There were also mothers, but since his own mother had been a whore too, he was slightly confused about the third variable and didn’t know where to place it in the great scheme of things.
As the last tremors wracked her slender body he finally took his hand away, rested his forearm on the edge of the bath and let her slide back into the water. He tried to assess her height. She couldn’t be very tall, but the demanding, sultry gleam visible under her long, gold-sprigged lashes, not to mention the saucy half-smile on her lips, warned him she made up for her lack of size in other ways.
Soapy water swirled around her breasts, pushing at them, lapping over her pebbled nipples. He longed to take one in his mouth again, but he was too close to spilling; one more taste of that silky, fragrant skin would put him over the edge. His balls were over-ripened, filled with seed. Already fluid fluttered up his shaft, pushing into his crest. The first bead of spunk had oozed out of him. Now it trembled there, shining in the light of the fire. He stood quickly, turning to leave, but she grabbed onto his chausses.
He stopped and looked down at her.
It struck him hard in that moment—he’d never seen a woman so beautiful, so alive and desirable. His woman.
“You know who I am?” he demanded.
“Of course.” Her voice was soft, not much more than a whisper, but with a slightly teasing edge. “The lover of my dreams.”
True, he thought, amused, but he should probably clarify…
She tipped her face up toward him. “Let me taste you,” she said.
Guy knelt on one knee and let her lick the dew from his tip, although he did not hold it for her. No need. Without asking, she wrapped her fingers around the thick root of his shaft and pulled it to her pouting lips.
Reality broke through the heated fog. This naughty, forward wench could not possibly know his identity; he was fooling himself to think otherwise. Dressed as he was tonight, he could be any soldier caught sneakily observing her in the bath. In which case she was in for a shock tomorrow and she’d have some explaining to do regarding her wayward behavior. Thus he didn’t tell her his name. It would be more entertaining to see her expression tomorrow when she discovered the truth, and then he’d decide on her punishment.
Her tongue darted at the tiny exit in his cock, prying for more of his juice. He thrust his hips toward her. She made a small sound in her throat, almost a purr, and rubbed the side of her face against his rod, her soft eyelashes fluttering against the rigid veins and bulbous head.
That was it. He would spill.
Holding his cock, he dashed out through the hidden side door. Exhaling hard, he cursed at the dark sky and waited for his loins to cool, his rock hard arousal to subside. Until tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d have her. He laughed breathlessly, shaking his head, bewildered.
Fortune had smiled upon him with this wench. He began to plan for the following night with an enthusiasm he had not felt half an hour ago. His wicked little temptress had better be ready, because Guy Devaux was coming inside the delightful Sybilia Senclere.
She would be his alone.
His alone. An odd thought for a man who had never been possessive of any woman in his life.
Chapter Three
The next morning the castle courtyard churned with activity. Deorwynn searched the faces around her for one in particular—the man who’d made her ignite into a raging bonfire last night and then left her smoldering. The man who’d almost made her forget her purpose there as Sybilia’s virgin proxy.
Today her dream lover was elusive. She began to think the entire incident nothing more than a fevered fantasy of an over-active imagination.
Leaving Sybilia to fuss over her appearance before the wedding ceremony, Deorwynn wandered off to explore her environment. She quickly discovered that the Bear of Brittany’s castle was unfinished, only the gatehouse and a high, crenellated outer wall complete. When they arrived the previous evening it was already dark and she’d seen very little of the surrounding countryside, just that wall, a looming, shadowy structure, grim and forbidding. She and Sybilia had slept together on a hard pallet, sharing their chamber with the only other women in the castle—the head cook and a handful of serving girls who, Deorwynn suspected, were once camp-followers and whores disguised as laundrywomen. This was evidently a place built, inhabited, furnished and ruled by men. There were no comforts, no elegant touches of decoration. Women were merely an afterthought.
Today, however, in the sharp-edged sunshine of a fresh, crisp November morning, Deorwynn saw it was not all doom and gloom. Yes, there were great piles of stone and gaping holes where chambers were yet to be built in the main fortress, but smaller, cozier, thatched cottages of wattle and daub, nestled inside the outer walls. Here a small village flourished; hens clucked and squabbled; dogs and small children ran underfoot. Although they were Saxon, the residents seemed cheerful. In celebration of the wedding, bowers of evergreen vines were strewn over doorways and a palpable excitement lingered in the air. Today would be an excuse for bawdy behavior and plenty of ale or wine. Normans liked their wine, so she’d heard, as Saxons liked their ale.