Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (23 page)

And he couldn’t even ask her. Because then he’d have to admit he’d seen her in the forum, embracing the Roman, and hadn’t mentioned it before.

It was only later, as Morwyn emerged from the bathhouse glowing and pampered and wearing the green silk ribbon in her hair, that it occurred to him he’d just missed the perfect opportunity to read the military dispatch.

Instead of returning to the inn, the Gaul took her into a tavern in the forum. They sat near the door, for both light and fresh air, and Morwyn breathed deep, savoring the strange, foreign aromas that scented her hair and body.

“What’s your verdict on the Roman bathing experience?” His eyes glinted at her, as if daring her to say how much she had loathed the procedure.

“Extraordinary.” She’d forgotten how utterly wonderful it was to be massaged so thoroughly. She hadn’t been so pampered since the Romans had invaded and she and her fellow Druids had fled to the magical enclave Aeron created. An enclave prohibited to all others, including their slaves and servants who had been left to fend for themselves.

He made a noncommittal noise that sounded rather like a grunt. As if he didn’t believe her.

She rolled her shoulders, felt deliciously aroused. “Of course, I’ve been massaged in the past.” Now why had she told him that? She didn’t want him guessing she wasn’t really from the trading class. But too late to worry about that now. Besides, he didn’t look as if he’d jumped to the conclusion she was of noble blood. And certainly she’d said nothing that could point to her Druid ancestry.

“Have you?” His voice was completely neutral, as if he found nothing either strange or commonplace about her comment.

“Oh yes.” She flicked her hand in a dismissive gesture. “But never before have I been so thoroughly
exfoliated
.” She stretched out the word for emphasis, and exquisite shivers danced low in her belly at the memory.

At least that caught his attention. He looked at her as if unsure he’d heard her correctly, and then transferred his attention to the amphora of wine on the table as if it fascinated him.

She propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on the backs of her fingers. He was pouring water for her from his personal waterskin and wine for himself, which was a little odd but she wasn’t about to complain. Wine befuddled her mind and she’d never much cared for the sour taste of ale.

“My legs,” she said, as he raised the goblet to his lips, “feel as soft as my silken ribbons.”

His eyes darkened. “I’ll examine your claim later.” His voice was low, vibrated with desire. Satisfied with such reaction, she leaned a little farther over the table.

“And my pussy is near naked.”

He choked, wine splaying from his mouth, and shot her a look of utter disbelief. A smug smile tilted her lips and she waited for his response. He appeared unable to articulate one.

“Well?” she prompted. “Do you intend to examine
that
claim later also?”

“Intimately.” His voice was hoarse, and he took a hasty gulp of wine as if that might ease his throat.

“And this night,” she said, “I intend to examine
you
as intimately.”

For a fleeting moment she thought a grim disgust flashed across his face. But it vanished so swiftly perhaps it hadn’t been there at all. Because now he looked at her in a way that made her damp and tight and deliciously uncomfortable between her thighs.

Gods. How could she want him so savagely so soon after slaking her lust? Was it because her skin still tingled from the thorough cleansing ritual she’d enjoyed?

Or was it simply because the Gaul was ...
her Gaul
?

They arrived back at the inn just as dusk fell. He hadn’t touched her on the journey but she’d been achingly aware of him next to her, and on the few occasions his arm had brushed hers, lightning skittered along her nerves.

By the time he opened the door to their room she was so aroused she wanted to throw him to the floor and ravish him.

She sucked in a shaky breath. She’d done that once already this day. Although the door had substituted for the floor and he’d craftily switched their positions so he’d been in control.

This time he wouldn’t wrest power from her so easily. This time she would—

Her thoughts shattered as he gripped her shoulders and jerked her toward him, his mouth on hers. Hard and hot and merciless as he invaded and plundered her parted lips.

A moan slid along her throat, echoed through her mouth, and she thrust her own tongue against his, seeking and finding. He tasted of wine and spices and primitive aroused male.

She buried her fingers in his hair, so short, so foreign and yet so surprisingly erotic. His hands slid from her shoulders and without breaking their ravaging kiss he tugged open the ties at her bodice.

Her fingers dropped to his chest and feverishly she attempted to locate his elusive fastenings. He broke contact, panting in her face, his eyes dark in the flickering light from the lamps.

“Take off your gown.” His rough command sent tremors through her wet sheath but she wasn’t about to let him get away with issuing orders.

“No.” She flashed him a smile and tried to drag his chain mail from his chest.

He captured her fingers with one hard hand. “Remove your gown.” He pressed her hands against her breast and released her. “Or by the gods I’ll rip it from you.”

A spear of primal lust lanced through her womb, cascaded through her blood. Her breath shortened and she stared up at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

His fingers slid into her bodice and his knuckles grazed her sensitized flesh. She arched against him, felt his hands fist, and then he ripped her bodice to her waist as if it were made of nothing more substantial than spring leaves.

Astonishment and disbelief tumbled through her, but before she could even take a breath, violent desire incinerated all other emotions.

“Never,” he growled against her flushed cheek, “dare me, Morwyn.”

“Gallic barbarian.” She kicked off her leather footwear and pulled her ruined gown from her shoulders, allowed it to puddle around her feet. His gaze remained melded with hers. “Now you strip for me.”

He tore off his chain mail and dropped it onto the floor. Her breath lodged in her throat and her glance slid from his to rivet on his chest. But he made no move to remove the tunic, and with an impatient gasp she reached for him, to finish the job herself.

Swiftly he gripped her wrists in one large hand before she made contact and jerked her arms above her head, her bracelets tumbling down her forearms. Before her startled mind could fathom what he thought he was doing, he marched her backward and she had no choice but to comply or be dragged.

“Unhand me.” It sounded more like a plea to continue than a demand to acquiesce. The half smile he offered her suggested he thought so too.

A strange tenderness threaded through the sharp lust spearing low in her belly. She craved his smile. How insane to find such a natural expression so captivating.

Except on her Gaul it wasn’t natural. He rarely smiled. And when he did she had the incomprehensible urge to savor it, as if it were a gift from benevolent gods.

The backs of her legs hit the edge of the bed. “Sit.”

From sheer habit she opened her mouth to disagree, because nobody gave her orders. But instead she merely expelled a noisy breath and sat as gracefully as she could manage with her arms still extended above her head.

He kneed her thighs open and stood between her parted legs. Yet still his gaze remained locked on hers. As if her face was the most arousing and fascinating part of her body, despite the way she was open for his most intimate of inspection.

And, inexplicably, that knowledge sent tremors skittering across the skin of her lower belly and the sensitized flesh of her breasts.

“Now will you strip for me?” Her voice was husky and she twisted her wrists but his grip didn’t relax. She trailed her feet up his rock-hard calves, balancing precariously as she explored his rigid thighs, bracing her weight on her captured hands.

Slowly he leaned forward and she could do nothing but go with the momentum. Flat on her back, legs hooked around him, she glared up at him. His smile was pure decadence, wiping years from his face, and she struggled to recall why she was angry with him.

What did it matter if he refused to relinquish control, when he smiled like that? Entranced despite herself, she stared at him, his face so close to hers. Towering over her like a conquering warlord, pinning her to the bed as if she were his captive spoil of battle.

“Have you forgotten?” His smoky voice curled deep within her womb as potent as any Druidic aphrodisiac. “I need to examine the veracity of your claims.”

She squirmed helplessly, digging her heels into the tops of his thighs, but he refused to lower himself onto her, to alleviate the pressure between her legs.

“Then make haste.” Her fingers flexed and clawed but still she couldn’t escape. “You torture me with your tongue.”

His lips all but brushed hers. “Not yet. But I will.”

The promise in his words lanced through her heated blood, tightening muscles and shortening breath, and erratic gasps fanned his face. Again he smiled, as if her reaction pleased, and slowly he loosened the grip on her wrists.

“Don’t try to escape.” His fingers trailed the length of her arms, caressed her shoulders. She remained prone, unable to move a muscle, as if his words hypnotized.

She had not the slightest inclination to escape. She even forgave him for not stripping first, because that could come later. After he had fulfilled the promise glinting in his mesmeric eyes.

As if her silence satisfied, the tips of his roughened fingers continued to trail over her heated skin to the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. Slow and maddening and unbelievably erotic. A featherlight touch she could feel all the way in the deepest recesses of her soul, as if flesh and psyche melded beneath his exploration.

“Back up.” There was the faintest undercurrent of a tremble in his command, as if his control wasn’t as absolute as he would have her believe. And because of that she obeyed, bracing her feet against his hips and pushing back onto the bed, until she sprawled across the mattress, legs spread in helpless abandon.

The palms of his hands glided over her thighs, her knees, her calves. Air hissed between her teeth and she dug her fingers into the mattress. Still his eyes never left hers. As if he wanted to watch every tiny reaction his touch evoked. As if that was of more import to him than examining her blatantly exposed pussy.

“Your legs,” he said, as his palms once again skimmed her shins, “are as silken as your ribbons.”

She knew that. It wasn’t her legs she wanted him to examine. Even if every touch caused shivers of desire to spill across her skin in ever-increasing spirals of anticipation.

“Some Roman implements have their uses.” Not that she would admit such to anyone else. But the Gaul wasn’t anyone else. He was the one admiring her smooth skin, and what did it matter if she confessed to enjoying the unexpected session of indulgence in the baths?

He would never repeat her words to those who would despise her for such weakness. And it wasn’t as if she would ever have the chance to experience that foreign pampering again.

His fingers splayed against the inside of her thighs, but still he maintained eye contact. How did he exert such self-control? Were their positions reversed, she would be all but devouring his cock with her eyes and mouth.

The fantasy was so real in her mind she squirmed again and wrapped her hands around his wrists. He didn’t move, except for his lips, and his smile scorched what little air remained in her lungs.

“Patience,” he said, “is not one of your virtues, Morwyn.”

“I never claimed it was.” She sounded parched, as if she were dying of thirst. And she was dying, but of hunger. Hunger for his touch.