And he stopped, imbedded in her. Even farther than before. Even wider.
“Don’t you dare stop now,” she gasped out.
“Shhh,” he said and began massaging her breasts with wide-sweeping, kneading motions till the nipples felt like points against his palms.
“You are torturing me,” she wailed.
“Good torture or bad torture?”
“I do not know,” she cried, then bucked her bottom upward to try to get him to resume his thrusts.
He did, so long and slow she wanted to scream in frustration. Mayhap she did. Her mind was roiling with emotion. She was beyond knowing what she was doing.
He put one hand on the back of her neck to hold her down, and plunged wildly into her now, so hard and fast that it was hard for her to distinguish pain from pleasure. Nay, it was pleasure… hard pleasure. And he was mimicking his thrusts with a matching flick-flick-flick of his fingertips against her woman-bud.
She peaked and peaked and peaked then as he plunged into her one last time, hard and deep. Her convulsing woman’s channel and throbbing woman-bud brought her the most intense, unending pleasure. Almost too much pleasure to bear.
She collapsed on the floor, and he fell on top of her. For several long moments, neither of them spoke. They couldn’t.
When she finally rolled over on her back and gazed up at Toste, she saw the stunned look on his face. So this thing that happened between them was not a common occurrence.
Without saying a word, he carried her to the bed and lay down with her. He tucked her into his embrace with her face on his chest and pulled another fur pelt over them.
In that moment, Esme realized something awful. She had fallen in love with her captor.
A crazy little thing called love…
Toste stayed awake, shocked to the core by a realization that had struck him of a sudden. He had fallen in love with his captive.
Heart, soul, everything.
How had it happened? When? Why?
He shrugged. It did not matter. It just had.
After their monumental sex event in front of the fire, Toste had made love to Esme again. Slowly. With adoration. He hoped she understood what he was trying to say with his body. Or did she need the words?
Well, before he could declare himself, he had other things that must be done first. He slid carefully off the bed and covered Esme’s sleeping form more completely. She was snoring slightly. He smiled, realizing he’d worn her out. Well, she’d worn him out, too.
He dressed and returned to the castle, having no trouble making his way along the path by the light of the full moon. He went upstairs and got the items he required. When he came back down, he noticed Bolthor sitting alone before the fire. All around him, soldiers and servants slept in alcoves and on floor pallets.
“Bolthor, what are you doing up?”
“I could not sleep,” he said. “My leg wound bothers me betimes.”
Toste nodded, understanding fully. He still got megrims on occasion from his head wound.
“You smell like roses.”
Toste sniffed his own arm and grinned.
“So, how is the punishing going?” Bolthor asked with an answering grin.
“Wonderful,” he said, grinning back. They were a couple of grinning fools.
“I can see that,” Bolthor said. “You look different.”
“Happy?”
“Mayhap,” he replied. “Methinks I should compose a special rhyming poem for you. Methinks a good title would be ‘Rhyme and Punishment.’ Do you like that?”
“I do. I like it.”
Bolthor noticed the saddlebag slung over Toste’s shoulder then and said, “So, you are off. To Evergreen?”
He nodded.
“Are you sure you want to go alone?”
“It is something I must do alone. Take care of my Esme for me.”
Bolthor’s eyes widened at his words, but then he nodded and said, “Be safe.”
When Toste returned to the hut, he placed all the items he’d gathered at the keep on a chair. Walking to the bed, he looked down at Esme’s still sleeping form. Should he awaken her? Or not? In the end, he chose to let her sleep. But he leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips.