Entreat Me (19 page)

Louvaen looped her arms around his neck and tugged him down until her lips ghosted his.  Every muscle in her body thrummed from the aftermath of her orgasm, yet she wanted more, needed more of this man—so grim in his manner, so generous in his passion.  She trailed a path with one hand from his shoulder, across his chest and the rigid muscles of his abdomen to the stiff cock pulsing gently against her slippery thighs.  He gasped into her half opened mouth when her hand curled around him and stroked from base to tip.  Her fingers came away sticky.  She tucked them into her mouth, savored the faint flavor of salt as she licked them clean.

“Gods, Louvaen, I’ll come before I’m inside you if you continue.”

She reached for him a second time, holding his hips with her trembling legs.  “That’s not a bad thing, Ballard, but I’d rather you came inside me.”  She guided him to her, her tongue sliding between his lips as he slid deep with a single thrust.  Louvaen groaned at the fullness, spread her legs wider to take him.  She had not made love to a man since Thomas, and her body was no longer accustomed to the feel of a cock inside her.  Ballard might not be quite the horse the lusty princess once compared him to, but he was endowed well enough to make her gasp in his mouth with every slow pump of his hips.

He paused and broke the kiss.  “Am I hurting you?”  He waited, strung tight as a bowstring.

She caressed his cheek.  “No.  We’re just a snug fit.”  She smiled and tugged on his hair to bring him back to her.  “Kiss me again.”

Ballard obeyed her command, his tongue entwining with hers as he rocked back and forth, quickening from deep plunges to short, shallow strokes and back again.  Louvaen locked her ankles behind his back, angled her hips and gripped his buttocks to bring him harder against her.  He ended their kiss a second time only to bury his face in her neck and suck the soft skin between his teeth.  She grunted at the pleasure-pain and clutched his arms as he went rigid, his breath gusting hot along her neck.  He groaned into her hair.  A swell of heat filled her belly, followed by a slow throb as Ballard settled heavy in her arms, spent.

They lay together amidst a heap of tossed pillows.  Content to lie beneath him and let him catch his breath, Louvaen idly traced the markings on Ballard’s body, fingers sliding down his back to rest at the base of his spine.  She savored his weight on her, inside her.  They were a sweaty, sticky mess, and she loved all of it.  Each breath he exhaled pushed her deeper into the mattress; every twitch of his muscles caressed her skin.  He finally lifted his head to look at her.

“This is a small bed,” Ballard observed wryly.  Louvaen laughed, cutting it short as her muscles tensed.  He wrapped an arm around her hip to anchor her to him and rolled them to their sides.  “Careful.  I’m not ready to leave this sweet place just yet.”  He kissed her softly, tracing the outline of her lips with his tongue.

Louvaen returned the kiss, indulging herself by sucking his lower lip between her teeth to nibble at him.  She released him at his faint moan and grinned.  “It is a small bed.  Is that why you offered yours first?”

The crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes deepened.  “Mine is much bigger.  I’d not be dodging your knees and mine while I nibbled your thighs.”

In their current position, the light from the hearth illuminated his features, casting the scars in high relief.  She recalled the portrait in the corridor, the dour ruthlessness stamped on his unscarred face.  He told her he’d been born and raised a warrior, a Marcher lord skilled in the arts of combat and bloodshed.  She’d seen him spar with Gavin, taking the bigger, younger man down several times before Gavin got the best of him a time or two.  He hunted boar alone, a dangerous endeavor even amongst a group of armed hunters.  She didn’t doubt he’d make a deadly opponent in any fight.  That he once relished warfare had been evident in the painting.  Not so much now.  He was neither gentled nor softened, but something had tempered him, blunted the thirst for battle simply for battle’s sake.  Despite the many scars and twisted magic marking him now, Ballard de Sauveterre was far handsomer and more intriguing than the man who’d stood impatiently for the portrait.

Louvaen twined a tendril of his hair around her finger.  “Your bed next time.”

His arms tightened on her.  “Next time?”

He tried to hide it, but she heard the wary hope in his question.  She kissed the lock of hair.  “Many next times.  Besides, I’m not in the habit of doing things I might later regret.”

Ballard’s eyebrows shot up.  “I’ll remember that the next time you shoot at my castle, break my nose and threaten to kill my son.”  He winked.

She sniffed and tugged hard enough on the wrapped lock of hair to make him wince.  “You forgot eviscerating your magician.”  She paused.  “Then again I’m not sure I’d regret that.”

As if her words summoned him, Ambrose’s voice sounded beyond her door.  “Mistress Duenda, it’s Ambrose.  Open the door.”  A series of hard raps against the wood emphasized his demand.

Louvaen’s eyes widened.  What did the magician want with her, and now of all times?

Ballard’s expression reflected the same surprise before it darkened into a thunderous scowl.  “I’m going to kill him.” He slipped out of her, kissing her in apology when she squeaked a protest.  He rolled out of bed in one smooth motion and padded toward to the door.

Louvaen scrambled after him, pausing to yank one of the blankets off the bed and wrap it around herself.  “Wait.  Wait!  I want to see this.”

She made it to his side just as he yanked the door open.  Ambrose stood before them, dressed in one of his many robes with its embroidered symbols and potions stains.  He held a goblet in one hand and eyed the pair of them as if he’d stumbled upon some newly discovered and possibly dangerous animal.  One eyebrow arched at Ballard’s nudity before his gaze paused on Louvaen, touching on her hair, her makeshift blanket robe and her bare feet.  She resisted the urge to pat her hair.  “I’ve seen haints livelier looking than you,” he said.  He barely dodged the punch she threw at him.

Ballard grabbed her by the waist to hold her back.  “Your timing could get you murdered, Ambrose.  State your business and make it quick.”

Despite almost having his eye blackened, Ambrose smiled and offered Louvaen the goblet he held.  “An ice water bath isn’t always invigorating, nor is a tupping.  This is a restorative to chase away the fatigue.  You look like you need it.”

Startled by the unexpected kindness, even if it was offered on the back of an insult, Louvaen took the goblet.  “Thank you.” She peered at the ruby tinted liquid in the cup and sniffed.  Her head snapped back at the fumes, and her eyes teared.  She thrust the goblet at Ambrose.  “No thank you.  I think I prefer drowning over poisoning.”

He pushed it back to her.  “My poisons are sweet.”

Ballard plucked the goblet out of her hand and sniffed the contents.  Like Louvaen, he reared back and turned his head to cough.  “What kind of piss is this?” he said when he caught a breath.

Louvaen frowned.  “Probably something he made with the venom and scales of the world’s most evil viper.”

“Oh, you have a twin?”  This time Ambrose took a long step out of striking range.

Ballard uttered a strangled sound, quickly masked by a fake cough.  Louvaen smacked him on the arm.  Her appreciation of Ambrose’s sharp quip, along with the lingering gratitude that he’d taken the time to brew something to help her feel better, softened her annoyance.  Ballard’s lovemaking had left her sated, content and so tired she was sure she’d sleep for months.  She could use a restorative even if it did reek like the dead.  She took the goblet from Ballard.  “Does it taste as bad it smells?” she asked.

Ambrose’s eyes glittered ten shades of malice.  “Worse.”

“Of course it does.  How soon until I drop dead once I drink it?”  She ignored Ballard’s sudden frown and kept her gaze on the sorcerer.

“If I’m lucky, I’ll witness that pleasurable event before the
dominus
sends me on my way.”

“I should have done so the moment I opened the door,” Ballard muttered.

Louvaen pinched her nostrils shut and brought the cup to her lips.  Her throat muscles flexed, and her stomach flipped in warning.  She glowered at Ambrose over the goblet’s rim.

Ballard stroked her arm.  “You don’t have to drink it, my beauty.”

Ambrose’s amused gaze sobered and sharpened for a moment before he shrugged.  “It’s entirely up to you, mistress.  If it encourages you, your sister is beside herself wondering how you are.  You’d do well to put in an appearance downstairs very soon.”

She downed the restorative in one gulp.  “Gods’ knickers,” she wheezed out and immediately clamped her lips shut as her stomach roiled, and her mouth flooded with saliva.

Ballard caught the cup as it fell from her nerveless fingers.  “Louvaen?”

She didn’t dare open her mouth to answer him.  If she did, the swill in her belly would come right back up.  Ambrose looked positively gleeful at her distress.  If her mind didn’t reel at the idea his vile brew would be worse coming up than it was going down, she’d vomit on his shoes.

The nausea faded, leaving her with a growing sense of vigor and lightness.  The drowsiness threatening to nail her eyelids shut disappeared, along with the lethargy weighting her muscles.  She eyed Ambrose with renewed admiration.  “It’s working.”

He snorted, affronted by her surprise.  “Of course it’s working.  ‘Tis a simple decoction.  Any hedgewitch with a toe on the left hand path knows how to brew it.  Your mother likely made it when she first embarked on her studies.  The difficulty isn’t in the making, but in keeping it in your belly.”

“Thank you—I think.”  Anxious to scrub the foul flavor out of her mouth, she left both men in the corridor.  The small cupboard near her hearth held personal items—a brush and comb, a hand mirror and hair ribbons she’d brought on her second trip to Ketach Tor, as well as a small box containing coarse salt and crushed rosemary.

Ballard returned to find her vigorously scrubbing her teeth with the last two.  He waited until she spat the last remnants of rinse water into the fire before speaking.  “Ambrose warned me if I kissed you I’d be sorry.”

Louvaen popped a dried rosemary leaf into her mouth and chewed until the astringent herb made her tongue tingle. “Is that a general statement or just a reference to his revolting concoction?”

Ballard chuckled and came to stand behind her.  “Hard to say with him.  He’d be wrong if it were the first.  I’m not at all sorry for kissing every part of you.  I intend to do it as often as possible.”  He caressed the length of her arm, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake.  “If the second, well, I’m willing to take the risk.”

Louvaen’s eyes drifted to half mast.  She craved his touch; far more seductive than anything she imagined or dreamed.  “As much as I hate to admit he’s right, you’d do well to heed his warning.”  She spat the chewed herb into the fire, thankful to only taste its cool, sharp flavor.  “Drink that disgusting stuff and you can slay a dragon just by breathing on it.”  She smiled when she caught sight of his attire from the corner of her eye.  Like her, he had retrieved one of the blankets and wrapped it around his middle.  It rode low on his hips, emphasizing his lean waist and wide shoulders.  “Catch a touch of the chill in the hall, did you?”

He slid an arm around her waist and urged her against him until she stood within his embrace, her back to his chest.  He buried his nose in her hair.  “More like a touch of prudence.  I have to return to my room and dress.  Ambrose doesn’t much care if I’m flashing my bits, but if I encounter your fair sister during an attempted rescue, things could get...awkward.”

The image of such a scenario made her laugh.  The laughter turned to sighs as Ballard pushed aside locks of her hair to place a line of kisses that started at her nape and danced across the slope of her shoulder.  Louvaen laid her hands over his, tracing the bony knuckles and dark nails.  “I wish we could stay here all night.”  Longer even, but she kept the thought to herself, fearful of the emotions welling inside her.  How tempting it was to succumb to the fantasy of remaining at Ketach Tor, looking forward to long nights in this man’s arms and countless days spent in his company.

His arms tightened around her, hard enough to make her squeak.  He loosened his grasp and nuzzled the underside of her jaw.  “Your wishes are far more modest than mine, Louvaen,” he whispered in her ear.  “Come to my chamber this evening.”  The knot she’d tied in her blanket came undone under his hand and fell to the floor.  She shivered at the contrast of cold air washing over her body and the heat of his palm where it rested on her belly.  “You’ll not sleep much,” he warned, “but you’ll be warm beneath me.”

She sagged in his embrace, moaning softly as his fingers slid lower and slipped between her thighs to stroke and tease.  Ballard scooped her up, intent on her carrying her to the bed when another knock resounded on her door.  Louvaen choked back a snarled “go away!” when she heard Cinnia’s muted voice.

“Lou?  Lou, it’s me.  Are you awake?”

Ballard halted and set Louvaen down.  She put a finger to her lips.  They were acting like lady and stablehand creeping about her bedchamber, but she didn’t feel up to explaining to an outraged Cinnia why having Ballard in her room was quite different from letting Gavin’s into Cinnia’s.  Ballard rolled his eyes but did her bidding when she motioned for him to hide out of sight.