Turnabout is fair play…or is that fun play? …
Esme was lying flat on her back, naked, whistling. She always whistled when she was nervous. She was really nervous now.
“You are a terrible whistler,” Toste remarked as he hung his cloak on a wall peg and then threw several logs on the fire.
“The quality of the whistle is not so important as the fact that I whistle at all.” Dumb, dumb, dumb! The man is making me dumb. Next I will be conversing about the quality of breathing. “Believe you me, whistling has been the only thing to keep me sane on many an occasion in the past.”
His eyes shot up at her words. He waited for her to elaborate. Hah! She would not tell him she’d whistled when her father’s birch rod whipped her back. She would not tell him she’d whistled when her brothers had locked her in a root cellar for two full days as part of a youthling prank. She would not tell him she’d whistled on many an occasion at the nunnery when her loneliness had become nigh unbearable.
“To be a good whistler, you must wet your whistle first,” he told her and sat down on the edge of the mattress.
He must be as dumb as I am… continuing a lackwit discussion on the art of whistling when there are more important things to discuss, like my imprisonment. “I don’t need to—”
It was too late. He was already leaning down and outlining her lips with the tip of his tongue. She noticed irrelevantly that he must have shaven his face and his skin smelled of soap. Then he dipped his tongue inside her mouth and laved her lips with moisture. Over and over he did this till her lips were more than moist. Then he stuck his tongue inside again, and kissed her long and deep. As much as she disliked the rogue, her body liked his ministrations. Well! she thought. Wellwellwell!
He pulled back just slightly and said against her wet mouth, “Now whistle.”
Apparently, I’m the only one overcome with passion here. “Whistle this!” she said and nipped his lips before he could pull away.
He jerked back, then stood. “Not a smart move, Esme. Now you will have to be punished even more.” He rubbed his mouth as if she’d severely wounded him when in fact she hadn’t even broken the skin. “But first, are you hungry?”
She nodded.
“Good,” he said and took great pleasure in making her eat tiny morsels of manchet bread dripping with honey from his hand, like a pet dog. After each bite, he forced her to lick clean his fingers. She seriously considered, biting one of those appendages, but decided to pick her battles. She suspected that licking his fingers might be the least of the offenses he planned to inflict upon her. When she finished, he gave her a cup of cool water, then asked, “Do you have to relieve yourself, Esme?”
She did, but she would wet the bed afore she let him put a pan under her bottom and watch her empty her bladder.
He just laughed when she raised her chin defiantly. Then he loosened her ties, telling her, “I’m only untying you for a few moments while I go out to gather wood for the fire. You have a very short amount of time to take care of yourself,” he said, pointing to the chamber pot in the far corner.
She’d done everything she had to do and was back in the bed, covered to her chin with the fur pelt, when he returned carrying a large load of logs. He went out two more times for other loads, which he piled next to the hearth. He must be planning a long stay in the hut. Or was he building up the fire for her so he could go back to the keep?
She got her answer soon enough when he took off his belt and raised his tunic over his head. Esme already knew the man was stunning in his physical appearance, having seen him naked when he was brought to the nunnery from the battlefield and again here in the woodcutter’s hut. He no doubt knew how stunning he was, too. Women fell at his feet like weeds under a soldier’s boot. But not me. I am stronger than that. I hope.