Behind me there is a grunt of frustration. Before I can stop myself, I glance over my shoulder. Maraud’s head is tilted up, his fingers plucking in increasing agitation against the leather ties at his neck. “It is in knots,” he says in disgust.
Part of me, the wise part, thinks, Good. Let him choke on his costume all night if need be. But another part, the wild, painfully awake part, takes a step toward him. “Here. Let me do it,” I say, hoping the note of impatience hides the breathlessness I feel.
He comes closer, exposing the thick muscled column of his throat. Such trust! And so poorly placed. Just a quick stab with a small knife, a stray nail, or even a needle, could end his life.
The most disturbing part is that what I actually want to do is to run my tongue along that vulnerable length of skin, taste the salt of him, nibble my way up to his lips, and lick them. Once. Twice. Then slowly ease them apart with my own. Would he savor such pleasure? Or would he take over, forcing his way in with his tongue before we had fully explored each other’s lips?
Such thoughts only make me more clumsy. No matter how quickly I try to untangle the leather ties, they do not budge. As I continue to struggle, Maraud’s eyes rest on me. Heat rises in my cheeks, and my fingers become nearly useless. “Perhaps we should just cut the things,” I mutter.
“But then I would be unable to wear it.”
I glance up at him to make a withering remark, the words drying up when I see his eyes watching my mouth. I resist the urge to lick my lips and instead allow my gaze to rest on his. They are parted slightly, and finely shaped.
His head begins to move closer to my own. In surprise, I glance up. He stops, meets my eyes. I wonder if the wine we drank will taste the same on him as it does on me.
“You’re drunk,” I finally tell him, a last effort to put some distance between us.
He raises his eyebrows. “Of course I’m drunk. Not on wine, but on freedom. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”
He is right. The effects of the wine have passed. Somehow, instead of repelling me, his honesty draws me closer. “I feel it.” Almost as if aided by some wise god, my fumbling fingers finally find purchase and, like magic, the snarled ties untangle. Reason returns and I step back so quickly I nearly stumble. “We’ve an early start in the morning.”
Without looking at him further, I lower myself onto the floor and busy myself with taking off my boots and folding my tabard into a pillow before stretching out.
Beside me, I can hear Maraud do the same. I turn my back to the room and settle onto the floor as best I can, then pull my cloak over my shoulders and try to sleep. But I cannot.
The victory of this newfound freedom fizzes through my veins, like water tossed on hot coals. I shift positions, trying to get comfortable. I hear a rustle off to my left and know that Maraud, too, is restless.
I peer over my shoulder to see if he is pretending to be asleep. He is looking at me, eyes unreadable in the dark.
“We are free,” he whispers.
“We are,” I whisper back.
“I never thought to be so again.”
“Nor I.” Surely that is why my heart is so full and my skin feels too tight on my bones.
He rolls up onto his side and props his head on his elbow. “We should celebrate.” His voice is naught but a whisper.
I turn around to face him, propping my own head on my hand. “I am fairly certain all the wine is gone.”
“There are other ways to celebrate.” He does not move a muscle. He simply waits.
There is a tug deep inside me, like being pulled by some invisible chain. This desire I feel is not because of Maraud, I tell myself, but because I am free. My body and my heart are once again my own. I roll to my hands and knees and crawl across the space between us, slowly, like a predator might stalk his prey. “Are there.” But it is not a question, and he knows it. He simply continues to wait. When I am close enough to touch him, I stop. What sort of lover will he be? Will his soldiering side take over? All quick thrusts and parrying and speed? Will his wit and sharp humor make an appearance? Or the coaxing seduction of that first voice in the dark?
I toss my hair over my shoulder and slowly lean down, my eyes never leaving his. As I draw closer, he shifts his elbow so he is flat on his back, and I am hovering over him. It is meant to be a gesture of submission, and yet it is not that at all. Merely an agreement that strength and power will remain in check.
The force of my desire causes my belly to tighten.
I want this.
Slowly, with our gazes locked, I slide one leg over and across his stomach so that I am straddling him. My hair spills forward, brushing against his chest.
His jaw tightens.
“Is this the sort of celebrating you had in mind?”
He nods, whether because he cannot find his voice or does not wish to break the spell, I do not know.
“Very well, then.” I reach for the hem of my tunic and slowly pull it over my head.
My nipples pucker at the cool air and a rush of goose bumps spreads across my skin.
I lean down to press my lips to his.
Ah, they are warm and firm and fit perfectly against my own. He allows me to explore his mouth without rushing, lazily exploring mine in return. His hands come up, and the warm, callused feel of them sliding along my skin causes me to shiver with pleasure.
He cups my head, pulls me closer, and opens his mouth as my tongue licks his lower lip. I feel the heat of him through his breeches, the urgency of it causing my hips to rock slightly against his.
He runs his hands down my neck, cupping my shoulder, exploring it with his palm before moving down to my back. I shiver again and he pulls away slightly. “You are cold.”
I shrug. “It is a cold night,” I whisper against his lips.
His hands grip me tighter, tucking my body close to his. With a dizzying roll, he switches our positions so that I am beneath him, cushioned by the soft wolf skin, still warm from the heat of his body.
And even though he is on top of me, he makes it clear that I am in control. He waits for my hips to move against his, for my arms to pull him back down. With that final permission given, it is as if a dam has burst and his mouth is softly probing mine, his hands exploring, his rough palm pressing against the soft skin of my stomach, moving up, up, up until it brushes the underside of my breast.
I arch into him, silently begging him to continue.
He complies, moving his hand so that it brushes over my nipple once, twice, then finally his palm closes over my breast, encasing it in the heat of his hand.