Yes, let the knight weave a spell around the enchantress instead of the other way around. He held her tighter.
They sat that way in the ruins of the church for some time. The soft rain came down, he held her soft body, and they sat on soft, wet earth in a church where they would not marry.
“What will you be to me then?” he finally asked. “My friend?”
“Yes. Among other things.”
Earl and authoress. Knight and enchantress?—
“Maybe I’d like to be your mistress.” Her eyes had a naughty sparkle.
“You could be.” Dear God, he could not love her more.
“Your only mistress.”
“You would be.”
“And maybe I’d like to start now,” she said and ran her hands from his neck, over his shoulders, and down his arms.
He was a man, so the idea was not unwelcome. But?—
“Here, in the rain?”
“You light a torch inside me, Henry Delamere, and the rain cannot put it out.”
Her hand went to his groin and cupped his cock, which had already started to grow rigid with her suggestion. Their mouths met, and their tongues slid against each other. There was no friction between them, they wanted the same thing, but sparks still flew.
He palmed her breast through her wet dress. “You,” he said against her mouth. “I’m?—”
“Yes?”
He groaned in frustration at the betrayal of his body as his cock and knees throbbed in unison.
“I can’t be on my knees, Susannah. Not on the ground.”
She pulled away slightly to look into his eyes. “You want to wait until you have a nice, soft featherbed underneath you, is that it, my lord?”
He saw the ends of her lips curve up into a smile, and she put a hand on his chest and pushed.
“Lay back, Henry Delamere. This country girl knows there are more ways to heaven than one.”
Seventeen
. . . and once more, the concubine and her king joined their bodies in the most ancient of unions . . .
—The Concubine and Her King.Unpublished MS.
Susannah straddled Henry’s thighs and set to work unbuttoning his fall. He lay back, and she could feel his eyes on her.
Henry loved her. He had not turned from her. He wanted her.
And she wanted him. All of him. She wanted his probity, his sense of duty, his honor. Henry could not, would not love someone who had done wrong, who deserved shame.
And she wanted his body, this miraculous cuirass that had carried him through the world until he had landed in her churchyard. She was going to love this body, its skin and hair and smell. The hidden places where softness had replaced muscle and sinew. Its wear and tear from all the years, its admirable shoulders, and its less-than-reliable knees.
And its cock.
Oh, what a beautiful cock Henry had. Hard and upright and thick and proud and monumental. It was a living, blood-hot monument to his desire for her.
