It was an explosion. He anchored her head, kissing her wildly, forcefully, their tongues battling, their teeth grating. He lifted his head and thrust into her, again and again. Ceidre rocked madly against him, eyes closed, head thrown back. She was clinging to his massive shoulders. As he drove into her, she felt his mouth on her nipple, felt his teeth. It was the end, for her world exploded in sensations the likes of which were unimaginable, and she was lost, lost to this existence, climaxing again and again.
She opened her eyes slowly, stunned. He was braced on his hands over her, still hard and throbbing within her, not moving, watching her with a brilliant gaze. What had happened? she thought frantically Remembrance came floooding back. This was the Norman. The man she hated. He had raped her violently, and moments later she had attained the fiercest of desire, and the most agonizing of ecstasy, in his arms. She blushed, with shame and fury. She pushed at his shoulders. “Get off,” she hissed.
But he was already ducking his head. Ceidre remained rigid for one more moment as his tongue swept her nipple, teasing and taunting, and then she gave in to the hot, agonizing pleasure he had induced. She clutched his head to her breast, his hair caught in her fingers, uncaring. He laughed hoarsely, the sound full of triumph. He began nipping and licking her breasts until she was moaning in complete abandonment, pumping her hips against him wildly, frantically, panting, gasping, and then he allowed himself, finally, to join her, thrusting fiercely, roughly, deeply, and this time their cries of pleasure came together.
Ceidre had just become cognizant of her surroundings again when Rolfe rolled off her. “I don’t want to leave you,” he murmured. She had to look at him. He was on his knees beside her, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, so powerfully and beautifully made. His hose was open; his manhood hung thick, flaccid, wet. Her gaze found his face.
He was also studying her openly, and his hand swept over her full, lush breasts, down to her small waist, and across the softness of her belly. His touch was, it seemed, reverent. She could not read his expression, as contained as it was, yet when his gaze lifted, Ceidre saw the smoldering, uncontainable glow in his eyes. Before she could react, he was lifting her and carrying her to the bed. So it was not yet over, she thought, and realized, dumbly, that the surging in her heart was gladness.
He climbed in next to her, stretching his full, long length out beside her, his hand again on her belly, propped up on one elbow. He was caressing her languidly, with obvious enjoyment and with clear carnal intent. She watched his hand, so large, like all of him, on the pale skin of her abdomen; she watched his expression as it became strained. She could feel his manhood thickening against her thigh. Ceidre heard her own sigh, knew her eyes had drifted closed, felt herself arch sensually beneath his touch. His response was a guttural sound. And then he threaded his fingers through the dense curls guarding her femininity, and she gasped, half pleasure, half protest.
He groaned, sliding his hand completely over her, one finger parting the wet folds of her, and he held her like that. All thought of protest died. Ceidre pushed herself further into his grip. “Please,” she thought she heard herself say.
His mouth caught her nipple, tugging it. His fingers slid slickly into a deep cleft. Ceidre moaned loudly, lost to everything but what he was doing, and with urgency, she thrust herself at him. With his own cry, he rolled on top of her, entering her.
Rolfe cradled her as she lay asleep in his arms.
He could not sleep; he would not sleep. He had taken her many times, he himself had finished thrice, but he was not tired. He was alive, the kind of alertness that he had experienced only after a battle, every nerve ending tingling, blood pumping, mind working. He lay on his side, one strong leg flung over hers, his arms around her. He pulled her closer, if possible, into his embrace.
The candles had long since burned down, but he had interrupted their continuous lovemaking to light more. He had wanted to see her, watch her every wild response, as he moved thickly inside her, over her. Hadn’t he guessed it would be like this? That she would drive him relentlessly, past ail human boundaries and limitations? Hadn’t he guessed that she would be ecstasy as none other could be, as he had not dreamed could exist?
Her face was against his chest, and he smiled when she nuzzled her cheek more fully into his hard planes. Unthinkingly, he dropped a light kiss upon her head. Distracted by her magnificent hair, he began stroking it, from crown to nape. His hand trembled.
He was thick with desire again.
Incredible, but he would not question it. He had already overused her, he thought, although she had met him as frantically as he had taken her, each and every time. If she was bruised, let her heal tomorrow. Tonight was theirs. Tomorrow belonged to another.
Anger swept him, hard.
But being a disciplined man, he willed it away, instead concentrating on the path of his hand. From her nape he explored her shoulder, broad for a woman, yet not overly so. He ran his palm down her arm, then twined his fingers with hers. In her sleep, she gripped him tightly.
It would be dawn soon and he would have to leave. The night had sped too quickly. He touched her waist, stroking it, then reached to lift one full white breast. Long nipples, he thought, watching them harden as he merely held her, nipples to nurse a babe—or a man. He lowered his head and tongued her.
Still asleep, she shifted herself so that her breast was more accommodating. As the darkness in their chamber lightened with the graying of the sky outside, Rolfe began to suck her more fiercely. He slid his hand between her legs, his finger toying with her. He knew the instant she was awake, before she gasped. Then, languidly, she spread her legs wide, arching for him, her long white throat exposed as she tossed her head back.
The sky outside the Saxon windows was now a pinkish gray. He felt the panic, like a knife in his stomach, as he shifted between her eagerly parted thighs. He caught her mouth with his as he thrust abruptly into her, pinning her lips to her teeth. She cried out; he clasped her buttocks and drove deep, deeper, into her. As he thrust, her eyes flew open, her gaze sleep-fogged, passion-glazed, but unwavering upon his. He bent to kiss her again. She must have felt what he was feeling, must have seen the dawn, for her nails raked his back as her mouth attacked his. “Please,” she cried, “please!”
It might have been the same plea as his—to hold onto the night, deny the dawn, or it might have been the plea for instant gratification. Rolfe ceased to care. In Ceidre’s arms, inside her tight, hot sheath, he was lost. Lost. She matched him thrust for thrust, kiss for kiss. He felt her nails again, and they drove him insane, making him wild to go deeper, until he was one with her. Together, violently, they rose and fell, bucked and writhed, drenched with sweat, panting, gasping, until as one they cycloned out of all earthly existence.
Ceidre was still waiting for her heart to cease its violent thundering when she felt him leave her. She knew it was dawn, she had seen its rosy tendrils of light when he had awakened her with his passion. There was a constricted feeling in her chest, one suggesting imminent tears. She felt the bed tilt and did not have to look as he left it.
She closed her eyes, afraid to open them, afraid to face the dawn and him. She heard him dressing. The lump inside her grew, until she thought she might strangle. Should she open her eyes? Or feign sleep? Say something? He had not said a word to her all night, not since he had carried her to the bed. The lump persisted, unbearably. She heard the clink of his scabbard and knew he was donning his sword belt.
Ceidre opened her eyes.
He was standing in the middle of the room, wrapping his cloak around him, but his gaze was upon her. She refused to allow herself to cry. There was no expression on his face, although it seemed taut with willful control. His eyes were opaque, windowless, shadowed. He held her gaze, then let it slide to her bare torso, her breasts and waist. She had forgotten to pull the covers up, but she was past blushing. He glanced at her briefly again, then turned. In three long strides he reached the door, opened it, and was gone.
She sat up. She stared at the closed door, at the empty room, hugging herself. The door grew blurry, the room grew vague. Tears spoiled her vision. She would not cry, she told herself. Then she pulled her knees in, dropped her head, and began to weep, rocking.
Ceidre had pulled herself together by noon.
She had not seen a soul since Rolfe had left her. Guy, of course, would be with the other Normans, drilling in the field, or carrying out whatever tasks Rolfe had given him. Ceidre had no maids to wait on her; she never had. Servants were using the manor’s kitchens, to feed the excess of men, but other than the carrying sound of their voices, she had no truck with them. She was very, very grateful for the privacy.
She could not hide forever, and she knew it.
After the tears, she felt sufficiently numb to get dressed and attend the noonday dinner, as always. Sooner or later she would have to face the leering looks of everyone. Sooner or later she would have to facehim.
However, when she realized she had no clothes, just the ripped yellow gown, she started to cry again. She had no choice, so she donned it, holding it together the best she could, managing to conceal her bare flesh. The moment she entered the kitchens, all the serfs’ chatter stopped, and they stared, wide-eyed, at her.
