Chapter 33 #4
Isabelle tossed her head on the bolster, her long fair hair unbound like a siren’s and webbing her pale body.
The July heat had built up in the timbered upper storey of the hall during the day and the shutters were open to admit snatches of cooler air.
The sky through the aperture was a deep marine-blue.
Sweat ran in delicate trickles down the declivity of her breasts and made her flanks shine as if she had just stepped from the sea.
And he shone too, as wet as herself, his hair tangling and dripping at his brows and his eyes as dark as a river at night, running to the sea, swift and hard.
When he entered her there was pain, and she let it out on a single breath, indrawn hard and exhaled on a soft cry that welcomed the intrusion too.
He held himself above her, suddenly still, his own breathing ragged and shallow.
She touched his ribs, exploring each ridged contour and the breadth of his chest, then followed the breastbone down to the hollow of his diaphragm, and grew accustomed to the feel of him within her.
She felt too stretched and full to move, and yet beyond the strange discomfort the sea song whispered of pleasure and of deep, muscular tides that waited the turn.
He spoke her name softly and took his weight on his left arm so that he could cup and stroke her face with his hand.
She turned her head and kissed his fingers.
She would have asked him if this was it, had he found safe harbour and shelter, for she knew no different, but he lowered his head and sealed her lips with his own, pre-empting her question.
His right hand moved to cup her breast, and his hips gently surged and retreated with the rhythm of the kiss and the motion of his thumb across her nipple.
Isabelle wanted to gasp at the intensity of the feeling, but she couldn’t because he would not relinquish the kiss.
She clung to him and arched her body. The pain arrowed through her loins, but so did the pleasure, until her eyes widened and her voice mewed in her throat.
Still he would not let her go and the relentless, gentle friction brought her to a precipice and held her there, trembling, desperate.
And then she was tumbling fearfully, blissfully over the edge, and as her climax rippled through her loins he finally broke the kiss, buried his face against her throat, thrust hard, twice, and shuddered in her arms like a ship wrecking in a storm.
Stillness descended by degrees as harsh breathing softened and thundering heartbeat slowed.
As Isabelle returned to herself she became aware of mingled twinges of pain and pleasure, like strings on a musician’s lyre next to each other and softly plucked.
There was the capacity for renewal of both.
He raised up and, still within her, gazed down into her face.
“Jesu,” he croaked. “That was a close-run race.” He dipped his head to kiss and nuzzle her. “I haven’t felt like this since I was a green youth…”
Warm gratification flooded Isabelle at his words. “So it was like your first time?” she teased shyly.
He laughed and it was strange to feel that mirth inside her.
“Oh, nothing like it—for you at least, I hope. Lads of seventeen summers might have a great capacity for the sport and wander around with their pricks permanently to attention, but consideration and experience are sadly lacking…but tonight it was good to be reminded of that desperation.” He eased from her body and, rolling to his side, pulled her against him.
The faint breeze drawing from the window cooled the sweat on their bodies.
“I do not suppose that a man’s first time is like a woman’s,” she murmured as he gently stroked the valley of her spine.
“No,” he said and lifted his head to look at her with anxiety in his expression. “I know there must have been pain, but I hope you gained at least some pleasure.”
Isabelle smiled and touched his face. “A little,” she agreed mischievously. “Madam FitzReinier said to me that for a woman to conceive, she needs to enjoy the act of mating,” she said, “otherwise her seed will not descend and mix with her husband’s.”
He gave an amused grunt. “Yes, I’ve heard that before.
It’s what the Saracens say. At Queen Eleanor’s court in Poitou, when I was a young man, it was widely known.
I’m not sure that the men were entirely convinced.
The women liked the notion of being pleasured, but some of them were doubtful about being turned into mothers. ”
“And did you make any of them mothers?” she asked lightly.
He chuckled. “If I say that no woman grew a big belly because of me, you might infer that either I am an unskilled lover or not potent enough to sire a child.” His hand slipped over the curve of her buttocks, drawing her against his groin.
“I hope tonight I have proven that neither is true. No, when I was a young knight, I lay with women who knew how to protect themselves, and Clara was barren. Since we parted I’ve mostly slept alone.
I suffered some troubled times at court and decided that taking a woman to bed would cause more trouble than the deed was worth. In the end it became a habit.”
“Weren’t you ever tempted to break it?” Isabelle murmured sleepily. Lassitude was creeping through her limbs. She pressed closer to him in a snuggling movement.
“Not until now,” he answered.
She recognised the courtliness of the response, but also something deeper, and lifted her head off his chest to look at him. His expression was relaxed, his eyes heavy with tiredness and satiation…and peace.
“Not until I found a safe harbour.”