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Godric ran down the cellar stairs and kicked in the door.
The interior was black. A figure came rushing at him, but Godric was ready for the attack. He used his left shoulder to deflect the man’s body and then thrust his sword into his belly. The interior guard slumped, his eyes wide as he looked down at his bloody stomach. Godric withdrew his sword with a heave that made him swallow convulsively and looked around.
A second man dropped his pistol and backed, hands raised. “Mercy! Don’t kill me!”
“Bob,” the bleeding man moaned. “Bob.”
“Where are they?” Godric rasped. Sweat drenched his brow and he had to grit his teeth to stay upright. “The girls.”
“In back,” Bob said.
“I’m hurt bad,” the bleeding man said.
“You’re dead is what you are,” Bob replied flatly.
He couldn’t tie the man with only one working hand. Godric hit him in the temple with the hilt of his sword. Bob fell without a sound next to his dying fellow guard. Blackness threatened Godric’s vision and he shook his head hard, stepping over the guards. The room was small with a second door at the far wall. Godric took a breath, aware that saliva was flooding his mouth, and kicked it in as well, his sword raised in preparation for a fight.
But there wasn’t one. Only the eyes of children—girls—stared back at him from the cramped little room. And Godric finally realized what bothered him about Alf, about the delicacy of the boy’s features.
Alf was a girl.
Godric celebrated the realization by vomiting.
MEGS WAS AWOKEN from a deep sleep by someone shaking her shoulder.
“M’lady. M’lady, please wake up!”
“Moulder?” She blinked groggily at the butler’s form in the light from the candle he held. He stood by the bed, half turned away, his eyes averted from her, despite the fact that every line of his body screamed urgency.
wered his smallclothes and she stared. He rose ruddy and proud, the round crown of his penis shining with liquid and his balls drawn up tight underneath. She’d never seen Roger completely nude. Never seen any other man completely nude. It was a glorious sight. She was glad, suddenly, that he was her husband. That she could be selfish in this one thing: no one else could ever see him like this. He was hers.
Even if it was only for a time.
Her eyes rose to his and she saw that he stood watching as she looked her fill at him.
She blushed. “Godric.”
And he smiled, tight, approving, and predatory in a wholly masculine way.
He placed a knee on the bed and leaned over her. “Now. Now I take you, just you and me, Megs.”
There was still a twinge of doubt in her, a fearful shiver that she was betraying Roger. But she’d hurt Godric, she knew that, and he’d never done more than offer her kindness.
So she smiled back tremulously. “Just you and me.”
He lowered himself over her, settling between her spread thighs, and she could feel the heavy, slick weight of his cock, sliding from her thigh to wedge in her cleft.
She inhaled. She’d just come, lovely and hard, and her flesh was sensitive to his heat, his weight, his intimate dominance of her. He framed her face with his hands and lowered his head toward her. The kiss was gentle, almost reverent, and tears sprang to her eyes. This wasn’t what she’d wanted, what she’d thought she’d needed. He was weaving a web of intimacy, strand by intangible strand that, knotted together, would become an unbreakable net, holding her tight until she no longer even considered escape.
Her thoughts scattered as he lifted his hips a fraction and his erection dragged through her valley.
Her breath hitched.
He was rubbing, their mingled dampness making the glide so slick, so sweet. She smiled at him in invitation and saw as he raised his head that his lips were curved as well.
“Now.”
He notched the tip of his penis in her and began to push. Inexorably, relentless in his strength. In his determination. He watched her, locking eyes as he breached her entrance, as he made a place for himself within her, as he joined their bodies together.
