Slowly he pulled himself out of her, feeling her flesh stretch more as he did so. But he didn’t regret it, no, not ever would he regret taking her and knowing that he was the only man to come into her body. He came up to his knees between her spread thighs. There was blood on her thighs and on his member. He sat back on his heels and stared at her. In the dim night light he could see her clearly; her white thighs, widespread now, their flesh so soft to his touch that it made his breath hitch, and the vivid red curls that covered her. It drew him, that red hair of hers, and he touched her now, very lightly, just to see his long fingers on her and to know that she was watching him as he looked at her. She drew in her breath and he raised his head. Her breasts drew him now, flesh as white and soft as her belly and thighs. And he thought: She should be lying beneath me as my wife, not my slave. But she wasn’t. He remembered that day when he had first seen her and he had known, actuallyknown,that he would love her and only her and that she would be generous and warm and his. But she wasn’t. He had been wrong in everything, except in the feelings that persisted for her deep inside him. He closed his mind; he would not deal with those myriad feelings, at least not now. He wanted to bring her to pleasure, he wanted to hear her cries when she burst into her climax. He had to have this final dominance over her.
He came down on his side to lie beside her. He looked down at her gown, bunched at her waist, at her belly, at her breasts, pale in the dim night light. He watched his hand caress her belly, watched his fingers find her through the red curls that covered her. When his fingers touched her, he looked into her eyes and saw the beginning of awareness there, of surprise, and of fear. Fear of him? Although he had no intention of hurting her, he supposed he could not blame her. He smiled at her even as his fingers found their rhythm. Her eyes widened with shock, with embarrassment, and she jerked away from him.
She curled up, her back to him, and he saw the shaking of her shoulders.
“Nay,” he said. “Trust me, Zarabeth. Come, let me show you what it is to have a woman’s pleasure.”
She curled up more tightly and he felt near-pain in his loins at the sight of her buttocks and long white legs. He grasped her arm and pulled her onto her back again. “You will do as I tell you. You won’t pull away again.”
His words sent her over the edge. “You want to bring me pleasure, yet you play master to my slave with great enjoyment and ease. You want to dominate, Magnus, to subjugate, nothing more.”
He ignored the bitterness in her voice, acknowledged that she spoke the truth, and shook his head. “Hold still. I won’t tell you again.” He laid his palm flat on her belly even as he gave her the order. His other hand went down her, finding her, and again his fingers delved deep and sure, and began a movement that was slow, then fast, so light, then deep as the very feelings in her soul. She closed her eyes against the humiliation of it. He was touching her and looking at her face, wanting to see her expression, knowing that she hated this probing of her body, this final seal of his victory over her.
Then, suddenly, there was an answering deep inside her and she froze, not at first understanding. He sensed it and quickly deepened the rhythm of his fingers. “You begin to respond,” he said, and there was pleasure in his voice. He sounded proud of her, as if she were a dog performing tricks he told her to. Then, without warning, the answering changed, intensifying and fanning out as flames under a bellows, exploding into a pleasure so intense, so shattering, that she moaned with it and wanted to die because she had moaned. She was beyond humiliation now, for he was there watching and judging his efforts. She heard her own cries, soft and torn from her throat. The pleasure built inside her. She knew there was more, that there was something beyond the pressure and the fullness that was ever increasing now, and she knew too that she would be alone when it came to her. She never doubted that whatever it was would happen, for he was controlling her, not sharing with her. He was completely apart from her.
Magnus leaned over her, his warm breath on her cheek, encouraging her, telling her to lift her hips, to move against his fingers, to kiss him, yea, to kiss him and let her tongue touch his. And he watched her, watched her closely, and he saw when she could no longer control it, could no longer hold back from him or from herself. When her pleasure came, he kissed her deeply and took her cries into his mouth, deeper still, into his soul.
“ ’Twas well done of you,” he said when her breathing calmed a bit. “To have a woman cry out with pleasure makes a man feel quite proud of himself.”
She felt desolate. She looked up at him, saying nothing, and saw the anger build in his eyes.
“You had no chance. Aye, you fought against it, Zarabeth, but you had no chance. Admit it now, you enjoyed yourself.”
She shook her head. “It merely happened, that is all, nothing more.”
His mouth was a grim line. “It will happen whenever I wish you to have those feelings. You won’t ever pull away from me again, Zarabeth.”
“What will you do?” she asked without interest.
“I don’t know,” he said, surprising himself at his immediate honesty with her.
She looked up at him for a very long time. Finally she whispered, “What do you want from me, Magnus?”
The slave collar glittered in the hazy light. He drew a deep breath. “Question me not further, woman. You are disobedient and insolent. Just don’t press me, Zarabeth.”
Again she said, “What do you want from me?”
“Come,” he said abruptly as he rose. “What I want is to have you in my bed.”
She stood slowly, starkly aware in that moment of what had happened between them, for her body was sore and her legs were weak, and there was still a gentle pulsing deep inside her, a reminder of what he’d done to her, of what he’d made her feel. Aye, she felt a softness and a warmth, she couldn’t deny it, yet at the same time she wished she could have lain there beside him whilst he had touched her and felt nothing, nothing save her hate for him, which wasn’t hate and never had been, but now she felt raw and exposed and helpless and there must be hate for him, for he had brought her to it. She submitted silently as he straightened her clothing, then laced up the front of her gown. He smoothed the skirts on her legs and pushed back her tangled hair from her face. “You no longer look like a maid,” he said, and grinned down at her.
“It matters not,” she said, and shrugged. “I knew you would force me. I also knew that you could not really touch me, only my body. I expect that my body would react thus to any man’s touch.”
He had told her not to press him, but she had. She waited, watching the pulse in his throat, saw the tight lock he had on his jaw. His eyes were cold now as he stared down at her, and he seemed to be struggling with himself. Finally he merely took her hand and pulled her with him. He shortened his step to match hers. Neither said another word until they reached the palisade.
All was silent in the longhouse as he led her to his chamber. He still said nothing, just motioned her to remove her clothing. She turned away from him, refusing to let herself care, and slipped out of her clothes and under the wool blanket. He continued silent, merely stripped and came into the bed beside her. He drew her into his arms, ignoring how she stiffened against him. Magnus awoke toward morning and reached for her. She wasn’t there. He was instantly awake. He roared out of bed, paused to gain control of himself, then walked quietly to the children’s small chamber. She was there, sleeping soundly, Lotti wrapped against her.
He awoke her with hesitation, but quietly, so as not to awaken the children, and led her back to his bed. He jerked off the linen shift, but didn’t stop to look at her. He wanted her too badly, both his anger and his desire blending together. He wanted to punish her and he wanted her to yell again when she reached the pleasure he granted her.
He began kissing her and didn’t stop even when he came inside her and she moaned into his mouth, whether from the pain of his entry or from pleasure, he didn’t know. Nor did he care at the moment. He rode her hard and quickly took his release. The chamber was dark as a cave, and for that he was thankful. He was afraid that if he saw her face he would hate himself. He knew he would see the emptiness in her eyes, the desolation that ground him down. And he knew, deep down he knew that her moan was from pain. He’d been rough, not preparing her.
He pulled away from her, and without a word, without pause, he came down on her and parted her legs to fit himself between them, and stroked her with his mouth. She fought him, outraged and frightened and disbelieving. But he wouldn’t stop. When he felt the tension building in her, he loosened his hold. He smiled, for she no longer fought him. He tasted her and probed her with his tongue and caressed her with his mouth, and he could feel the building tension in her, and when the first cry broke from her mouth, he put his fingers over her and let her scream against them, muting the noise, giving her the freedom to yell her release.
He had won.
She was crying when he held her close to him to sleep. “You are mine now,” he said over and over as he stroked his hands up and down her back.
He took her to the bathhouse, where tubs were always full of hot water and the small room was filled with rising steam and so hot the sweat poured off. It was just past dawn and the sky was pink and pale gray with the coming of day. He said nothing, merely motioned for her to enter. He sat on a long wooden bench, leaned back at his ease with his arms folded over his chest, and told her to remove all her clothes.
