Page 41 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
His body tightened with the familiar sensation, and he took her by the shoulders and pulled her away.
“Am I not pleasing you, husband?” Her eyes matched the hurt in her voice.
“You please me greatly,” he said, “but I can bear it no longer.”
“My lord?”
“I need to be inside you.”
He took her hands and pushed her back on the fur again. She parted her thighs, and he covered her once more with his huge body. Withholding the desperate need to plunge inside her, he heeded Marlin’s words and entered her slowly, marveling at the ease with which she accommodated him, the intense pleasure at feeling her damp warmth envelop him, welcoming his body into her own.
She let out a deep sigh and he opened his eyes to see her staring back at him. Her eyes reflected his own desire—trust and hope shimmering in their blue depths.
He eased himself out then plunged in again, feeling her heat draw him in. Her cries of pleasure sent a hot flame coursing through his blood, igniting his body as he entered her again and again, her name on his lips growing louder with each thrust. His body tightened as his climax drew near and he lifted himself up on his arms to keep his weight from crushing her as he thrust in faster, harder, unable to stop the unquenchable need driving him forward.
She let out a scream and her body clenched and rippled around him until he burst inside her and shouted into the night, falling forward. He rolled to one side, taking her with him, their bodies fused together, sticky with sweat, him still inside her. He pressed his forehead against hers and kissed her. She yielded immediately, parting her lips to welcome his tongue, mirroring the act they’d just shared. Smiling, he held her close and drifted to sleep, lulled by her steady breathing and the crackle of the flames in the hearth.
When he woke, the fire had reduced to a faint orange glow. He rolled onto his back and she shifted beside him. Then she sat up, and reached for her chemise.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
The light had gone from her eyes. “I must return to my chamber.”
“Is that what you wish? Eloise?”
“Is it not whatyouwish?”
He shook his head, part denial, part shame. Then he lifted her, and carried her to the bed and slipped in beside her, drawing her close. He kissed her and her eager, natural response sent a surge through his cock.
He made love to her again, marveling at her responsiveness as she cried out his name into the night. How right Marlin had been! Finally, he understood what it was to have a true response from a woman. Unlike any other, Eloise rewarded him by showing genuine pleasure—by taking it, and giving it in return.
He watched his wife drift into a contented sleep, safe and trusting as she nestled into his embrace. Then he kissed her forehead and sighed to himself.
“My wish is for you never to return to your chamber.”
* * *
Eloise woketo the sound of gentle snoring. Dawn had not yet broken and her husband was asleep. Almost a month had passed since he’d asked her to remain in his chamber after making love to her. They still spoke little during the day—he was busy training with his men, some of whom had been promised to serve William as due for retaining Wildstorm, and she spent her days preparing for the tournament.
Roswyn accompanied her husband at mealtimes, but despite her attempts to engage Harald in conversation, he ignored her. Jeffrey seemed unaffected by his wife’s attentions being directed elsewhere. Occasionally, he turned resentful eyes on Eloise, but he always carried out Harald’s orders, and outwardly showed her respect.
She climbed out of bed and dressed, unwilling to summon Jeanette at such an early hour. Some of the tournament guests were arriving that day, including one of William’s barons who’d been appointed to oversee Harald’s ministrations in quelling the Saxon riots. Despite protestations from some of his men, Harald, keen to further peace, welcomed the Baron’s arrival. Eager to please her husband, Eloise ventured out into the meadows surrounding Wildstorm to gather flowers to adorn the hall.
A thick layer of mist hung in the air, and she drew her cloak around her to keep out the damp. By the time she reached the meadow, her skirts were wet from the dew, but the sun had broken through the mist heralding the start of a clear, hot summer’s day. As she gathered flowers into her basket, she became aware of a rhythmic thudding noise. Hoofbeats.
A rider emerged from the mist, and she smiled to herself.
The previous night, as they’d basked in the soft afterglow of their lovemaking, Harald had, impulsively, promised to help her gather flowers. The image of her big brute of a husband picking the delicate blooms with roughened hands, large enough to span her waist, made her laugh. But she never thought he’d actually join her. Though most of the time he frightened her with his barbaric ways and coarse behavior, the glimpses of tenderness were eroding the defenses of her heart. When they were alone, a different man emerged—someone who treasured her, who cried out her name into the night as he continued to show her how beautiful the union between a man and a woman could be.
Her dream of finding a life of peace and love had become a reality.
She hailed the rider and lifted her hand, shielding her eyes from the sunlight. With the sun directly behind him, Harald seemed slimmer, the horse’s pelt a shade darker. He held his own hand up in salute and slowed his horse to a walk.
“I hadn’t thought to see you so early, my lord,” she said.
He reined his horse to a halt and Eloise realized her mistake. The rider was not Harald. He was dark, not fair—thick, black hair shorn in the Norman fashion, curled at the ends, and, framed smooth handsome features—a high forehead, straight brow, strong, aquiline nose and finally the full, red lips.
His voice was smooth and cultured as he spoke, smiling to show perfect white teeth.
