He bent and kissed her again, opening her mouth with his, probing with his tongue. She was hot inside, and needy. She, too, felt the fire burning between them. He sensed it, knew it, and suddenly it no longer mattered to him what her reasons might be. This was a moment out of time; the drab and brutal world he lived in had been left behind. There was only the disgraced knight and the songstress, and together they would make the stars burn.
Ivo slid to his knees before her, and took her nipple in his mouth.
She arched back with a gasping cry, hands tangling in his hair and tugging painfully. He didn’t care. He pulled the gown down from her hips, knowing he was rough but the need to see her naked drove him beyond gentleness. Here was more pale, smooth flesh—the swell of her belly and buttocks, the white length of her thighs and the tawny hair between.
She was small, but most definitely a woman. A little thin, mayhap, a little delicate, but the curves were in their rightful places. For a moment Ivo just looked, feeling like a blind man who has suddenly begun to see. And then he slid his hands down over her thighs, and bending forward placed a kiss on the soft hair at their juncture.
She started and stepped back, forgetting perhaps that the bed was so close, for with a squeak she fell back upon it. Helpless, hampered by her long hair, she struggled to sit up. And then, as he firmly gripped and parted her legs with his strong hands, she stiffened anxiously.
But he only wanted to look. Amused, he met her eyes, sensing her uncertainty beneath the headiness of her passion. And then shocked surprise, as he grinned at her and stooped to run his tongue along her inner thigh. Until he found the hot core of her.
“Oh!” She jerked as if he had shot her with an arrow, and then groaned in her husky, sensual voice.
Ivo decided he liked this song the best of any she had sung tonight.
“Sing to me, demoiselle,” he murmured wickedly, and used his tongue again, seeking out the places that gave her the most enjoyment. She tried to tense, to pull away, but he would have none of it. With another groan, she gave herself up to pleasure.
Briar felt the passion rippling over her, washing away all her thoughts of vengeance, of the past, of her so-carefully constructed plan. She was left with only one thing—the need for release. Briar gasped, her eyes blind to the dim, candle-lit room as that questing tongue set off a myriad of sparks within her.
Why could she not remember Filby, who had hurt her when he took her, his only interest finding his own pleasure upon her, before he had risen and straightened his clothing. He had stared down at her then, with cold eyes, with a look she would never, ever forget. As though she were not the daughter of a great man, and the woman that until this moment he had courted and pretended to cherish.
Why could she not remember Filby?
Because the ripples of passion were turning into pounding waves. All control gone, Briar cried out, arching against him, dimly aware of the surging undertow within her own body.
Jesu, she had not meant it to be like this! She had wanted to be cold, to feel discomfort, even pain, and most of all she had wanted to hate him as he deserved. Instead she lay upon the sumptuous bed, weak and tumbled, her whole body throbbing from the pleasure he had just given her. Why could this man not have been cruel like Filby? And why could Filby not have lavished the same care upon her as this man?
To Briar, dazed and bewildered, the world seemed all turned about.
When the warm wash of pleasure had finally faded a little, Briar opened her eyes. He was grinning at her again, his chin resting familiarly against her belly. With an effort Briar bestirred herself.
“You...” She swallowed, tried again. “You are very good at what you do, my lord.”
“Aye, ‘tis my one true vocation.”
She giggled. God help her, she giggled like a silly maid!
He smiled back, and then proceeded to crawl up onto the bed beside her, slipping and sliding on the furs, and then rolling her into his arms. Before she could think to protest, his mouth was on hers, hot and tasting of her, something she found shocking and yet curiously exciting. The heat of his lips and tongue were stirring the tide within her again. How could that be, when he had only just sated her?
He was pressed against her from shoulder to hip, and she realized she could feel him, big and hard inside his breeches. Without thought, as naturally as if his body was as familiar to her as her own, Briar stretched down her hand and stroked him. He groaned, burying his face against her warm throat. She cupped the bulge of his manhood, trying again to remind herself of Filby, trying to bring forth the old, bitter memories of their mating.
“We are not finished yet,” she said firmly. Her vengeance could not be complete until he had lain with her, inside her, and proved himself as faithless to his wife as he had been to her step mama.
The thought chilled Briar, enough to cool the desire building within her.
“No, demoiselle, we are not finished yet.” Evidently he did not sense the change within her. Rising up onto his knees on the bed, he began swiftly to disrobe, pulling his tunic and shirt over his head.
He was a big man, in all ways, and Briar watched him with reluctant admiration. Sim- browned skin, a body broad and hard-muscled, the body of a warrior. Her eyes moved of their own accord, over the wondrous planes and curves and hollows. Numerous scars covered him, testimony to the many battles in which he had fought. He had been hurt many times, mayhap faced death many times. Briar touched a long white scar on his ribs, testing the puckered flesh.
Aye, she told herself with satisfaction, many have tried to take his life, but they have used the wrong weapons. Sharpened wood and iron and steel are of no use—he is too wily a warrior. No, the way to harm him is from within. To find the weakness in him. To slay him by breaking his heart.
Almost unwillingly, uneasy from what he was making her feel, Briar ran her fingertips up the hard muscles of his stomach to his chest, rough with a dusting of dark hair. His nipples were hidden there, and she found them, feeling them tighten with her touch. More eagerly now, she folded her hands over the heavy curves of his shoulders, aware of their breadth and strength, before she slid them down, over his sizeable upper arms. He was indeed a creature of myth and legend. She could enjoy the sight and touch and feel of him, no matter what emotions lay in her heart.
He tugged his breeches down over his narrow hips, stripping them quickly from his strong legs. He was naked now, every curving muscle, every scar, every wonderful inch of him. Briar had never felt desire like this before—it was new and heady and completely unexpected. Her fascinated gaze followed the line of dark hair from his belly, down to his groin. His manhood jutted out, big and bold; he could not pretend indifference, even had he wanted to. And Briar could not resist stretching out her hand and grasping him, closing her hand gently upon him. So potent, so male. Beneath the velvet softness of his skin there was a hot, steely strength.
He had gone very still.
Drawn at last from her preoccupation of his magnificent body, Briar looked up at him. His eyes flared with burning desire, and yet he did not move. Clearly a battle was going on within him while he fought to subdue his lust. He was, she realized in surprise, trying to be careful, trying not to frighten her. He wanted her, and the same lustful beast she had seen in Filby was there, lurking inside his tense face and brooding gaze, but he was, unlike Filby, trying to rein it in. ‘Twas the man in control of the beast and not the other way around.
