Page 53 of Lord of the Forest

There was a splashing sound, and a shadow came between her and the sun. She knew it was Lancelot and kept her eyes closed. By appearing not to see, she was deliberately condoning whatever he chose to do. She was his plaything.

She felt the slide of his body atop hers, the heated touch of his lips on her mouth, the fall of his long, wet hair on either side of her face. She immediately brought her arms around him, running her hands over the slick flesh of his broad back, digging her nails teasingly into the muscular shoulders. He laughed and deepened the kiss.

Nothing mattered but her and the man. They were in a world exclusive to themselves, consenting, sharing, beautiful. She made no objection when he drew off her shift and trapped her wrists with one hand while he nuzzled at her breasts.

She lifted her head. “What are you doing?”

He glanced up at her—a wicked, boyish glance. “Do you want me to stop?”

Not if he had any compassion. But the water was distracting—she only needed him.

But she didn’t want to seem greedy. “Not necessarily. But I’m getting too wet.”

“You can never get too wet,” was his cryptic reply.

With a sigh that resonated through her body, he released her hands, rose to his feet, and stood over her.

Not even the Colossus of Rhodes could have looked as magnificent as Lancelot did at that moment. Manly, massive, naked, and dripping. His manhood had changed, and now stood proud and fully aroused. She knew what, in theory, this meant. But had she the courage to find out from experience?

A hot flush suffused her entire body. Might it be wise to remain in the cold brook a little longer?

He reached down a hand, smiling his feral grin. Once again, she saw him as a creature of the forest, godlike in his dominion, animal in his power. And she craved to taste him.

She sat up, took his hand, and found herself the next moment up in the air, with her hands behind his neck and her thighs wrapped around his waist and resting on his hips.

“Not the ground,” he murmured against her ear. “Too many old holly leaves. Against a tree? Not for your first time. Mayhap for your second.”

The friction of her female parts against his hard stomach as he walked sent sensation drumming through her. She squeezed her legs tighter and groaned. When he reached the oak, he paused. “I believe it’s customary to have your consent to wedlock before we proceed. As you are a gentlewoman with a reputation to maintain.”

She chuckled. How could a man embody both the wild spirit of the forest, yet still sound like a gentleman? He had made great progress since their initial meeting, when something as mundane as an old sack had been a treasure to him.

Love flooded her heart. “Oh, Lancelot, how could you even doubt me? I love you like my own life.”

“A simple ‘yes’ would suffice.” His green eyes were bright with laughter. “But I was hoping beyond hope you might say that. Know that you have all I have to give—my heart, my life, my soul. Treat them well, I beg of you.”

He held her, and she was blissfully aware of his hard manhood pressing against her. He hadn’t used the word “love” but she hoped it was implied because she was so thoroughly under this man’s spell now that she could deny him nothing.

Darkness engulfed her as he kicked the old cloak over the top of the furze and laid her tenderly down. “Not the ideal bed,” he murmured. “But I don’t feel inclined to wait—do you?”

She shook her head. His smooth, hard body covered hers, and his mouth sought her own in a kiss. This was a kiss of possession—deep, greedy, all-encompassing. She let her head tip back as his tongue plunged into her mouth, taunting, teasing, and exploring. He found a rhythm, and so did she, their bodies rocking as their kiss consumed them—and she wanted to feel him between her legs again, as he’d been when he carried her.

When she tried to push his thighs apart, he broke the kiss. “Not yet. I may have lost some of my memory, but I’m certain I have never before tasted such a feast. I mean to take the time to savor it.”

Lowering his head, he sought her nipple and rasped his tongue across the beaded tip. Something exploded in her belly—a powerful, fundamental urge to take him inside her, to complete their joining. Not to do so would leave her bereft and grieving.

She was losing control. He suckled at one nipple while his hand toyed with the other, teasing it, running the firm tip between thumb and forefinger, squeezing and pulling until she rolled her head in delirious delight. Her whole body was a-fire—Lancelot covered all of her, igniting every inch of her flesh with incredible sensations.

She wanted to touch him, know more of him, but he was too heavy, too strong to move, so she contented herself with running her hands up and down his flanks, rubbing her thumbs over his tight male nipples and digging her fingers into his hair.

He smoothed his hands on either side of her waist, then over her breasts, and finally cupped her face, returning for another kiss, fast and hungry. Then, while one hand stroked her cheek, the other reached between her legs and he moved his knees farther apart.

His stroking concentrated all her yearnings in that part of her, giving her indescribable pleasure. She bucked and pushed against his hand as he explored her slick, sensitive folds.

But wait—there was something missing. She didn’t know what he felt like. Reaching between their bodies, she encountered his silky hardness and gasped. He swallowed her gasp with another kiss, then groaned aloud as she stroked her thumb over the nub of his manhood.

“Does that hurt?” She withdrew her hand.

“Quite the opposite.” His breathing was rapid. “Do you want me?”