Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (7 page)

Her fingers clenched. “I need my bag. For my personal requirements.”

“Tell me what you need.”

Her hands twitched, in clear frustration. “Don’t you trust me?”

“As much as you trust me.” He offered her a cynical smile, but it was touched with regret. Because the ironic truth was she could trust him. He would never betray her or their people.

And because of that very pledge she was destined to remain in ignorance of their mutual loathing of the Roman invaders.

He could confide in no one, for his own safety and for theirs.

She sucked in a deep breath. “Very well.” She appeared to prefer honesty as much as he did. “I’ll show you what I need and you can hand it to me.”

The small clay pot she pointed out appeared to be a harmless lotion, so he gave it to her and she balanced it on the edge of the tub. He reclined on the bed, bracing his weight on his arm, watching her through half-lidded eyes.

“Aren’t you even going to turn your back while I undress?”

“Allow me some pleasure this night. It’s been a hard day.” Gods, was that the truth. It was going to be a hard night also if she didn’t choose to spread her thighs for him.

He knew she wouldn’t. And yet still his cock throbbed with masochistic anticipation.

Instead of flinging caustic words—or even her pot of lotion—at his head, an odd expression flickered over her face. As if the thought of him enjoying her nakedness hadn’t occurred to her.

How could it not have occurred to her? She knew he wanted her. Not just from the forest. Every time he looked at her she had to see the lust in his eyes, the lust he tried to smother but knew he failed.

She had to feel the smoky attraction between them, no matter how she might want to deny it.

Slowly she pulled her plait over her shoulder and tugged the leather tie from the end. Just as slowly she began to unbraid her hair, tress by tress, her eyes never leaving his.

Her hair was beautiful. Thick, black and glossy. Fascinated, he broke eye contact and watched her fingers comb through her shimmering curls, watched her tip her head to one side so her hair cascaded to her thighs. He imagined his fingers spearing through that midnight mass, imagined her spread across his pillows, imagined sinking into the silken heat of her body.

As if she guessed his thoughts a small smile touched the corners of her lips. Then she tugged at the ties of her bodice, loosening her gown, sliding it from her shoulders in a maddeningly sensual caress. Only then did he realize his free hand had slid beneath his tunic, was grasped around his cock. Only then did he realize the reason for her smile.

He didn’t care. He smiled back and massaged the length of his shaft. A pleasurable torture. He wouldn’t allow himself to come in front of her. But perhaps, later, if she continued with this seductive enticement, he’d come inside
her
.

The thought heated his mind, hammered against his temples, and as she stepped out of her gown the glow of the lamps cast mystical shadows across her lush body. Full breasts taunted him, her dark nipples as tempting as juicy berries. His starved gaze devoured the curve of her hips, the tautness of her belly. The dark tangle of curls at the juncture of her thighs.

And there his gaze lingered, hypnotized, ensnared. And his self-control shuddered with agonized demand on the precipice.

Morwyn saw the lust flare in the Gaul’s eyes, and corresponding tugs of forbidden desire tightened low in her belly. Why had she thought this barbaric bathing ritual a bad idea? It was the perfect means of inflaming him beyond his limits of control. He would become so aroused he’d take her, despite his insulting words of rebuff earlier, and then she could scorn the Morrigan in the basest manner possible.

She braced one hand on the edge of the tub, shot him a smoldering glance over her shoulder and allowed her hair to slide provocatively across her back. It wasn’t she who repelled him. It was the remnants of the battle that clung to her.

His gaze scorched her naked flesh and the knowledge he so desired her pleased her more than it should, but what did it matter? No one would know how much she wanted him. No one but the Morrigan. And that cursed goddess was the only one who needed to know.

Tentatively she dipped one finger into the water. It was hot. Much hotter than the warm springs of Cymru. The thought of immersing her body into such contained, wet heat was oddly enticing.

“Do you need more cold water?” His voice rasped, as if his self-control were in imminent danger of disintegrating.

She slid her hand and wrist into the tub. It was more than bearable. “No.” Gripping the side of the tub more securely, she gingerly stepped inside, allowing her arms to take the bulk of her weight.

Slowly she sank down and a startled wheeze gusted from her lungs as the wet heat engulfed her legs, thighs and belly and lapped against the undersides of her breasts. The water was hot but shockingly delicious as it bathed her grazed skin and sore muscles.

Her fingers still gripped the edge of the tub as if it were her lifeline, and with effort she forced them to relax and sank against the back of the tub. Although she was still irritated he hadn’t allowed her to bathe in the nearby river, she had to admit this method had merit.

“How do you like it?” His smoky voice weaved into her mind, as hot as the water and infinitely more sensuous.

She considered telling him she hated it. But somehow she couldn’t muster up the energy to project an emotion she was far from feeling. And besides, it was too late in the day to deliberately antagonize him. They were moments from fucking. She could be magnanimous when victory was within her grasp.

“More than I should.” She slid a little farther into the water, feet braced against the end of the tub, hair floating around her submerged shoulders. “This is pure Roman decadence.”

“They have their uses.”

She cracked open one eye, realizing only as she did so that she’d been perilously close to sliding into tranquil oblivion. He still reclined on the bed, still grasped his cock beneath his tunic—
if only he were naked so she could watch
—and his gaze was still fixed on her.

For a moment she pondered on his comment. It had sounded very un-Roman. As if he didn’t think much of them. But that couldn’t be so. He worked for them. Why would he pledge them his loyalty unless he believed in their ways? Believed in their arrogant determination to conquer and subdue the civilized world?

The thought slithered from her mind. It wasn’t important. But staying awake was. Languidly she pulled the stopper from her pot and massaged the lotion into her wet hair and scalp. The essence of spring flowers in hidden glades steamed from the water, permeated the air, far more aromatic than whenever she cleansed in rivers or streams.

Taking a deep breath, she plunged beneath the scented heat to rinse her hair, and the side of her face throbbed in jagged protest. She shot upward, coughed out water, cupped her tender cheekbone. How badly injured was it?

The Gaul instantly ceased his self-gratification. “Does your face hurt? Do you have anything you can take for it?”

Of course she did. She possessed a vast variety of pain inhibitors, but she wasn’t going to tell him that, because depending on quantities and combinations they could also be used as potent poisons.

Not that she still intended to poison him. At least, not yet.

With difficulty she forced her hand from her cheek. She would show no weakness before him. “It doesn’t hurt.” It simply throbbed and stung as if tiny fires blazed across her flesh. She could deal with it.

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue the point. Nor did he resume his previous pastime. After a moment’s thought she decided that was for the best. She wanted him hot and hard and desperate. Not partially sated by his own hand.

She lifted one leg from the tub and rested her foot on the edge. She would give him something worth watching, and save the best till last when he could no longer contain himself. A smile of anticipation tugged at the corners of her lips as she washed away the dirt from battle and travel. She flexed her muscles, allowed him to view the shapely form of calf and glimpse of thigh. And then she administered the same dedication to her injured leg, slow, sensuous, and the heated essence of springtime and undercurrent of blistering desire thudded in the air around them.

Beneath the water she slid her hand over her mound, across her sensitized pussy. Without conscious thought her fingers eased her swollen lips apart, felt wetness intrude, imagined it was the Gaul exploring her sheath, tantalizing her pulsing clit.

Breath gusted; her head fell back. And then she caught sight of him staring at her, eyes blazing, body taut. And recalled it wasn’t the Gaul touching her. She was touching herself, arousing herself, and if she continued, she would come over her fingers, come in this bath, come before her watching enemy.

Lust pounded through her mind, flooded through her veins. Shivers danced through her at the pleasure she’d take in watching his face as she brought herself to climax. But that was a fantasy she could never indulge. Because by doing so, she would please the Morrigan. And she would never again willingly please that goddess.

But still her finger teased and pressure thundered, overwhelming, demanding to be sated. She pressed down on her swollen flesh, imagined it was the Gaul’s cock causing such exquisite friction, and a moan of frustration escaped before she clamped her teeth together and dragged her reluctant hand across her belly.

She hadn’t denied the goddess satisfaction for so many torturous moons only to surrender now, when victory was so close. Only a few more moments and she would no longer need to fight her body’s primal urges. Would no longer need the mild sedatives she’d began taking at night to calm the molten desire for completion that raged in her blood.

Dreams so visceral she’d feared them visions. Feared what the visions tried to foretell. And so she’d convinced herself they were merely bad dreams from her memory and not glimpses of a terrifying future from a vindictive goddess.

Shivers skittered over her arms and she pushed the thoughts aside. Tonight, even without recourse to her magic potions, she need have no fear of either simmering desire or spine-chilling dreams keeping her awake.

She cupped her aching breasts, skin slippery with lotion, and brushed her thumbs over erect nipples. She had to stop. But need coiled deep within, a ravenous beast she’d denied for too long, need that corroded her senses and screamed through her blood for blessed release.

Through the scented haze that steamed from the water she watched the Gaul leave the bed and come toward her. He knelt by the side of the tub, and in the exotic glow of the lamps his mesmeric green eyes ensnared.

Slowly he dipped his hands into the water, his intense gaze never leaving hers. Despite her best intentions her fingers slipped upward to allow better access to her sensitized nipples. She squeezed hard, relishing the stab of painful pleasure that ricocheted straight to her womb, despite the echo of warning that pounded in her burning mind.

He
was the one who had to pleasure
her
. But still she couldn’t drag her hands from her body. Because the way he looked at her as she touched herself aroused her more than she had imagined possible.

Finally he finished cleansing and the tips of his battle-scarred fingers trailed up her rib cage. Ribbons of fire ignited countless tiny flames under her flesh, inside her veins, and she relinquished her breasts, arching her back, inviting his touch.

But he didn’t immediately cradle her breasts in his hands or lower his head and suckle her willing nipples. Instead he began to loosen the tangles teasing her hair, infinitely gentle, astonishingly patient. She curled her fingers over the sides of the tub to keep her balance, to keep herself from rubbing her engorged clit, but most of all to keep herself from winding her arms around his shoulders and melding her naked body against his.

“Your hair is beautiful.” His husky voice invaded her blood, stoking the flames licking through her veins. “Like silk from the East.”

“I know nothing of silk from the East.” It wasn’t quite true. She had heard the exotic East produced breath-stealing luxuries, but hadn’t seen any herself. Until this moment such foreign decadence had never interested her. But now, obscurely, she wanted to know more. “What’s it like?”

It had
nothing
to do with wanting to hear the Gaul speak again in that bone-tingling smoky whisper.

His fingers tugged through an obstinate tangle and she sighed as corresponding tugs shivered over her skull and along her neck and spiraled through her painfully erect nipples. She was his enemy, his captive, and yet he took the time to arouse her as if they were besotted new lovers.