Barbarian's Soul (21 page)

She grabbed two more pieces. “I’ve kissed dozens of men,” she said, lobbing the coal at his head where it glanced off his forehead. “Because I
wished
to. And all of them did the deed better than your pitiful effort.” She continued her advance as Bran took a step backwards.

Bran twisted his body away to evade the last projectile. Pleased when he took another step backward, Adria paused and watched as his heel rolled on a length of iron protruding from beneath the work table. With a loud thud, the barbarian sprawled onto his back.

***

The hard-packed earth of the stable barely registered in Bran’s mind. His entire focus lay on the black-haired beauty advancing on him like a wild beast. His words, meant to distance her and ease his own stab of guilt, instead had brought temper into her eyes and that enticing flush to her cheeks. The desire he’d managed to tamp down roared to life.

He raised a hand, batting away another chunk of precious coal. She seemed not to notice, stalking forward like a warrior goddess. His eyes narrowed. He’d never been defeated by a foe before and he would not now. When she got within a foot’s width of where he lay, Bran lifted his legs, caught one of hers between his ankles and twisted.

Bran took the brunt of her tumble, caught her against his chest, wrapped his arms around her to save her head from hitting the ground. For a moment, shock left her motionless, allowed him to enjoy the feel of her lithe body stretched along his, every soft curve matching hard muscle. Her breasts, plump and firm, pressed against him, nipples pebbled tight through the thin cloth of her
tunica,
pressed like twin tips of a blade into his chest.

She gasped and brought her hands up to his shoulders to push away but Bran tightened his hold. A slight increase in pressure kept her legs trapped between his. Both of his hands, splayed against her squirming rump kept her woman’s cleft positioned snugly against his groin. His cock approved.

“Let. Me. Up. You bastard!” she said through clenched teeth, struggling futilely against his hold.

Bran bit back a groan of pleasure as her futile movements rubbed against his erection. Adria ceased her struggles when he shifted against her. Through half-closed lids he watched the play of emotions cross her face: anger, surprise, curiosity, and when her eyes darkened to the color of royal purple, desire.

That mouth that he loved so well, was only a breath away. His voice was rough when he whispered, “Adria.”

Adria raised her head, startled as much as he that he’d used her proper name. She stared at him, her breath quickening when he shifted his hips. That flush of heat spread along her neck. Bran could feel her heart beating erratically.

“Adria,” he repeated. “Are you unwilling?”

For a long moment she said nothing, just looked at him. He would not force her. For all the things he was, he would not force a woman. Bran found himself holding his breath, waiting for her reply. Wondered how he would survive if she said no. His own pulse leapt as her expression settled into one of decision. His breath caught in his throat when she signaled her consent.

Bran guided her mouth to his for a quick, searing kiss. His pleasure grew as she met him with equal fervor. He rolled them onto their sides, bringing her with him as he stood.

“Not here,” he said between kisses. Gods, all that soft, warm skin. He wanted to nibble his way down her neck. Instead, with one smooth motion, he lifted her into his arms and strode into the unused stall. The sweet aroma of fresh hay mixed with Adria’s own sweet, musk scent, was a heady perfume that fueled Bran’s blood.

He fumbled for a worn blanket kept draped on a peg. He pulled away from Adria’s embrace long enough to kneel and spread it over a mound of the grass. It should be silk or finely woven linen, he thought through lust-induced haze.

“Bran?”

Bran glanced over his shoulder. The sunlight from the stable door silhouetted Adria’s figure like a celestial apparition. She stood with her small hands clenching and unclenching before her, and for a moment the terrible thought that she might have changed her mind sliced through him.

“Bran,” she repeated in a strained voice, “take off your tunic.”

Relief flowed into a fiery ball at her words. “So eager?” He reached up and took her hands, guided her to her knees before him. He brushed an errant curl behind her ear, pleased when her eyes closed and she leaned her cheek against his palm. When she reached for the hem of his garment, he shackled both wrists with one of his hands. “No, Adria. I want to see you.”

Adria met his gaze, her boldness firing his desire. She sat back on her heels and with tentative hands began to untie the corded belt around her waist. Bran brushed her fingers aside and when the knot proved difficult, broke it with his bare hands.

Bran skimmed his hands along the sweet curve of her neck. Dagda, her skin was so soft, so warm. Did she tremble from the cold or from his touch? He followed along her shoulders and slipped beneath the sleeves, taking the material with him, baring her to the waist.

He sucked in a sharp breath, devoured the sight of those full, heavy globes thrust high by shoulders drawn back in that proud way so natural to her. They were a sight to behold, dusky-rose tips taut with arousal. Ripe for the taking.

He laced his fingers through hers, held Adria’s hands down to her side as he leaned in and placed a fevered kiss along the sweeping column of her throat. She shivered and arched, giving him easier access. He trailed his lips downward until he latched onto one succulent tip, laving and scrapping the bud with his teeth. She squirmed but Bran held her still until he’d given the same attention to the other breast. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile of satisfaction when she writhed and moaned low in her throat.

“What are you doing?” Adria asked on a shaky breath.

“Do you not like it?” he asked.

Adria’s answer was a sharp intake of breath as he pushed her dress past her waist. Bran trailed more kisses down the flat plane of her stomach. He allowed her, hands still held by him, to lift up and shimmy out of the
tunica
.

If her exposed breasts had been beautiful, then her naked torso was magnificent. Her slim waist flared out to rounded hips, down to firm, sleek thighs, a perfect frame for the nest of soft, black curls that covered her woman’s mound. With a firm tug, he urged her back to her knees.

“Woman,” he growled. “Show me all of you.”

Confusion creased her brow until he guided her to lie back on the blanket. Bran kneed her limbs apart, exposed her sweet folds for his hungry perusal. Adria tried to close them but he would not allow it. He ran his hands along the velvet flesh of her inner thighs, wanting to touch all of her at once.

But he knew where he would begin.

Using his right hand he palmed her, seeking and finding the sensitive nub buried in the nest of curls. He circled and stroked, reveling in her mewling protest.

“Barbarian, no one has touched me in such a manner,” she said on an inhaled breath.

He looked at her. “Does it displease you?”

Adria licked her lips, searched his face.

What did she see? Did she see a barbarian? A slave? A gladiator bearing the weight of souls? Or did she see a man?

“No...no, it does not displease me...Bran.”

Gods, how he loved hearing his name on her lips, each time it sent a shaft of possessiveness arrowing through him.
Mine,
his fevered mind shouted.

It was taking every ounce of restraint he had not to bury his shaft between her folds. But he wanted her ready for his cock, hot and sweet. Continuing his torment with his thumb, Bran inserted one finger into her hot sheath. Gods, she was tight and so wet—for him. In and out he stroked, Adria’s hips arched upward, seeking release which he denied her, withdrawing before she attained her pleasure. Twisting, Adria moved to sit up, clawed for his arms. Bran shifted and once again caught both her wrists in one hand, pinning her arms over her head.

He paused and studied her flushed cheeks, her panting breaths and the wild glaze of her eyes blending with a measure of the spirit that never retreated. Another moment more and he would be beyond the point of stopping. But he had to know.

“Adria.” He shook her wrists to focus her attention on him. “Adria, are you willing?”

Her mouth fell open, incredulous. “For the love of Hera, I am past willing! Are you unable to complete the task?”

Bran narrowed his eyes at the barb but held her gaze as he swept his tunic free. He took craven delight when her eyes widened at the sight of his erect member jutting and straining. He covered her with his body, positioned the tip of his cock at the opening of her sheath. She was wet and hot and he could hold back no longer.

He pressed against her opening and her comment of never having been touched before sprang to his mind. Was she a virgin? The thought that he might be the first filled him with possessive pleasure. With depth of will, Bran held himself back, proceeded with caution despite the feeling he’d go mad if he wasn’t buried in her now.

Adria thrust her hips upward and moaned low in her throat. “Barbarian, you are so slow.”

Bran gave her a tight smile. With one powerful thrust he buried himself deep, arching his back as her inner walls stretched against the invasion. He closed his eyes, paused to allow her time to adjust to his length. Adria had gone still but when she began to move beneath him, he cut all restraint. Bran shifted, began to move, slow strokes at first, his cock scraping against her sensitive mound with each thrust. A generous lover, he’d always made sure his partner found pleasure in their coupling but her soft panting cries began to hold a desperate plea and spurred him to a faster pace.

In moments, Adria began to match his rhythm. She clamped her legs round his waist, so much sweeter than he’d imagined, and urged him deeper. Gods, she felt so good.

So right.

Mine
.

A fine sheen of perspiration covered them both and the sight of it glistening on Adria’s smooth skin nearly drove him mad. Bran held back against the urge to find his release. Not yet.

“Now!” she said nearly cutting him in two when she bucked against him.

Bran stopped in mid-thrust, his braced arms trembled. Adria’s dazed eyes, filled with fire and fury and heat, locked onto his and he held her gaze as he purposefully slowed the motion. The flush on Adria’s neck and face deepened and she dug her fingers into his arms, scoring his skin with her nails, the sweet pain stoking his passion.

“Bran!” she moaned, threw her head back as her sheath caressed his shaft. Tremors shuddered through her and he felt the reverberation to his soul as he began to move again. They rode together, each thrust met by Adria with equal fervor. His focus narrowed to this one and only moment, this one woman. They rode together to a precipice, reached the edge of climax and tumbled over together. Adria sucked in a great breath, released it on a wordless moan, arched her back and clung to him as she cried out her release. Bran roared his own, his hot seed exploding deep within her womb.

Bran couldn’t breathe, his muscles felt as water. He collapsed onto Adria but managed through the haze to save her the burden of his weight, rolling onto his side. For long moments their panting was the only sound in the workshop. He stared at the roof of the stable. Never had he experienced a coupling with such intensity, not even with Beatrix. The connection had felt more than a physical joining. For that one brief instant when they’d both climaxed Bran had felt a melding of spirit.

He glanced over at Adria, her eyes closed, her breathing slowing by degrees. It was impossible. She was Roman, a thief and nothing to him. He would fight this attraction as he would any match in the arena. And as with any match he would win.

“Barbarian?”

Bran looked over. She had not opened her eyes. “Yes?”

She sighed and snuggled against him. “I am not a whore.”

Chapter Twelve

A
dria kept her back to Bran as she tried to shake bits of straw from her dress. It was only the dust from the hay causing the tears in her eyes, not the staggering emotions of what she and Bran had just experienced. After all, she was no wide-eyed virgin. Her eyes drifted closed. She might well have been, so different was this coupling from that of the fuller’s son.

She could not clear her mind of the way his lips had felt, firm and demanding, a conqueror of her body as he’d claimed her mouth. It hadn’t been gentle, more like urgent and she’d reveled in it. As if she had something he wanted. And for a moment, lost in the wonder of his taste, she wished desperately she could give it to him.

Adria gritted her teeth. She should have held onto her temper, should not have allowed him to provoke her with his insinuation that she sought only to soften his resolve to hold her captive. But the challenge in his eyes had led to her rash actions and his touch—she closed her eyes at the memory. Gods, his touch had ignited a fire within her.

A sudden chill swept over her bare skin as a rare breeze wafted through the doorway. Shivering, she leaned forward and lifted the hem of her garment. Behind her, she heard Bran’s sharp intake of breath.

Gods.

She slipped the dress over her head and smoothed it over her hips, grimaced at the soreness between her thighs. She had been overly boastful to Bran. In truth she’d only ever kissed a handful of males and only shared a bed with the boy from her youth. And those experiences were as different from this as a sputtering oil lamp and a raging bonfire.

She much preferred the bonfire.

Turning, she sucked in her own breath. Bran had already donned his tunic, the material dark in places from the moisture of their lovemaking. He raised his arms, muscles bunching, and raked both hands through that magnificent mane of hair that had felt like heaven against her skin. He caught her gaze and Adria received a second jolt at the self-recriminations reflected in their green depths. Adria lifted her chin.

Bran’s lips curved. “No chastisement is needed, little thief. I believe you.”