Juliana Garnett (24 page)

Standing, he shrugged free of his robe and let it fall to the floor. Annice turned her face away, hand still lying palm up on the coverlet. Modesty or distaste? he wondered. He’d rarely found disfavor in a woman’s eyes. How did Annice view him? There was nothing in her demeanor to suggest revulsion, though on occasion she had resisted his embrace. He’d put that down to the situation, but he could not help a twinge of unease now.

There were scars aplenty upon his body, from wars and tourneys and conflicts. None too disfiguring, but a man could not be certain what would repulse a woman and what would not. Rolf lifted the edge of the coverings and slid beneath. Bed ropes creaked gently at his added weight. With the coverlet wadded into a knot in his lap, he turned to face Annice.

She had shifted to look at him, the sheets still clutched at her neck, bare shoulders pale in the ghostly light. A faint smile touched the corners of her mouth.

“You are most comely to look upon, milord,” she said softly.

There was an odd tightening of the muscles in his chest, a spasm that briefly constricted his lungs. Then it eased, and he said, “I am pleased I find favor in your eyes, lady fair.”

Silence spun between them again, humming with tension, the awareness of one another, and what would soon happen. Consummation was inevitable and necessary. An
unconsummated marriage would be invalid. Yet there was more between them than that knowledge; there was the unspoken draw of breathless enticement that seemed to pull them close without touching. He felt it. And he felt the trembling of her body as she waited, silent and watching.

It was that involuntary reaction that broke the yoke of hesitation and made him move closer to her. Shivering, she did not protest when he put a hand upon her shoulder, caressing the soft skin beneath his rough palm with light strokes. Though she shivered as if chilled, her skin was warm to the touch. He let his palm drift downward, from the slope of her shoulder to the ripe fullness of her breast.

The back of his hand moved aside the coverlet, and he cupped her breast in his palm. He heard the quick inhalation of her breath, felt her shiver again. Looking up into her eyes, he felt suddenly as if he were falling headlong into a shadowed region from which he might not return. More than physical pleasure waited just beyond the night. But he would not retreat now, not when his quest was so near ended.

Slowly he drew his other hand along the delicate curve of her collarbone, then down. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart beneath his hand, and her breathing was shallow. As was his. Already his body tightened in expectation, full and heavy and aroused beneath the concealing coverlet. Bending, he replaced the caress of his hand with his mouth, tongue flicking out to tease the hardening peak of her breast. Annice gave a soft gasp, and then her hands moved to cup behind his neck, fingers lacing together to hold him closer. The coverlet fell away. Her body arched toward him, and he felt the silky fibers of her hair brush against his cheek.

This reaction was unexpected, and it had the effect of spurring his arousal. With a groan he closed his lips around her taut nipple and drew it deeply into his mouth. Ah, but she was sweet as honey, finer than any wine he’d ever tasted, her perfumed flesh seeming to melt beneath his tongue. When he finally lifted his head, he was panting for breath and struggling for control.

Annice’s face was a pale oval in the shadows, head tilted
back and her hands still clasped upon his nape. Her fingers moved slightly to spread into his hair, a light caress that was tender and arousing at the same time. Her lashes were lowered, shadows spiky upon her cheeks, and her lips were parted and trembling. A shudder traversed her body, and she opened her eyes slowly to stare at him.

“Thou art wondrous,” she whispered in English, and he stared at her. He didn’t know what to say. Nothing would justify what he felt. In truth, he wasn’t certain what he felt, beyond the driving need to possess her completely.

“My lady,” he said finally, his voice harsh and breathless, as if he had run a mile in full armor. “Annice—thou art my wife.”

It sounded nonsensical even to his ears, and he wished he could recall the words. But she was smiling as if she understood.

“Aye, Lord of Dragonwyck, I am thy wife. Thine to hold for as long as thou wish.…”

P’raps that was what he’d needed. For all the times he had already taken her in his mind, his day and night dreams, he had yet to possess her. Desire pricked him hard, and he strove to be gentle as he pulled her beneath him, hands stroking down the sides of her body to mold her to him.

She caught her breath, looking up, eyes wide when he pressed the full detail of his arousal against her belly. It slid, hot and aching, between them, tantalizing yet not quite enough to ease his torment. Arrows of pleasure shot through him at the friction. He closed his eyes for a moment, yielding to the sweet bliss of the motion.

Annice made a strangled sound. Bending, he kissed her again, her eyes and nose and the full curve of her lips, lingering there to drink deeply. His mouth moved from hers to travel up the sweet, curved slope of her jaw, pausing at the whorls of her ear, tongue exploring lightly.

Leisurely, enjoying every moment, Rolf dragged his tongue down and over her shoulder to the taut, beaded nipple again, pausing to savor it, then moving lower. He found the tiny dip of her navel, heard her soft gasp, and moved
even lower. There, nestled amidst the red-gold thatch of her curls, lay the honeyed goal he pursued so intently.

Bending, he kissed her there, tongue making a brief foray into the cleft. Annice went rigid, her thighs quivering as she made a loud sound of shock and startlement.

“Nay, Rolf … Holy Mary—do not!”

Resting his cheek against her trembling thigh, he stroked her lightly with his fingers. With one hand he gently explored her, heated and damp, beckoning to him with luxurious sweetness. God’s mercy, but he did not think he could subdue the urge to hold back, to give her the pleasure she should have. Her shuddering movements and the fluttering cries drove him almost to the brink.

“Rolf … what do thou … ah, I have never …”

Her last words drew his attention, and he looked up at her face, contorted in the pale light. Could it be? Was it possible that her first husband had never introduced her to the joys of intimacy? That would explain her gasp of shock when he had kissed the sweet nether lips that hid her femininity. Deliberately, he bent forward again, lightly touching the tip of his tongue to her.

Annice gasped, a quick, indrawn breath. Her hands clutched at him, fingers sliding over his bare skin with lingering strokes. His hands tightened on her hips to hold her as he tasted deeply, tongue washing over her until she was writhing and panting. Only when he heard her high, lilting cry did he pause. She was shaking, making tiny sounds in the back of her throat, and he knew she had reached that pinnacle of release.

Finally he moved upward again, tongue laving the sweet softness of her skin. She gave a soft, shuddering sigh. He lifted his head to look down at her, shadowed and pale against the sheets, her hair spread in glorious abandon over the pillows in a fiery mass. Long had he dreamed of having her thus, her thick waves of heavy hair beneath her and him over her.… Rolf’s gaze met hers, and he saw the wonder in her eyes.

With a trembling hand she reached up to cradle his jaw in her palm. “ ’Tis a sin to feel such pleasure,” she said softly.

Rolf took her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Nay, sweeting, ’tis God’s gift.”

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Was it so? Was it meant for a woman to feel such ecstasy? She had never thought so, had never dreamed that such pleasure could be found in coupling. Luc had never attempted to give her pleasure but had only taken his. How could she have known?

There was much more that she did not know—worlds of it. How could she pleasure him as he had her? She wanted to ask but found her tongue bound by shyness. An almost overpowering emotion swelled her heart and filled her throat, tightening it so that she could not speak even if she found the right words.

As if he understood her silence, Rolf moved over her again, murmuring soft words like caresses. He kissed her mouth, tasting of perfume and her own scent. Her hands caught him by the shoulders, fingers testing the hard muscles in light motions, sliding down his damp skin to the taut sinews of his arms. He shuddered slightly when her hands dropped to the narrow span of his waist, and she brought her fingers up through the thick mat of curls on his chest, letting the tiny hairs wind around her fingertips. It was all so new to her, so wondrous and sweet, that she did not want it to end too quickly. She wanted this moment to last forever, to spin out slowly.

Tilting back her head on the pillow, she gazed up at him with a faint smile. All her worries faded away, drifting into oblivion. There was only this moment, only this night, with Rolf a heavy pressure atop her and all else insignificant. On the morrow reality would intrude again, with all its attendant problems. There would be the constant threat of war, the conflict between rebel and loyalist, and the nagging worry that Rolf of Dragonwyck was not the man she hoped.

But now, with Rolf lying atop her and her body still aching for him, there was only this. The sweet pleasure that she’d never found before, never dreamed truly existed—aye, once she’d thought it a mere fantasy, put about by men to lure women. A legend, like unicorns and real dragons.

But her own dragon was very real and had taken her to heights she’d never dared hope to scale.

Lifting his body over hers, Rolf poised for a moment, his eager member rubbing against the aching moistness between her thighs. She looked up at him, drew in a shaky breath when his hips moved forward, spreading her slightly. A faint sense of regret filled her that it would be done so soon. Once he entered her, the closeness they were sharing would be over in a trice. That much she knew from her times with Luc. A few short thrusts, and his seed would be spent and he would fall asleep.

But Rolf had already given her a miracle this eve, and she would not deny him his own pleasure. Her arms rose to curl around his neck, holding him as he slowly thrust forward, sliding inside her with a burning stroke. Her body took him deeply, stretching and closing around him in a convulsive wave. Then he was moving against her, withdrawing almost completely free before thrusting forward again, filling her in shattering ecstasy. To her surprise he did not slow after a few thrusts, but continued. Again and again he filled her, withdrew, and plunged forward again, making her shudder with pleasure.

Annice was vaguely aware of her own cries, his breath against her ear a harsh sob. His hands closed around her upper arms as if he would hold her still, but she could not help the arching twist of her hips as she rose to meet him. It was age-old, primitive response, coming from deep within her, this need to meet his thrusts with her own. Fiercely, as if this moment would never happen again, Annice clung to him. She answered his hard stabs with her own, impaling herself on his body with a savage pleasure. Sweet, wild ecstasy, hot and melting her into him so that they were one, bound together as man and wife and lovers.

Plunging deeply, Rolf did not withdraw even when she collapsed into a spinning vortex of release, crying out and clinging to him with panting ecstasy. Barely had the shattering residue of her culmination faded when he began again, moving his body inside hers with deep, lingering strokes.

She whimpered, and he whispered softly in her ear, “Nay,
chérie
, ’tis too sweet to stop.…”

Candles burned down and guttered, light dying out as Rolf swept her again and again to that elusive peak. Time blurred into soft, heated whispers and trembling rapture. Nothing beyond the silk-hung bed existed for either of them.

And when, finally, Rolf allowed himself the luxury of his own release, his hard body throbbing inside her with shudders of bliss, Annice thought that she had never dreamed loving the dragon could be so sweet.…

M
aking slowly, Annice looked up at the swagged curtains of the bed. Pale light filtered through the bed hangings. It was early morn, and no one had yet come to wake the sleeping couple. Shadows slowly defined into sharper images beyond the curtains—table, chair, and stools. She turned her head to one side to study Rolf. Her entire body throbbed with the reminder of their consummation. He lay still, his long, muscular frame filling up an entire side of the bed. He was asleep, face turned toward her, one leg thrown possessively over her thighs.

She smiled slightly. In slumber he seemed like a small boy more than the fierce dragon of legend. Yea, save for his beard, he looked as youthful as his son. Long lashes shadowed his cheeks, and his lips were slightly parted, revealing the gleaming white of his teeth. His golden hair was tousled, falling over his forehead.

Resisting the urge to push it back, she gazed at him. Could it be that her feelings had undergone such a rapid transition? Where were the doubts, the lingering taints of
suspicion with which she had long regarded him? Last night there had been none of the constraint between them that had so recently existed, just the arousing pleasures of the flesh.