Colette Gale - Bound by Honor

“Mavis, go to her,” he ordered, and the short-haired woman moved to the wall.

“Ahh,” John sighed in Marian’s ear, forcing her hand to move faster. “Glynna is delicious, is she not? The one on the wall?”

Even if she’d had an opinion, Marian couldn’t have voiced it. She concentrated on breathing, on moving her arm in a non-stop rhythm . . . her body taut and quivering, pounding, swollen, wet . . . tight.

Her arm moved faster and faster, and she could not ignore the scene in front of her. . . . Mavis knelt in front of the bound woman, spreading wide her bare knees so that the deep red of Glynna’s quim was exposed to the room.

Marian’s breath caught as that dark head bent to the woman in front of her, and the sounds of lapping, of sloppy damp laving, filled the air over the rising harsh breaths of the prince, and the roaring in her own ears.

Almost . . . she almost felt the strokes on her, over her, her quim full and ready. . . . Her mouth was dry as she watched Glynna, bound and helpless, writhing against the wall as the kneeling woman bent to her . . . and then pulled away, running her fingers all along the insides of her thighs as the bound woman struggled and arched . . . and then the tormentor bent again as Glynna begged Please, please. . . . Marian felt the teasing, the stop-starting, the pounding and wet of her own little pearl . . . the damp growing between her legs.

“Faster,” John ordered, releasing her hand to grope for her breast, his breathing heavy and hot in her ear. Her arm ached from the motion, and yet she dared not stop. . . . She could do naught but focus on the women in front of her, and watched as the pale man pulled Mavis away, sending her tumbling across the room.

The man shoved himself inside Glynna, and Marian saw her eyes fly wide, watched as he pumped inside her, his hands clawing at her breasts. . . . Marian’s arm screamed with pain, and yet she continued on, faster, matching the rhythm of the man fucking the woman against the wall . . . her breath, her heartbeat, her eyes, all focused, centered, there. . . .

John cried out, and she felt the surge from his cock, the wet over her hand, the shuddering in his body. She pulled her hand away, turning from him, wiping his seed on the first cloth she groped, the woman’s pleading cries still filling her ears, the sounds of body slamming into body, the gasps and groans.

She couldn’t catch her breath, and the room felt close and small around her. The cries and the heavy sweet wine made her soft and loose . . . yet tight and desperate. . . . She couldn’t get away, couldn’t look anywhere but at the woman’s mouth, open in pleasure or pain, her head rolling against the stones behind her, the taut, spare muscle of the man slamming into her, his buttocks moving, his slender, ropy arms tense as they groped at her.

Suddenly, Marian felt strong hands on her . . . strong, solid hands, warm . . . and she was pulled away, turned from the sight of them fucking, her hair catching painfully. . . . Dizzy, light-headed, she stumbled and fell. . . . Those strong hands caught her and she tumbled against him, his solid, bare skin . . . an exchange of deep rumbling voices, a sharp response, and aye . . . Will.

Will.

Her dull mind recognized him, his touch, the way he moved, the rumble in his chest as he spoke something she couldn’t understand. He was around her, holding her, his hands smoothing over her body, up along her back, through the masses of hair, pulling her close to his chest with a powerful arm, and then shifting her away.

She rolled free in a swirl of hair, falling onto something soft . . . the bed. . . . It dipped when he joined her, the yellow light from the chamber about them disappearing as he yanked the bed-curtains around closed, leaving only a narrow strip of light on either side.

And then . . . nothing.

She lay there, heart still pounding, breathing heavily, unsettled, irritated. . . . The images still haunted her, teased her. Beyond their curtained space, Marian heard the unmistakable sounds of coupling, of wet, slick strokes, the slap of skin against skin . . . the pleasured moans, the pained cries. . . . She needed something . . . to move, to be touched. . . . She needed relief, to be rid of this tightness, this incessant throbbing and pounding that made her feel like crawling out of her skin.

“Will,” she whispered. . . . It came out like a soft moan, like a little plea. She reached out, felt for him, found the warm tension of his arm next to her. She became aware of his breathing, rough and heavy, and the absolute stillness of his body. As if he were frozen, bracing for something.

“I . . . please . . .” She didn’t know, didn’t know what to say, how to ask. . . . The unsettling, squirming feeling roiling inside her was strong, desperate.

He made a soft noise, like a sigh deep in his chest, and suddenly his hands were on her. The next thing she knew, he’d dragged her on top of him, half over his wide, solid chest, and he brought her face down for a hungry kiss.

His hands moved over her, catching up her breasts where they tipped above him, finding the nipples that had tightened. He released her mouth and grasped her waist to move her up, above him, settling her full, wet quim over his belly. Unable to help it, she moved, pressing her throbbing little pip into his skin, seeking relief, grinding madly into him.

He made a noise-mayhap it was her name-planting his hands on her hips as he lifted his head. Will found one of her nipples, closing his warm mouth around it.

Marian gasped. Her face lifted, her head tipping back at the sharp pleasure-at last!-shooting down, from breast to belly to the little throbbing piece between her legs. As he sucked and licked over the top of her sensitive nipple, she cried and squirmed against him, feeling his breathing roughen beneath her, conscious of the little pulses between her legs. More . . . more . . .

At last, he released her breast, tumbling her off and to the side next to him. Will moved with her too, somehow managing not to catch her hair under an elbow or a hip or leg as he levered his torso half over hers, one hand propping himself near her hips, the other near her shoulder.

Yes, aye, oh . . . please, she was ready. She wanted . . . She made a little noise, another desperate gasp, and hitched her hips impatiently. He buried his face in her neck, hot and damp, kissing her shoulder, using his strong tongue to glide along the tender part there as she twitched and writhed and thought about begging.

Urgent, desperate, she reached, her hand glancing over his belly, still damp from her moisture moments ago. She felt the rough hair growing there, then the waist of his braies. . . . She slipped her hand down into the heat.

“Nay,” he said suddenly, the word a clipped order. Lifting his face from her neck, he shifted out of reach and her hand fell away. And then she forgot all, for his fingers moved between her legs.

Marian cried out, arching up into his hand as he found her swollen pip. Oh, aye . . . he slid a finger deep inside, and then another one, filling her . . . moving in and out, sliding through the pool of dampness. He used his thumb to massage in and around, caressing her swollen labia, gently flicking over her tight little pip, slow and easy . . . and then, as she began to breathe more urgently, feeling the pleasure gather there, he teased and rubbed harder, faster, his own breath hot on her neck, his skin sticky against hers.

Marian’s eyes were closed, and she knew naught but the rise and tightening of pleasure . . . the climb toward relief, as it coiled-almost painfully-there beneath his hand strokes . . . and all at once she slipped over with a cry, bursting into delicious warmth and gasping with the rolling waves of relief as she shuddered against him.

Oh, aye . . . aye . . .

Her face was wet, her body still twitching, the little pearl between her legs heavy and pulsing, the gentle weight of his hand against it, as she sifted back to reality. Then he moved away, eased his fingers free, and she blinked her eyes open, finding the lit seam of the bed-curtains and a haze over her vision. Despite all that had happened, Marian could not keep a satisfied smile from curving her lips. . . . She had needed that so, needed the blast of release, the touch of a strong body, sure fingers, skillful mouth.

But Will . . . he’d moved away, and before she could speak, or reach for him-she wanted to touch him-he sat up, flung the curtains open.

“Come,” he said sharply, quietly, looking not at her but into the chamber beyond.

Only then did Marian become aware that the sounds of pleasure beyond their curtained sanctuary had not eased. But Will had opened the opposite side of the bed, out of sight of the others. When he beckoned, she moved sluggishly toward him, still languid and dazed from the wine and pleasure.

Will grabbed her arm and pulled her along, unspeaking, away from the bed. He snatched up a wrap of some sort and flung it over her: a dusty cloak with a hood that would hide her distinctive hair, and the rest of her body.

From the other end of the chamber, beyond the bed they’d just vacated, came the sounds of pleasure and pain, of flesh slaps and guttural cries, galvanizing Marian to move more readily. She wanted to escape before John noticed them, and she understood that silence and speed were imperative.

To that end, she couldn’t be concerned with the pile of her discarded clothing, yet Will snatched it up, bundling it under his arm and towing her along with his other hand.

Moments later, they were safely outside the chamber, and she noticed that he’d left his own clothing behind. He still wore only the low-hanging braies, which defied the law of nature and remained at his hips.

“Come,” he hissed again, without a look at her. One of the guards made a move as if to question him, but Will turned and gave him a cold order. “Yield.”

Thus, dressed only in a cloak, Marian hurried behind him-bare of foot, cloak flapping, propelled along by his grip to keep pace with his long strides.

She was breathless by the time they reached her bedchamber, and Marian pulled from Will’s grip. He’d said naught during their quick negotiation of hallways and staircases, rushing her along as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. She’d caught a glimpse of his set face, but he made no move to speak or to otherwise acknowledge her presence.

Ethelberga did not answer the door, and the antechamber, where the maid should have been sleeping at this late hour, was empty. A fire burned therein, along with a well-placed wall sconce, giving the chamber good light. Turning to close the door, Marian found Will standing there, his eyes sharp. His presence gave her a start, for he’d seemed so eager to get her back to the chamber and be on his way.

“Your maid is not here?” he said.

“Nay, and what a tongue-lashing she’ll get from me,” Marian said. “Though,” she added with a self-conscious laugh, “I trow I am in no need of her assistance to disrobe this night.”

He didn’t respond to her attempt at humor, and instead stepped over the threshold into the antechamber. She looked up at him, very conscious of the fact that they were alone, and that much had happened this day.

In this chamber, where he’d burst in earlier today and . . .

Pretended to rape her. And then tonight, in the prince’s quarters, when she’d tried to touch him, he’d rejected her overture. Why?

I am no saint, Marian. I do not deny ’twould please me greatly.

Yet . . . he did not touch her when he had the chance.

Nay . . . he had touched her . . . but not for his own pleasure. She swallowed harder as something fluttered in her belly, and she glanced up and found him watching her. Behind him the door gaped open.

Feeling exposed, she pushed it closed, sensing that he was about to speak. Yet he did not appear friendly or the least approachable; his mouth had settled into a flat line and he looked at her as if he didn’t know her. Distant, impersonal.

But she found it difficult to look away from the breadth of his shoulders and the faint sheen on his tanned, dark-haired chest. Marian could see a band of white skin above his low-hanging braies, testament to the fact that he must train or practice in the sunlight without a tunic or shirt.

She’d been gathered against that solid torso, shuddering and trembling, only moments ago. Her mouth became dry and she licked her lips, aware of her nakedness beneath the cloak. His mouth on her breast, his hands between her legs. She swallowed. Heat flushed over her.

“Marian,” he said, his voice rough, impatient. “Are you . . . ?”

She looked up at him, and her insides flipped. He was reaching toward her, his hand moving toward her face. Marian’s heart started pounding and then he touched her, brushing a strand of hair from where it had caught at the corner of her mouth.

A musky scent reached her nose, and she grabbed his wrist, barely able to fit her fingers around it. Though her grip wasn’t strong, he didn’t pull away as she brought his fingers closer. ’Twas her own scent there, still strong on his skin from when he’d stroked her.

Their eyes met over their joined fists, and she gently moved them up and toward his nose. His eyes darkened to black, a tiny glow of the fire reflected there, and his nostrils flared as he drew in the scent. Marian felt weak in the knees at the expression in the black depths. Hunger . . . remorse . . . fear.

“Will,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Her words seemed to break the spell. His face sharpened; he extricated his hand and stepped back. “You have naught for which to thank me.”

Then he seemed to look around as if seeing the chamber again for the first time, cocking his head. “Step away,” he said, his voice sharp. “I’ll look inside.” He gestured to the door behind her, and she realized with a start that he meant to go into her chamber.

He brushed past, obvious in his attempt to avoid touching her as she stood in front of the door. Shoving it open, he went inside.

“I suspected as much,” she heard him say in a cold voice.

“Nottingham,” came an even response. “I cannot say the same.”

“Robin?” Marian exclaimed, rushing into the room, cloak flapping at her heels.

Indeed. None other but Robin Hood sat comfortably on the stool in the corner of her room, beneath the horse-eye peephole. A fire burned happily, lending a soft glow to the room. He seemed more annoyed than apprehensive about the arrival of the man sworn to hang him.

“Marian! What has befallen you?” Robin shot to his feet when he saw her. Then he spun toward Will, a menacing look on his face. Before Marian could react, he had a knife in his hand. “What has happened?”

“The prince,” Will replied flatly. Ignoring the knife, he advanced. “And you are more a fool than I believed possible.” He looked as if he was about to lunge toward the other man.

But Marian intervened. “Robin, what are you doing here?” she asked, frightened. Will’s face had gone from blank and cold to deadly furious. Why had Robin been so foolish as to come back to the keep?

She moved closer to him, as if to block him from Will . . . an odd thing, she realized belatedly, for ’twas Robin who had the blade and not the sheriff.

“The prince? It looks as though he had some assistance,” Robin said cuttingly. “Am I to believe he acted alone, without the help of his black cohort the sheriff?” He was looking, not at her, but at the half-dressed Will, and he still held the knife as if prepared to use it.