulders and maneuvered her from the door. It was such an intimate gesture, yet lacking all sexual intent, as if he knew her legs were still shaky and she needed, but would never request, assistance.
She sat on the edge of the bed and he brought over a bowl of water, so she could wash her hands. With manners that befit the highest in her hierarchy, he waited until she’d finished before cleansing himself.
He was no lowly peasant. But she’d always known that. Would she ever discover who he truly was?
As he returned the bowl to the table, he glanced at the food she hadn’t touched.
“You didn’t eat much.”
She almost told him she hadn’t been hungry. But why lie? Now she was starving, and what did it matter if he knew she had explored the town?
“I didn’t have time. I went out after you left.”
He shot her a look of undisguised astonishment, although he concealed his expression almost instantly. It was as if she’d confessed to a grievous crime, one he could scarcely wrap his mind around.
Or perhaps he was simply amazed she had dared to leave the inn without his express permission.

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