“Because you want me and cannot have me? Just like a spoiled little boy.”
Still she kept up the pretense, as if she was not the wild cat in his bed last night. Saucy chit! Desire filled his veins, pushed him upright from that lounging pose. “I only want to look at you. You assume I cannot control myself, wench—that your body is so exquisite I will fall upon you and ravage you like one of my marauding Viking ancestors?”
She laughed suddenly. “I am almost tempted to challenge you to a wager. It must be your Norman wine.”
Aha! A softening in her demeanor. She was growing at ease with him. For a woman she was curiously brave and he’d noted it before with frustration. Now he found himself admiring her for more than her body and her pretty face. “You like wagers, Saxon wench?”
She nodded, eyes shining.
“And you think I cannot resist laying hands on you if you stand naked before me? Very well, let me prove it.”
“What will you give me if I win?”
He grinned.
“Not that,” she said crisply.
“Either way you win, don’t you, wench?” he purred.
“I do?”
“I’ve never yet met a woman who would object to my hands on her naked body.”
While he expected her to pout and act prim again, she simply laughed. “You are the most arrogant man I ever met.” Then she paused. “But I suppose I can show you one breast. That is all.” She shook her finger at him. “You must not touch.”
The wench was teasing, enjoying the sense of control she had because of his lust for her. But she was also heated under her skin, rapidly becoming mischievous. He saw the slight quiver in her lower lip, watched her pupils expand, darkening her beautiful brown eyes until they were almost black. He’d let her blame it on the wine, if that made her feel better; if she must pretend not to feel the flames of desire licking between them.
He glanced over her head then and saw Thierry standing behind her, watching intently. Carried away himself he’d almost forgotten his friend’s presence.
He lay back again. “Both tits. And I wager you one horse that I don’t touch you.an s
“A horse?” she sputtered.
“That’s right, wench. I’ll give you a horse, if I give in to temptation.” He didn’t tell her she would only ride it in his presence, even if she won; under no circumstances would he let her leave his gates without him.
She agreed to the wager for a horse, spitting on her hand and holding it out. Amused again, he slowly took her hand and shook it. If he gripped harder, he could have tumbled her to the floor, but for now he enjoyed her playful mood.
His balls ached. He stroked himself with one hand and she looked down. “No touching!”
“No touching you,” he corrected. “I said nothing about touching myself.” He cupped his balls defiantly and she rolled her eyes. Sweeping her hair back, she slid her shift down over her shoulders.
He swallowed, staring. Those were the breasts he’d pressed to his chest last night when he filled her with his cock the first time. Did she truly imagine he wouldn’t know her body from any other? It was almost insulting, this ignorance she attributed to him. He closed his hand around the root of his shaft and felt the thudding pulse deepen.
She began covering them again.
“No,” he barked.
She paused.
“Touch those nipples,” he grunted. “Both hands.”
He thought she would argue, but the little peaks hardened at his command. The rosy nubs tightened and puckered, even before her fingers pinched them lightly, then rubbed as he directed. Her lashes fluttered and she inhaled.
Now she was entertaining him. He knew how much she enjoyed being looked at.
“Let me see your pussy,” he muttered gruffly. “I’ll give you that horse and a gold bracelet if I lose the wager and touch you.”
Thierry still waited for a signal to join them, but Guy wasn’t ready yet. He felt selfish and overheated like an adolescent again, newly discovering the abilities of his cock and afire with pent up yearning.
“No,” she said.
He moved his gaze back to her face. “Are you worried I’ll see how wet you are in my presence? Virginal Saxon wench who does not desire me and would rather I was dead?”
Her lower lip stuck out. Mulish.
“Pussy,” he commanded, drawing the word out in a hiss.
She hesitated.
“Unless, of course, you’re afraid. Saxon.”
That did it. Her eyes glistened in the firelight. She stood and lifted her shift to her waist with no further quibbling. “Satisfied? Norman swine. Are you sure you’re six and twenty, not sixteen?”