Page 7 of Tamed for Her Pleasure

He wears a thick fur cloak, leather jerkin, and pants thrust into serviceable boots. His dark hair falls in long braids over his shoulders, and a thick beard lines his jaw. He is seven feet tall if he is an inch, and, from what I can tell, all of it is muscle.

My desire to provoke him—to issue a challenge that he must accept or else lose face—makes no sense from any angle. This is not the first time I have been waylaid. It is far better to play docile, let them liberate me of my obvious weapons, lock me behind a sturdy door or tie me up somewhere, and then simply pluck out one of my hidden daggers or lockpicks—the ones they never find—break out, and be gone.

Another course of action would be to just deliver the message from Aston. I admit to having been surprised to find so many of them so close—news of which my father is clearly ignorant,too. Having noted their numbers, I was going to return home and beseech my father to apply common sense and free the barbarian and his mate.

Too late for that now.

Which means I should disclose my conversation with Aston.

But I don’t—not yet anyway—because I very much want to find out what this barbarian will do.

If there were degrees of alpha-ness, I feel certain this mountain of a man would be at the top. He is nothing like the civilized men I have known. His mere presence reels me in like the proverbial moth to the flame. Just a little taste of the forbidden is all I want. Just one touch. An experience I can take away lest I wonder for the rest of my life what it might have been like.

Perhaps it is bold of me to presume this pull between us is mutual, that the glimmer in his eyes, the way his nostrils flare, is from more than anger at my obvious interruption. There have been very few occasions in my life when I feel like I might have bitten off more than I can chew, but as I stare up at Alfred, and heat gathers between my thighs, along with an ache there that demands to be eased, I believe this is one.

I don’t feel any fear as Alfred stalks towards me, covering the small distance between us until he is upon me. Although I back up into the young warrior who has felt my fist and my knee, I have nowhere to go.

I expect Alfred to take me in hand, fist my arm maybe.

He doesn’t. There is a brief moment of weightlessness before I’m over his shoulder. A big, broad shoulder that presses into my belly.

One might think I would protest at this point, kick or scream, take out a knife, and stab him in the back, all of which I could do very easily.

I don’t. The only noise that leaves my lips is a small gasp.

I have trained with the Raven Guild since I was a child, learning the art of stealth, of using a dagger, of disabling a man or woman—oftentimes bigger than me—with ease. These are skills I have only ever used in defense. It felt right that I should learn my mother’s skills to honor her memory, even though I am a princess and the sole heir to a kingdom and would never follow in her footsteps. The training has proven empowering. I never fear anything or anyone, and perhaps that has emboldened me too much and led me to my personal demise.

Only it is not my demise I’m thinking of as the burly alpha barbarian stalks for the tent with me, his prize, over his shoulder. No, it is something entirely more dangerous—an unmistakable surge of lust.

As I bounce about over his shoulder, I recognize that this game I play is dangerous.

I didn’t choose that safe option, did I? No, I tossed out challenges, one after another, determined to have this alpha’s hands on me one way or another, hands that could snap my neck in an instant.

My instincts say he won’t hurt me, not in the obvious ways anyway, yet I also feel vulnerable in softer, more emotional ways.

I’ve had lovers, although I chose to keep my virginity for when I found the right man. No woman wants to find themselves pregnant and be forced to marry. But I saw no reason not to explore my sensuality within the bounds of what I deemed possible, and suffered no shame in it.

Yet I sense no prior lover could ever prepare me for what it might be like to have Alfred’s big, rough hands intimately exploring me.

My actions are ridiculous. I’m a Hydornian princess. I shouldn’t covet anything he has. And yet, Goddess, that glint in his eyes as he stalked toward me, and his unwavering confidencethat he could handle me when no one ever has are the highest order of aphrodisiac.

How could I resist the temptation to let this play out, if only for a little while?

I tell myself I will rouse myself from this docility soon enough and put him in his place. Once he puts me down—wherever that might be—I will take out my blade, and he will let me go, if he doesn’t want to lose his balls… or an eye. But as he marches into the tent and strides past an inner flap, where he drops me into a surprisingly soft fur-covered palette upon the floor, the only thing that escapes my lips is another inelegant little snort.

I toss my hair over my shoulder.

“Really? And this is how you’re going to handle me, is it? On your barbaric bed?” I inject a good measure of disdain although I am secretly cooing with delight.

“Damn right, lass,” he says. Unclasping his fur cloak, he lets it drop to the floor, revealing a broad chest with that tight leather jerkin and impossibly thick arms. He is a veritable giant and rough-looking with it. The knuckles of his hands are lined with scars.

My legs squeeze together—an involuntary reaction to all this male goodness.

His eyes lower to the apex of my thighs, and I realize I have given myself away.

His lips tug up as he meets my eyes. “You know alphas have a good sense of smell, little girl?”

I tell myself I don’t like him calling me little girl, because it is very demeaning, and, also, I am clearly neither little nor a girl. Yet it also makes me feel all fluttery inside. I blink up at him, trying to think of a witty comeback. For once, I don’t have any. Still, I believe he is merely taunting me or speculating and cannot possibly know anything about my wayward libido.

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