Gayle Eden (12 page)

His throat muscles worked and though he heard little aside from his heartbeats, Pagan had the sudden vivid image of when he parted the lips of her sex, flushed darker and moistened, glistening, the swelled bud at the top, which he had, laved and suckled, stroked, the opening that emitted her musk and silken wetness.

Saliva rushed to his tongue. Pagan wet his lips, breathing and smelling her, and remembering the first feel of her sex with his finger, soft and hot, slick and contracting. He had needed to taste her over and over, feeling a kind of intoxication when she climaxed, the knowing that he had summoned more of that honey from her.

His tongue liked her there, enjoyed the delicate tenderness of the skin. His breathing sped with heartbeats, musculature tightened over his bones. His sack contracted. His sex swelled rigid; a rod of flesh and nerves, full and lifted from its nest of hair. Behind his lids, he saw her hand gliding up and down it. He felt her fingers squeeze and he was inside of her. A warm channel of sleekness that hugged him and contracted, that stroked him.

Her face was there, eyes misty and lips parted, neck arched as he thrust into her. Pagan lowered one hand and fisted his sex, his face taut and legs quivering as he glided once, twice, and lost all thoughts to the implosion of his climax.

It took awhile for his heartbeats to slow and his eyes to open, for the sticky seed to bother him enough so that he arose and washed. He lay again under the fur, half on his stomach, his hair loose and covering the worst scars on his face. Though his muscles relaxed, he wanted to feel her, her body, her kisses.

Pagan sighed heavily. He was going to agree to her going with him. Nevertheless, he knew it would be a constant war to keep the parts of himself separated...

* * * *

Illara was dressed in a green gown when Pagan entered the solar the next morning. She had drawn the front of her hair up but left the rest down her back and was seated on the window seat, haven broken her fast early and rushed through dressing. She picked the low wasted gown with chain belt that rested on her lower hips, the sleeves were long and tight, the area from her stomach to under her breast molding to her figure. She was not using tricks, but she was not beneath using leverage.

Pagan appeared wearing clean leather breeches and boots, a thick padded doublet and wide belt, a soft shirt next to his skin—and the mask. His hair she noticed was twisted in a spiral, two parts of the tail, braided weaved with leather. Standing by the hearth, his arms folded, somehow making his chest look wider and his shoulders also, Illara thought.

His stance was certainly lord and master, but she was somewhat eased by the fact no anger was in his eyes.

“I’ve spoken of your request to Randulf. He was no more for it than I am. But as he knows that you are my responsibility, he has no argument with whatever I decide.”

She arched her brow slightly though her hands were clasped tight in her lap.

“Normally Randulf drives the wagon. It carries both supplies and my armor. We oft purchase needed goods in the merchant towns between. If I agree to your request, we must alter that.”

“I can handle a team, I once—”

He held up his hand, and refolded his arms, his head shaking slowly. “Randulf has decided to enter the events. Thus, he will travel with us, but as Ronan. He will dress and conduct himself, as that Knight is known to do. Beroun will drive the team and you will ride your mount. The journey in winter is filled with discomforts. Camp is no more than tents and what food we can hunt, purchase or otherwise, once the supplies are consumed. You will see to your horse well, and any discomforts or--female particulars are yours to deal with.”

“I can do that.”

Pagan sighed and stared at her, then said, “Ask Lylie to see to supplies for you, she’ll know what is needed. Have warm clothing and medicines and a weapon to conceal aside from your sword. When we enter villages or towns, you are to put yourself between Randulf and me, and show no reaction to anything. Is that clear?”

“Aye.”

“At the Tourney’s we will not likely be invited to house inside the castle. Ronan uses his own tent and Beroun knows how to Squire me and prepare our camp. Expect the worst if you show yourself my wife.”

“I intend to do so.” She held his gaze. “I’m convinced, ‘tis envy that makes so many resent your prowess.”

His lips quirked. “The aim is fear and intimidation. I resent it not. It works in my favor.”

“Yes. Well. I gather that. I will brave through the same. I will show myself with my champion.”

“Do not, distract me.”

“I would never.” She blinked at his growl.

For a moment, they locked gazes and she realized her adrenaline was running high, her excitement building. She would suffer any discomfort too, she promised herself, to experience this with him. She had her own point to prove, her own reasons for showing him that she could champion him too.

Illara wet her lips again, her gaze falling without meaning to over his length, lingering on his legs and inching up. She was startled mentally to realize she was wet and aroused, and for a moment she stared somewhere near his chin, trying to erase it from her eyes.

It did not work.

She raised her gaze, too aware he had both witnessed her visual journey over him and her flushed expression. She had gained a boon, truthfully gotten what she wanted easier than she planned, but telling herself not to push anything, she still husked, “Would you join me on my ride?”

Pagan regarded her as if talking to himself mentally, and then nodded, turning and leaving afterwards, without a word.

Her hands shook as she stood and stripped off the belt and gown. Illara rushed getting her wool breeches on, saw her tight nipples when she pulled the soft blouse over her head and tied the laces. She shoved her feet into the boots and dropped one of the curved daggers into the space between the lining and leather. She grabbed her cape and headed out.

He had both horses waiting while she descended the steps. She would prefer her own saddle but did not complain when he used one hand and lifted her into the planer one.

Pagan mounted the black stallion and they were off through the gatehouse. The snows had stopped and wind was bitter and sharp, but Illara loved to ride and thus braved it to gallop beside him.

They cleared the old city walls and she jumped a mound of stones, heading toward the hill and on to the road. The black warhorse could have left her leagues behind and she silently thanked him for pacing himself to stay with her gelding. When the horse became winded and its body warm, she slowed gradually, halting at length, at the edge of the charred forest.

Observing him, Illara noted he stared into the woodlands, still struggling to grow and replenish. With winter stealing any green, it made the blackish remnants stark. To draw him from bad memories, she turned and headed east, following a path made by herders likely, that rounded a knoll and ended by a stream.

Pagan had followed and they both sat looking down at the silvery ribbon running between the rocks and foamy snow. She raised one hand and rubbed her chilled cheeks.

“Where are your gloves?”

“I forgot them.” She turned to peek at him. His golden eyes were very clear, very true in color and it reminded her that she wanted him.

“You ride well.”

“Thank you.” She flickered her stare to his lips.

Awareness hummed between them.

When she would have turned to head back, Pagan leaned over and took one of the reins, leading the horse as he rode the stallion down to the flat stretch by the stream.

Too curious to protest, she sat still while Pagan dismounted and coiled the reins around the pommel. He led the stallion a pace, and spoke to it, taking a rope loose from the saddle to hobble it. He came back to her and stood there. Her leg touched his chest, his hand rested on both the front and back of the wide saddle.

Her breath caught as Pagan held her gaze and lifted his gloved hand to his mouth, pulling it off with his teeth. He tucked it in his belt. Then that palm was on her thigh, moving aside the edge of her cape. It slid slowly up, until his fingers brushed over the soft wool between her legs.

“Shouldn’t I dismount?”

He started to shrug and then stepped back enough, his own hands helping set her on her feet. Illara discovered she was not in charge.

Pagan muttered, “The ground is too wet.” Then he leaned down, kissing her until her head swam, her hands clutching his forearms.

She staggered, panting, when Pagan lifted his head.

He picked her up, carrying her to a rock, and set her down again. Pagan went to his knees before her—spread wide knees—that somehow excited her more as he put his hands inside her cloak and began unlacing the blouse. He eased his hands in the gap and found her breasts, his thumbs stroking her nipples while he leaned in, kissed soft then nibbling at her lips.

Her back arched to rub more of them against his warm fingers and palm.

That mask brushed her face when Pagan moved his lips to her ear, and just beneath. His hands shifted down making short work of getting her breeches loose. He leaned back and husked, “Rise up.”

She lifted her body and Pagan pulled the wool breeches nearly to the ankle. Her cape gapped enough to show her nudity. Illara was about to say something when his warm palm cupped her sex. She moaned instead.

“Widen your knees.” Pagan breathed tense.

She did, having to arch her hips when he sank his finger into her sex. He thrust and withdrew unhurriedly.

Blinking through the haze of pleasure, she managed to whisper his name and a soft sigh. There was something about him kneeling before her, his eyes searing and holding hers whilst he stroked her sex, that made it all the more explicit. At some point, her legs were trembling, and Pagan sat down, pulled her breeches completely off, and brought her onto his lap.

Facing him, she helped when he nuzzled for her breast, jerking the shirt up for him and letting his lips latch onto her nipple. On her knees, she felt him slide two fingers up between the nether lips again then across those magic nerves.

Illara began to move and glide with it. Her hands rose to his hair. Pagan stilled a moment. She had enough mind to avoid the latches of his mask. She sifted her fingers through his hair at the back of his head, and merely held his head to her breast, her breathing and moans a bit louder.

It was cold, yet a sultry heat invaded the space between them. Her head went back. He switched to suckle the other breast before one of his hands moved to grasp her buttock. Her lungs constricted, Illara lowered her head when he pulled back from suckling, the nipple exposed to colder air.

Her eyes went to his lips, flushed from his feeding.

“Can you stand?”

She did not think so. “I don’t think…”

Pagan had both hands on her buttocks as he urged her up, but whatever she thought he wanted, it was not that he’d raise her enough to put his mouth on her. She cried out, loving the warmth of it, the lave of his tongue. Pagan tasted her aggressively and explicitly before he lowered her again. His mouth found hers and the lushness of an erotic kiss followed. His fingers went back to the nerves and rubbed, his efforts rewarded when she reached her peak.

Her sex contracting, Illara felt him sink his finger into it, and another wave of desire unfolded in her.

Illara leaned against his chest afterwards, her heartbeat slowing and her breathing under control. She inhaled his scent and felt the thump of his heart too, yet eventually the cold penetrated. He rubbed her chilled thighs and helped her up. She pulled on her breeches and adjusted her shirt.

After he assisted her in the saddle, she delayed him by cupping his face in the mask then leaning down and kissing him. Slowly lifting her head, she searched his gaze, seeing it heated with desire.

Pagan turned away though and fetched the mount.

They rode back to the castle. Illara took the horse to the stable and stall, grooming it, before walking to where he was seeing to the warhorse. He finished and turned to find her there yet walked around her to plunge his hands in a pail. “I’ve training to do,” Pagan said to her tensely.

She waited until he looked her way and caught his gaze. “Would you like to show me you’re bathing chamber?”

He stared at her for a long string of seconds, searching, before he walked out, she along with him until they reached the tower. No sooner had they entered and he shut the door, than she found herself kissed rather gloriously.

Illara moaned and detected the sounds of his unfastening latches. She did not have time to assist before Pagan was undoing her breeches again. She was turned toward the wall and lifted slightly, his hard sex sliding up into hers, still moist from her climax, filling it snugly.

Their breath echoed back from the wall, his arm across her stomach, and the other on the stone. Pagan pumped into her and out, swift, deep, and relentless. “Illara…” He sounded rigid and tense. “ Brace your hands.”

She did so, absorbing the pleasure from his strokes and roused to new heights by his intensity. Ultimately, she caught the cadence and met it, her firm buttocks grinding against the warm skin of his groin.

“Yes.” She arched her neck and felt his lips brush over her brow. His inflexible breathing fanned against her hair. “Oh—Pagan. Yes.” Sblood but he was a hot, hard—huge knight, and with that strength and frame, he could not only hold her up easily, but use his whole physique when driving his sex into her.