Chapter Eleven #10
Obviously, she wasn’t thinking about the soldier he had killed in front of her, or Eugene le Tourneaux. Mayhap because they were more spur of the moment, not given to plan. The fact that he was planning a murder seemed to greatly disturb her, but he looked at it in a different light.
Guy Stoneley was a vile bastard who had humiliated and beaten his wife, a woman whom Gaston just happened to love madly. He would do anything for her, including kill, to insure her happiness. Anything for you.
“We shall not speak of it, then,” he said softly.
She did not believe for a minute that he had rethought his statement.
Gaston de Russe did not say anything he did not mean, and she was greatly troubled.
It wasn’t one reason in particular, but the entire concept.
She knew the Dark Knight and his reputation, and knew that killing for him was a natural function of his profession, but she couldn’t bring herself to condone the killing of her legal husband. Murder, for whatever reason, was wrong.
She turned into Gaston, pressing her body as close as she could, her face in the smooth skin of his chest. He enfolded her tighter, his huge arms almost completely obscuring her torso.
The fire crackled and hissed, filling the silent room, as they were lost to their own thoughts.
In spite of their individual opinions about the future of Guy Stoneley, to be together as they were was the most natural, heavenly thing in the world.
Gaston felt as if, somehow, he was whole when he was with her.
She fit against him as if she had somehow been carved from the spot and the void had never healed, instead, waiting for her to fill it once again.
It was beyond anything he had ever experienced.
He thought she had fallen asleep but her head came up, her half-lidded eyes gazing up at him.
“Make love to me,” she whispered.
His lips came down, brushing hers gently. “Are you sure you are not going to fall asleep in the middle of it?”
She stiffened and tried to push him away, though it was in good humor. “If you do not want to, then say so. I will return to my own bedchamber.”
He grinned. “That day will never come.”
She closed her eyes as he grazed her neck with his gentle lips, his stubble scratching her.
His kisses grew hotter and she clung to his neck, half-laying on his reclined body.
His hands roved over her promising curves, delighting in her form, eager to remove her of her garments so that he could touch the silky skin. She had the most remarkable skin.
With a groan, he rolled her onto the bearskin, his fingers working the stays of her surcoat. His mouth was probing hers, tongues clashing and tasting. After a moment, she realized he was having difficulty with the stays and she pulled back.
“Might I help you with that?” she teased, already bending her arm behind her and unhooking the seam.
He looked sheepish. “I am not as adept as some,” he mumbled. “I have had little practice removing a woman’s surcoat in the heat of passion.”
“I am glad,” she said, pulling the surcoat off from her shoulders. “That means you have not felt desire such as this very often.”
“If at all,” his mouth plunged to the milky-white of her shoulder, tasting her sweet flesh.
She gave herself over to him, acutely aware of every sensation, every touch. His huge arousal brushed against her thigh and she opened her eyes long enough to see that he still retained his breeches.
In a flash, her hand moved down and yanked the fastener, releasing his waistband. He came back up to her hungry mouth, grinning in between kisses.
“My lady is bold this eve,” he growled. “Might I help you with that?”
He was so large that her arm was too short to effectively remove his breeches. She smiled as he raised himself from her long enough to pull them down. “I have had little practice removing men’s trousers.”
“I am glad,” his entire body, sculpted and superbly muscled and taut covered her, his arms winding about her body fiercely.
She instinctively wound herself around him, her arms around his neck and her legs wrapping his rock-hard thighs.
His erection rubbed her inner thigh, the cleft between her buttocks, driving her insane with need.
“Take me now, Gaston,” she breathed.
His lips tore themselves away from her neck. “Not yet.”
“Gaston!” she pleaded.
His mouth moved down her body, to her delicious breasts. “Not yet.”
“Why the hell not?” she panted, crying out softly when his lips engulfed a swollen nipple.
His hands massaged her, pulling at her breasts and pinching her nipples until she was absolutely writhing with passion.
His massive hands still splayed on her breasts, his mouth blazed a trail down the center of her torso, losing himself in her scent and texture.
Every curve was explored with his tongue, every inch touched or caressed somehow. He had to experience all of her.
His mouth moved to her tender groin area, tasting and kissing. His hands left her breasts and he moved between her thighs, bringing up both of her legs and spreading them wide.
Remington’s head came up, puzzlement in her passion. “What are you doing?”
He lowered his head to her throbbing core, a wolfish grin on his sensual face.
Obviously, she would not have asked such a question if she had experienced what he was about to do.
There was no mistaking his intentions. His gentle fingers delicately traced the dark curls, tenderly spreading the thick folds and Remington’s eyes widened.
“Gaston,” she breathed. “What are you…?”
She was cut off when his hot mouth descended on her very private, very sensitive core.
A moan spilled forth from her moist lips and she arched her back with the force of her passion, the top of her head nearly flush with the rug.
Frozen in that position, she could do naught but feel every lap of his tongue, every suckle, as if nothing else in her world existed, only Gaston and his amazing touch.
His hands held her buttocks, trapping her against him as he continued his onslaught.
Her sharp pants of passion excited him beyond belief, driving him nearly insane for want of her.
As new as she was to the art of love, he knew her peak was seconds away, and he did not want to miss it.
Releasing her buttocks, he arched over her and drove himself into her hot, slippery flesh in one great thrust.
Remington was already climaxing as he came into her, only enhanced by his massive organ filling her as she had never been filled.
His thrusts were firm and complete, prolonging her pleasure until tears of pure joy ran down her temples.
The harder he pushed, the more potent her contractions until she began the inevitable downslide toward relaxed bliss.
His arms were braced on either side of her head, his body aloft from hers as he rammed into her again and again. She was so damn tight and slick that he could imagine no greater pleasure, for any man, ever. There was indeed a heaven and her name was Remington.
When his release came shortly, it was with the most violent of blasts.
Her name gushed forth from his lips as he spilled himself, still moving, feeling her juices and his combine and making her unbelievably wet.
He continued to move, still wanting to feel her around him, still wanting to be within her until out of sheer fatigue, he slowed his pace and finally ceased.
With a great sigh, he lowered himself on the rug and pulled her with him as he went. She moved to unwind her legs but he would only allow her to remove one, so he would not lie upon it. The other leg he kept wrapped over his hip.
“Nay, madam, remain where you are,” he rasped. “I would still feel myself in you.”
Even semi-flaccid, he was absolutely enormous and she could feel his manhood throb and twitch as it diminished further. But it was the most wonderful, intimate feeling ever and she absorbed every move. Her lips, against his chest, moved over him softly.
They lay together, listening to the fire, for a countless amount of time. Nothing mattered at that very moment more than them, together.
“Shall we move to the bed?” she whispered.
He grunted; he had been dozing off. “I suppose. Are you cold?”
She snuggled up against him. “Never. How could I be? You are as hot as any fire.”
His hand was gently touching her hair, caressing it against her back. “But the bed would be more comfortable than the hard floor.”
He moved a little but she stopped him. “I am comfortable wherever you are, my love. Stay, stay.”
He did, tightening his arms about her. They were both dozing off when there was a soft rap at the door.
Gaston lifted his head, wary. “Who comes?”
“Me,” it was Arik.
He looked at Remington apologetically, mayhap a bit guiltily. Still embedded in her, he withdrew his member and put a huge hand over her mouth to stifle the soft groan. She grinned at him and sat up as he went in search of his breeches.
“My lord?” Arik called through the door.
“I am coming,” Gaston said, his words turning to a mumble as he secured his breeches.
Meanwhile, Remington had moved to the great bed and had hid herself behind the great silk curtains that hung from the canopy frame. In front of her on the bed was a lightweight cotton coverlet; she snatched it and wrapped it about her body as added protection.
Gaston gave her a final glance to make sure she was settled before opening the door.
Arik’s face was grim. “You are not going to be happy to hear this.”
Gaston’s mouth twitched with irritation. “What, then?”
“Your wife is demanding that you attend her,” he said. “Her physician tried to find his way up here to inform you personally, but was effectively halted by Nicolas. He insists your wife is greatly in need of your comfort.”
Gaston snorted. “Hmpf. A pity. Was that all?”
“Nay,” Arik raised an eyebrow in silent request for his lord to brace himself. “The soldiers you sent to return young Botmore home have returned. All but one of them is dead, and he was spared simply to relay a message to you from Lord Botmore.”
Gaston’s face went tense. He moved back into the room and pulled on his shirt. Arik followed him and Remington found herself pressing further into the folds of the curtains to keep out of sight.
“Apparently Lord Botmore is completely devastated over the death of his son and is vowing revenge on you,” Arik said, leaning against the canopy post as Gaston pulled his boots on. “He not only killed five of your soldiers, but he damn near hacked them to death.”
Gaston stood, donning his mail tunic and sliding into a heavy leather vest. “Too bad his son was stupid enough to cause all of this, but of course, his father will not admit it. The lad brought it down on himself when he kidnapped the women.”
Arik watched Gaston secure the vest. “You mean when he captured Lady Stoneley. You would not have killed him had he only abducted the sisters.”
Gaston moved to strap on his scabbard. “Since when do you read my mind and know my motives? ’Tis a dangerous sport, Arik, even for you.”
Arik grinned wryly. “I have made my life out of dangerous sport, my lord. There is nothing else where you are involved.”
Gaston slid his massive broadsword into the crafted leather and metal scabbard. “Where is my soldier?”
“In the new troop house,” Arik replied.
Gaston preceded him from the room, his boot falls filled with purpose. Arik secured the door behind them and together they marched down the hall.
“I rather like the smell of roses and lavender,” Arik remarked.
Gaston did not respond for a moment. Then he paused at the top of the stairwell and looked at his friend. “What does that mean?”
Arik shrugged evasively. “Just that. It mingles well with the leather and metal in your room.”
Gaston’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Not another word, Arik.”
Arik smiled; he found it amusing to see Gaston cornered. He had smelled Lady Remington from the moment he entered the room. “My lord, I would sooner cut out my own tongue than gossip. Surely you know that.”
Gaston did not say any more, descending the stairs and trying to ignore his second in command. He was positive Arik knew what he was thinking, and he did not want anyone to know.