She found herself lying back in the furs and savoring the sensations he awakened.
It was a curious balance, for while he paid homage to her with his touch, she felt that she was in his thrall. She had no notion of how to reciprocate, and he gave her no opportunity to do as much. His amorous attention was relentless.
And more than welcome.
Still, Anna fought the urge to satisfy him with that moan. She feared that when she did moan, he would halt, and she did not wish for that. She called herself selfish, then reasoned it was all part of his scheme. She could not have named how many times he ushered her to some nameless summit, then tugged her back.
She was panting and flushed from head to toe when he fed her desire to a crescendo again. She knew she could not hold out much longer, but she tried. Anna bit her lip as her heart pounded. She gripped his shoulders as the quiver began deep inside her, and she locked her thighs around his head. Bartholomew gave her no quarter, his touch feeding her need steadily, his wicked tongue making her want to roar. His hands gripped her buttocks, ensuring she could not escape the sweet torment he inflicted upon her.
She finally surrendered and moaned, feeling that the sound came from the very core of her being. It also lasted far longer than she could have expected. Bartholomew chuckled then touched his teeth to her, the sensation making her cry out as the tumult passed through her like a great wave.
Anna found herself in Bartholomew’s protective embrace when the tremors passed and she opened her eyes to find his own eyes twinkling in close proximity. “So, it is a treacherous tickle that will make this lady moan,” he teased. “That is worth the knowing.”
“I am no lady.”
He caught her chin in his hand and turned her to his solemn gaze. “This night, you are my lady,” he murmured with heat and kissed her with such thoroughness that she was left breathless. She felt his erection against her hip and knew his pleasure had to be won, as well.
She might have rolled to her back and spread her thighs, bracing herself for the deed, but Bartholomew locked an arm around her waist and rolled to his own back so that she sprawled atop him. He pulled up the hem of his chemise and placed his hands on her waist. “I am yours to command,” he whispered, his voice husky.
There was a lump in Anna’s throat that he so understood her fears. She rose to her knees and straddled him, her concern rising anew. His hands moved to cup her buttocks and he lifted her into place, so that she could feel his heat against her.
“As slowly as you like,” he murmured and Anna eased lower. She watched him inhale sharply as he was drawn within her and savored how he closed his eyes.
Did it give that much pleasure to him? There was a satisfaction for her, as well, particularly as she watched him being as tormented as she had been.
She moved steadily and slowly until he was completely within her and felt his hands flex. He whispered her name, and she felt powerful to have such a man as this in thrall to her. She moved, savoring his reactions. He was shaking beneath her, struggling to maintain control, and as soon as Anna realized as much, she knew she had to test him further.
“Perhaps I should try to make you moan,” she whispered.
His smile flashed. “Temptress,” he accused and Anna was emboldened.
She teased him then, moving slowly and then quickly, setting a rhythm then breaking it. His eyes opened and she liked how they glittered, how he studied her as if she were a marvel, as if she were his lady, as if they were the only two souls in all the world.
He smiled at her and she cast off her chemise and shook out her hair. She displayed herself to him, liking that his admiration was so clear, proud of her femininity as she never had been. She rode him hard, drawing him deeper with each thrust, and was surprised to find her own desire rising anew.
She knew from his sudden smile that he had more torment in store for her. She gasped when his fingertip slid between them and touched her in that most tender spot. He grinned at her gasp of delight, teasing her with that fingertip even as she rode him harder and faster.
Anna braced her hands on Bartholomew’s chest, her hair spilling all around them, and smiled down at him. She saw the fire in his gaze, felt the spark within herself and moaned in truth when they found exultation together.
She tumbled into his arms then and he flicked the fur-lined cloak over them, his arms locking around her even as he kissed her temple. His fingers were in her hair, and she was both safe and warm, snared in the embrace of the finest man she had ever known.
What a gift he had given her this night, in teaching her not only to moan but to find pleasure in such intimacy.
To her own astonishment, Anna fell asleep, nude and atop Bartholomew.
Truly, in all of Christendom, there was no better place to be.
Monday, January 18, 1188
Feast Day of Saint Volusian of Tours
Chapter Nine
Fergus dreamed.
He was chilled to his very marrow, curled up in his cloak as Yves took the watch, but he dreamed of Jerusalem. He recalled the heat of the sun, the dust, the flies, the smell of good horses, and manure. In his mind’s eye, he strolled into the stables of the Templars.
He found Bartholomew arguing with a young boy in the stall of Gaston’s destrier. He had seen the young boy in the stables before and knew him to be a Saracen as well as a friend of Bartholomew’s.
