The Craftsman (9 page)

She nodded, swallowing a groan of bliss as he filled her. And kept filling her. He was not only long but broad, each ridge of his magnificent manhood hitting another sensitive nerve inside her, teasing the gasps and wanton groans out over her usually ladylike tongue. It was too much. After years of famine she would surely expire from her own greed, trying to devour more than she could. “Yes, Wulf, that’s…oh…” She pressed her head back into the mattress, crying out as he sheathed himself fully and she felt his hard sac swaying against her. “Now fuck me. In and out. As fast and as hard as you like.” He was throbbing inside her. She felt every thudding pulse of his staff. There was no time to waste with flowery words because she was already losing her breath on the first climax. She’d told him to go slowly before; now she wanted him to take her without mercy, to ravage her. All needs she’d never dared express to Henry.

Wulf, fortunately, took instruction well. He needed no demonstration, only her shattered urging. He thrust with the full force of his lower body, ramming into her then pulling back. Over and over. His thighs slapped into the back of her legs so hard she was sure he must have bruised her. His cock fucked her, slickly, faster and faster, shaking the bed and her body, jostling her breasts until they ached.

“Is this what you want, Emma? Am I doing it right?’ He wasn’t even out of breath, his hands holding her ankles high, his lower body flexing like a whip, working hard.

She squinted up at him through a fine mist, wondering if he was being facetious. The man was driving her relentlessly to one savage orgasm after another with that splendid tool and she couldn’t speak to save her life.

He paused mid-thrust. Releasing her ankles, he let her legs down and then he leaned over her. His eyes were bright, hungry, wolf-like. How appropriate, she thought. Her Wulf.

“I’m going to spill, Emma. I’m going to fill you with my seed. But not until you tell me I’m doing it right. Is this the way you like to be fucked?” His tongue darted out and lapped at her right nipple.

She tried to reply, but his cock was sliding back in, slowly, caressing her sheath all the way from her stretched labia to her womb. His lips closed over her nipple and suckled. Oh God! No sooner was he buried snugly inside her, than he began to withdraw again, tantalizing Emma until she wanted to scream curses at him. Fighting to keep him inside for longer, she squeezed with her pussy, a quick, wild rhythm of shallow breaths sputtering out of her mouth as Wulf sucked harder at her breast, flicking his tongue over the sharpened peak.

Finally she grabbed his buttocks, pulling him down, thrusting with her hips to take him in deep. She cried out, her face hot, her body slippery with sweat—hers and his. “Yes, Wulf. Harder. Keep fucking…keep…”

He resumed his faster pace, shuddering, his buttocks tense under her hands, his cock head mining further with each forward parry. She would be sore tomorrow. But tomorrow was far away. Who the Hell cared about tomorrow?

In the next moment she felt him stiffen, jerk to a halt and then the flood gushed into her. She was still riding her own wild climax, her body tensing, her legs locked around his hips. Wulf gave a few more smaller thrusts, his spunk a seemingly never ending torrent. And Emma finally let her body fall limp under him, delightfully wilted.

“Are you sad, Emma?” He laid beside her, his hand on her stomach, his fingers splayed. He didn’t understand women’s tears. Never had and probably never would. She’d claimed he wasn’t hurting her, but surely he must have. He’d got carried away. Now he felt like a beast who should be chained up.

His manhood rested at half-mast but he knew it would soon be ready to swive her again. Whether or not she was in the same frame of mind he couldn’t tell. She must think him rough and common. She’d admonished him earlier for speaking crudely. No doubt she came to his bed because of that duty she spoke about, and any man the king sent her to would have received the same welcome between her thighs, not because she was attracted or could ever love him.

Wulf knew even less about love than he knew about tears.

She turned over now, nestling into the bed furs as if she was tired and wanted nothing more to do with her husband.

He lay down, staring at her copper tresses spilled across the pillow. Outside the window thunder rumbled. The heat had broken, but the weather went from one extreme to the other. By morning, hopefully, all would be calm, the sky blue again. But the storm must rage first to clear the air and start fresh.

She said nothing to that. He longed to hear her say she was content with him. If he asked her outright, she might feel obliged to lie. On the other hand, she might remain silent. Which was worse?

Moving closer, he kissed her bare shoulder, letting his lips linger over her sweet tasting skin. He snaked one arm around her waist and pulled her back against his chest, but she came stiffly, reluctantly into his embrace.

He heard her sigh, watched her push a curl of hair from her cheek with a trembling hand, and the resentment softened inside him. She had come a long way to be his bride and the king’s orders probably hadn’t pleased her anymore than they had him. He’d just have to make it up to her wouldn’t he? Make her see that marriage to him wouldn’t be so bad. He may be a novice in bed, but he’d apply himself diligently to the practice. Wulf ran his fingers along the curve of her side, enjoying it as if she was a fine piece he worked upon. There was hidden potential inside this woman and he would find it. He’d make her yield her secrets.

* * * *

She couldn’t calm her breathing or the excited drumming of her heartbeat. With his heavy arm around her waist it was even more impossible to steady herself and return to the customary stoic Emma who never let anything bother her. He had turned her inside out somehow. She’d forgotten herself under him, had come undone, given in to lust, wanted him to do everything and anything to her. The need had not gone away after her last climax.

If she told him how she felt, he would think her a whorish woman, a slut. Only the Lord knew what he thought of her already, for entering his workshop last night, uninvited, and sucking his cock. He touched her now almost reverently, his hands following the curves of her body, reaching down her leg, sliding between and stroking back up again. He must feel his sperm where it trickled out and ran down her thigh. If it was Henry, he would have told her to get up and wash in the basin by the bed. But her new husband did not demand that she cleanse herself.

She shivered, turning her face further into the pillow. Oh, the joy of being one with a man. It was even more intense with Wulf—deeper, more primitive. It frightened her, and Emma was rarely afraid. It was like losing her footing on a narrow, rickety bridge, the jolt to her heart suddenly wakening her senses, making her clutch out with both hands for survival.

She dare not speak, sure her voice would break, so she lay silently, listening to the rain and low rumble of thunder.

The storm was far from over and her racing heartbeat refused to relent. She was falling through open sky and there was nothing to clutch at, but she was exhilarated, her nerves stretched tight.

Slowly she sat up. Cool air, speckled with refreshing rain, blew in through the opened shutters, drying the sweat on her body.

“Emma?”

She got off the bed and walked to the window. The day had darkened considerably and the stone walls shone wet, washed clean by the rain. A rusty scent filled her nostrils as the parched earth and grass below drank up the fat drops of precious water. Today the heavens opened and brought new life.

“I want to watch the storm,” she said, turning to look at the man sprawled on the bed. “I want to be out in it. I want to feel it, taste it, smell it.”

He didn’t question her or call her ridiculous as other men would. He didn’t warn her of the dangers; instead Wulf sheltered them both under his fur-trimmed mantle and took her up to the highest tower, where a narrow walkway, built for patrolling soldiers, overlooked the land for miles in all directions.

As they came out into the rain, the clouds tore apart with a brilliant, jagged crack of lightening and Emma felt her skin tingle, her heart pound even faster. A base grumble of thunder quickly followed. Her breath was tight in her throat, a scream trapped there. What was she doing? They could be struck by lightening and killed. Had she abandoned all her good sense?

But if God wanted her, let him take her up now, otherwise she would be reborn in that storm, like the thirsty earth that had waited so long for sustenance.

Stepping out of Wulf’s embrace and his mantle, she stood with her arms overhead and let the rain pelt her naked body. Like knives and arrows the stinging drops pricked and stabbed at her. She turned her face up to the rolling, ashen sky and closed her eyelids.

Suddenly she felt hands on her shoulders—Wulf trying to draw her back under the mantle. Her eyes flew open. No she was not done. She wanted more. Needed more. She would see how wicked she could be, how wild and wanton. The old Emma—steady, sensible, dull—was chased away by the storm.

She spun away from Wulf and ran around the battlements. He ran after her.

Another white flare split the sky and her hair crackled, the breath wrenched out of her. The soldiers must have gone inside out of the storm, for there were none in sight. She realized, with a sudden, halting breath of anguish that she was disappointed not to be seen, naked, running wild. It was rebellion against everything she’d ever been raised to do, but what good was rebellion if it went unseen? Slick with rain she finally stopped and waited, her back to the damp stone.

Wulf caught up with her, his own speed slowed by the heavy mantle he wore slung over his shoulders.

“If you catch me,” she shouted above the thunder, “you can do whatever you want to me.”

He’d stumbled to a halt, blinking against the rain. He must think her insane, she mused. Would he try to rid himself of his mad wife tomorrow?

Better make the most of tonight then.

She took off again, but ran directly into the arms of a soldier—one dedicated to his post enough to brave the violent, heaving storm. The man was tall and lean. Young. His hands clasped around her upper arms. He looked at her as if he thought she was some sort of sprite dropped down from the cracks rendered in heaven.

In the next breath, Wulf caught up with her. She saw he’d abandoned his mantle in order to run with more speed and there was a churning fire in his fierce regard as he yelled at the soldier to stop her. Her husband’s cock, she also noted, glancing over her shoulder, was hard again, stretching tall, gleaming in the rain.

The soldier saw it too and his hands tightened around her arms, probably assuming she ran from her husband out of fear.

Wulf stepped up behind her, very close, but he did not tell the soldier to relinquish her. She was trapped between them both, her mound pressed into the buckle on the soldier’s low-slung belt, Wulf’s thick, marble-hard shaft rigid against her bottom. The young soldier’s hands began to tremble as she was pushed harder against him.

Her husband reached around and cupped her bare breasts, rubbing her nipples against the soldier’s tunic, so that she felt the chain mail beneath. Her pussy tightened and she arched, pushing her stomach into the belt buckle. The soldier made no move to back away, but stared down at her breasts in Wulf’s hands.

This time the soldier complied, holding her waist and raising her up off the ground until her breasts were just under his face, their fullness nudging the hairs on his chin. Now Wulf positioned his cock head under her, not needing to be told what she needed, his own raw urges evidently guiding his actions.

She spread her legs and felt the soldier’s rain-dampened tunic against her labia, just before Wulf’s hands left her breasts and guided her hips downward. He growled her name as the petals of her sex opened and his prick thrust upward. She cried out, turning her face up to the rain, closing her eyes. The soldier still held her waist, his gloved hands firm, while Wulf filled her cunt again with his magnificent column. It stretched her even wider now from this position. She was impaled upon it, like a trophy of victory on a knight’s lance.