by G. A. Aiken
She squealed when he started slamming into her again.
When Gwenvael finally lifted himself up, Dagmar scrambled off the bed and stumbled across the floor.
Turning around, she gripped her loosening robe closed. “Stay away from me, you mad bastard.”
Gwenvael went up on all fours and began to crawl across the bed. “Apologize.”
“Never.”
“Beast.”
“Defiler.”
With his knees resting on the edge of the bed, Gwenvael reached out to grab Dagmar. She squealed again and made another run for it. Charging off the bed, Gwenvael reached for her again. He lost her…but he got the robe.
He held it up. “Look what I have here.”
Dagmar stopped in mid-run and spun around to face him. She had her right arm over her chest and her left hand over her sex. “Give that back!”
“I don’t think so.”
“Gwenvael, give it back.”
He tossed it over his arm and planted his feet firmly. “No, my lady, what I think I’m going to do is…”
“Gwenvael,” she pushed when he stopped talking. “What’s wrong with you?”
He let out a hard breath, his gaze locked onto her body. Her hands and arms blocked much of it, but still…
“Gods, woman, what have you been hiding?”
Dagmar looked around and down at herself. “Nothing, I don’t think. I mean, I told what I knew to Morfyd and Annwyl—”
Gwenvael shook his head. “Not that. This.” He walked toward her and she quickly stepped back. “We really must find you clothes that do you justice.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t move,” he snapped, and Dagmar immediately stopped moving away from him.
Gwenvael walked slowly around her, his gaze feasting on her.
“What, in the name of reason, are you doing?”
Behind her, Gwenvael slowly went to his knees. “Enjoying myself.”
When Dagmar felt something brush against her ass, her entire body jolted. “Did you just—” She cleared her throat. “Did you just kiss my…uh…backside?”
Gwenvael didn’t respond, but when she felt a warm tongue lazily wind its way up to her hip, she jumped away.
“What are you doing?” she asked again, quickly facing him.
“If you turn back around”—he purred—“you’ll eventually find out.”
“I can’t…We can’t…I know we’ve danced around it, but…uh…”
She took a step back when Gwenvael stood. “It’s all right.”
Dagmar realized she was panting, as if she were running down that main road toward Spikenhammer again.
“I didn’t mean to panic. I just…I’m not used to…”
“Sssh.” He walked toward her and she took another step back.
“Stop moving,” he ordered.
And she did.
Gwenvael put her robe over her shoulders, took one arm and put it through the sleeve and did the same with the other. He closed the robe tightly and belted it.
“Feel better?”
She let out a shaky breath. “Yes.”
“Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
She swallowed. “No.”
Gripping her hand, he walked her over to the bed and knelt on top of it, tugging at her until she joined him.
Kneeling across from each other, he said, “You know, Dagmar, not everything has to be so serious. Every moment involving a life or death issue that needs to be analyzed and sussed out.”
She winced. “I try not to be stuffy.”
“And you’re not, thankfully. But the games played that involve whole kingdoms don’t need to be played here. Here it’s just us—and we can do whatever we want.”
It dawned on Dagmar that he was right. She wasn’t at her father’s fortress, one of her brothers liable to walk in unannounced at any time. Nor did she have to worry about her sisters-in-law listening at the door or bribing the servants for information. She was thousands of miles from her kinsmen and in a place that knew nothing of her.
Dagmar felt a delicious, wicked thrill lash through her and carefully stated, “I don’t have your freedom, my lord. I have my…honor to think of. To protect.”
“Your honor?” Confused, Gwenvael stared at her for a long moment, and then his expression cleared and slowly, carefully, he began to play the game with her. “Ahh, yes. Your precious honor. There will be no protecting that tonight. Not with me.”
Gwenvael lowered his head, his mouth heading toward hers. Dagmar turned her face away, her hands firmly pressed against his chest, trying to push him back even while her hands begged to explore.
But he wouldn’t let her turn away, grabbing a handful of her hair and forcing her head back until she had to look at him, his mouth again lowering toward hers.
His tongue slid inside, taking full ownership as it stroked and teased her and Dagmar whimpered desperately, her fingers digging into his shirt-covered chest. There was no rush to this kiss, no desperate invasion. He simply took what he wanted in his own time—and she let him.
So lost in his kiss, she didn’t know he’d opened her robe again until he palmed her breast. Startled by the contact, Dagmar instinctively tried to pull back, but his grip on her hair kept her firmly in place. Unable to escape.
In this moment, on this bed, the dragon had complete control of her. And the violence of the shudder that went through her told its own tale. She needed this moment, this break from responsibilities. A longed-for break that had nothing to do with getting what she wanted or protecting those she cared for, and everything to do with her pleasure.
His lips nibbled their way down her chin to her neck and kept going. His warm mouth closed over her nipple and began to suck as a finger slid inside her.
Dagmar’s hips jerked, attempting to move away from the finger so easily sliding in and out of her. But the fingers still gripping her hair tugged hard, and he gave a low warning growl.
Without a word, he made it clear he wouldn’t let her go until he was done, and she rewarded him with fresh wetness between her legs that allowed him to add a second finger to the first.
She winced a bit, sucking air between her teeth, remembering that her few relations had been extremely short, years apart, and mostly unpleasant.
Her whimper this time had nothing to do with unpleasantness, however. She couldn’t explain the difference, but it was there. His gentleness, his control without ever being vicious. It had her melting into him, giving herself over as she’d never done before. His mouth moved to her other breast, sucking until the nipple was hard and begging.
He had her bent back now, over his forearm, her body completely open to him and whatever he wanted to do. Her hands moved across his shoulders, holding onto him as her hips began to rock back and forth, riding the fingers inside her. She tried to stop herself, but her body had long left her behind. It had a mind of its own, and it seemed to know exactly what it wanted.
The pace of the fingers inside her increased, taking her roughly, the tips curling and rubbing against some nameless spot that had her legs shaking. She could no longer hold herself up, but the dragon took care of that. He took care of everything as his mouth returned to hers, his tongue forcing its way back in while he held her tightly with his arm. And when he had full control of her mouth and her whimpers had turned to short, desperate cries, Gwenvael placed his thumb against her clitoris and began to swirl it in circles, pressing down hard.
It was the last thing she needed, and she was grateful for the mouth covering hers as she screamed out the first release she’d had without use of her own hand.
She held on to Gwenvael as her body shuddered and shook, and when she felt the wave ebb and thought she was done, he turned his fingers a bit and readjusted where he’d placed his thumb. Then the wave was back again, twisting and turning her body, wringing it out like a rag. She tried to beg him to
stop, to release her, but his mouth on hers seemed a permanent thing as he readjusted yet again, and again her body was dragged up and over.
When she could no longer breathe and sobs clogged her throat, he finally pulled back. His thumb slowed its pace before finally stopping, his fingers slid out of her with a gentleness she found startling, and the brutal assault on her mouth turned to tender kisses along her jaw.
He held her until her panting turned to slow, deep breaths and her fingers unclenched from his shoulder.
He’d just begun to lower her to the bed when she heard a brisk knock against the door.
“My lady?” Fannie’s voice said from the other side.
Gwenvael pulled her back up and whispered harshly against her ear, “Answer her. Answer her now.”
“Yes?” Dagmar stated clearly.
“Evening meal will be in another hour. I have a gown for you. Do you need help dressing?”
Still unable to organize her always organized thoughts, Dagmar was grateful when Gwenvael prompted, “Tell her yes, but you need another ten minutes to yourself.”
Dagmar swallowed and said, “Yes, but I’m still napping. Another ten minutes, please.”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
She never heard the woman leave, but the shadow under the door vanished.
The dragon finally released her, and Dagmar immediately pulled her robe over her body as he climbed off the bed and headed toward the door. She remained where he’d left her, unable to move.
“I’ll be back later tonight,” he told her as he walked away.
“Who says I’ll be here?”
He stopped before opening the door and faced her. “You’ll leave the window open for me and you’ll be naked. When I come back, I’ll take what I want from you, as many times as I want to.” He grinned; it was pure and raw and astonishingly beautiful. “Understand me, Lady Dagmar?”
She shook her head. “No. You’ll have to explain it to me.”
“I will. Even if I have to tie you to the bed and explain it to you again and again and again.” He looked her over one more time. “And don’t play with yourself after I’m gone. Don’t want you wearing my pussy out before I’ve had a chance to use it.” With his hand on the door handle, Gwenvael rewarded her with the warmest smile she’d seen from anyone. “Besides, you look so beautiful when you come, I don’t want to miss a second of it.”
Then he was gone, the door shutting quietly behind him. A few minutes later when Fannie returned with the gown, she found Dagmar in the same position Gwenvael had left her in—kneeling on the bed, clutching her robe closed…and panting.
“She should have warned me, Jack.”
“Aye, my Lord Gwenvael. She should have.”
“She should have told me the truth about herself.”
“Very true, my lord.”
“Spinster? Spinster, my perfect ass! That woman is a volcano, Jack. Self-contained, waiting-to-go-off-and-melt-my-scales volcano. And, if I might add, a wee bit of a tease.”
“Sounds that way, my lord. Now…are you sure about this?”
“If I hope to get through dinner…I have little choice. Just do it.”
“As you wish.”
Jack stepped back and motioned to several of the male servants under his direction. One after another, they poured the ice water pulled from a deep well discovered not long after Annwyl took over Garbhán Isle.
As soon as the water hit Gwenvael’s human form, it sizzled and popped, the large chunks of ice melting completely on contact, steam rising after only a few seconds. Thankfully, however, it did its job.
Resting back in the tub, Gwenvael sighed, “Thank you, Jack.”
“You’re more than welcome, my lord. Will there be anything else?”
“A return of my sanity would be nice.”
“You’re on your own with that, my lord. I’m afraid there’s only so much a servant can do.”
Chapter 20
Gwenvael closed his bedroom door and headed down the hallway toward the stairs. He felt calmer now. More in control. He wasn’t used to a woman who could rattle his tail. Even worse, he didn’t know he’d like it.
Nearing the stairs to take him to the Great Hall, Gwenvael almost missed it. He stopped walking, his nostrils flaring, instantly recognizing all the scents coming from one room. He took several steps back and gave one knock on the door before pushing it open.
His young cousin Branwen lay stretched out on the bed, stomach down, her gaze focused on a book. She still wore her chain-mail shirt and leggings while her worn boots stood at attention by the bed, ready to be pulled on at a moment’s notice. Like her mother, Branwen seemed more comfortable in her battle clothes than in the gowns her sisters often wore when not in the middle of combat. It reminded him of why he’d always liked Branwen.
Across the room were Izzy and Celyn. Together they held one of the battle lances developed by Gwenvael’s ancestors, the Cadwaladr Twins. The weapon could be lengthened or shortened, should a dragon decide to shift from dragon form to human or back again. The twins, like his grandfather, had spent as much time human as dragon during their warrior years and found the use of the weapon important, and to this day they were still considered two of the deadliest beings who’d ever lived.
Yet Izzy’s form would never change, so there was no real point in teaching her to use the weapon other than it allowed Celyn a chance to stand behind her with his arms around her and his hands on hers, slowly moving from battle stance to battle stance together.
In Gwenvael’s extremely educated opinion, Celyn’s pelvis snuggled just a little too close to his niece’s rear.
As he stepped into the room, Izzy’s head came up. The intense expression—or scowl, depending on who you spoke to—she always possessed when learning anything to do with war or combat, quickly changed into that welcoming smile Gwenvael simply adored. For a niece, he couldn’t have asked for better than Izzy.
“Gwenvael! You’re back!”
“Hello, my heart. Dinner will be soon. You sure you want your mum to see you looking like that?”
Izzy glanced down at her dirt-covered clothes. Spending a day playing with young dragons was hard and messy work, and clearly his Izzy had enjoyed every second of it.
“You’ve got a point. Mum’s going to be pissed as it is, eh?”
“After watching you play Run and Jump? What do you think?”
She gave him her biggest grin, which caused her adorable pug nose to crinkle, making him laugh.
Glancing down at his young female cousin, he asked, “And how are you, Branwen?”
“Starving. When do we eat?”
“Soon. You two had best get dressed, so you won’t hear complaints from your mothers.” He looked at Celyn. “Mind if I talk to you for a bit, Celyn?”
Celyn didn’t even bother trying to hide his smug grin as he pulled away from Izzy. No doubt this was not the first time a male relative of some female Celyn had set his sights on had asked to speak to him, nor would it be the last time. “Of course. See you at dinner, Cousin Izzy.” He winked at her, his smug grin in place.
Gwenvael followed the young dragon out, closing the door behind him, quite pleased to hear the hysterical feminine laughter that followed their exit. As long as Izzy didn’t take Celyn seriously, Gwenvael would have less to worry about.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a talk with the young hatchling. To calmly remind him that although Izzy was not blood, she was still the niece of Gwenvael and Fearghus and the very much loved and cherished daughter of Briec.
Celyn turned to face him. “Is this the bit where you remind me little Izzy there’s kin and I should keep my distance?”
And then Gwenvael remembered. Celyn was a Cadwaladr. Explanations and calm warnings would be a waste of Gwenvael’s precious breath.
Keeping that in mind, Gwenvael grabbed his young cousin by the back of the neck and slammed him face first into the stone wall. When he pulled him
back, a lovely splash of blood was left behind where Celyn’s nose had been shattered.
The hatchling almost dropped to his knees, but Gwenvael held onto the back of his neck and walked—or dragged—him toward the steps.
“I’ll make it simple for you, Celyn. You keep your hands off my niece, or you’ll be able to serve the virgin witches of the east as a eunuch. Understood?”
Celyn nodded, his hands covering his shattered nose.
“Good. Now run away.” And the hatchling did, tearing off down the hallway and disappearing from Gwenvael’s sight.
“It should be a good night,” he said with a smile.
Dagmar stopped midway down the stairs leading to the Great Hall. The room was packed, every table filled with laughing, talking, and arguing people. Platters of food were passed down from person to person, each taking what they wanted before sending it on its way. Servants bustled back and forth between bringing fresh food out and taking empty platters back. Several of the serving women poured wine and laughed right along with those at the table.
Thankfully, there was no uncomfortable grabbing, nor warnings to “mind your hands.”
“My Lady Dagmar.”
Gwenvael’s cousin Fal charged up the stairs and took her hand. “If I may escort you, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t let this lot frighten you. They’re loud but harmless.”
“Harmless unless I’m the enemy.”
“Exactly.” They reached the last step. “You can sit near me. I’d love to find out more about the Northlands.”
She’d rather eat bark, but she didn’t have a moment to come up with an excuse before Gwenvael came up behind them and grabbed Fal by the hair. With one good yank, the youngster went flying and Gwenvael took her hand. “Beast.”
“Defiler.”
He grinned and placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Come along. There’s much to observe and mock.”
She laughed. “Sounds delightful.”
Gwenvael led her to the queen’s table, but they stopped when a large wall stepped in front of them.
“Lady Dagmar, this is my baby brother, Éibhear.”