Page 32 of Ella’s Desire

She closed the door with the toe of her shoe and ran her hands up his chest to the back of his neck. Her recent bath left her smelling of wildflowers with a hint of sunshine. He closed his eyes and breathed in her clean, wonderful scent.

Her fingers raked pleasantly into his scalp and sent prickles rippling down his spine. She rose on her toes and pressed her lush mouth to his. Her tongue was sweet with the taste of the blue marzipan flowers the cook had crafted.

If Bronson were at court, he’d gladly accept the offering of a woman’s body. But he was not at court where few of the women were maidens, he was at Werrick Castle, and Ella was the woman he would wed.

Bronson steeled himself for the protest he did not wish to make. “This is not why your father gave me permission to walk you to your room.”

Ella’s mouth trailed down to his throat where she nipped and licked, the perfect pupil in her studies, emulating what he had done to her. His cock strained against his trews.

“He wants me to fall in love with you.” She arched against him. “Touch me, Bronson. Like you did in the forest.” She settled her hips against his. “The way you said you would next time.”

Bronson’s thoughts went spinning away without him. Had he said, “next time?”

Even as his mind tried to find objection to what she’d said, his body reacted to her enticement. His hands moved of their own volition, cupping her bottom to fit her more snugly against his prick. His other hand caught her gown. He didn’t have enough time to do everything he wanted. Not until they were wed.

Now would need to be quick. Fulfilling.

“Are you certain?” He asked the question, even as he was carefully nudging her back against the wall, even as he was lifting her skirt.

“We are to be married,” she whispered, breathless.

“That is not an answer.” He had the weight of crimson silk fisted in his left hand. Flickering orange light from the hearth shone on her pale, slender thighs, rising like carved marble from the red hose that came up only to her knees.

“Are you certain you want this?” He asked raggedly.

Ella leaned her head back on the wall. “Aye.”

One small, simple word and yet it might as well have been the key to heaven itself. He ran his fingers along her knee, light as a whisper, and let them drift up her inner thigh. She sucked in a shuddering breath and her legs trembled.

He knew all too well that sensation of being overwhelmed by lust, to the point of shaking. His own breath came too fast, the steadiness of his hand compromised by his frenzied heartbeat.

The closer he got to the triangle of golden hair between her legs, the wilder his pulse pounded until it was erratic and uncontrolled. Her skin was hot silk under his touch, and the torment of watching the pleasure play over her face was exquisite.

His fingertip teased along the seam between her legs. Ella cried out and grabbed onto him. His finger came away wet with her wanting. She was so slick already.

Using his middle finger, he traced the slit between her legs, running the digit up and down until she was squirming against the friction in an effort to increase the pressure.

“Do you want more, my dove?” Without waiting for her to reply, he found the bud of her sex and swirled the pad of his fingertip around it.

Ella’s legs buckled. She would have collapsed had she not been holding onto him so tightly.

“Bronson.” His name came out somewhere between a gasp and a moan. Never had his own name held such appeal as when spoken by Ella Barrington nearing her climax.

He cradled her weight with his other arm and increased the pressure of his ministrations. She panted and nestled her head in the crook of his neck. Mindless and desperate, she kissed the sensitive skin there. Her body tightened under Bronson’s hand and he slipped a finger, very gently and not too deep, inside her sheath.

She cried out her release, her warm breath coming in sensual huffs just under his ear. He closed his eyes and reveled in her pleasure, letting it wash over him and stroke against his ego.

His cock was painfully hard with an ache that settled deep on his bollocks, despite having tended to his baser needs with his hand after his bath. But this, the glory of witnessing Ella’s release, being surrounded by the erotic perfume of her arousal, this was entirely worth every painful throb.

Ella lifted her head from his shoulder and a lazy smile lifted the corner of her mouth.

“Did you enjoy that?” He kissed her on the mouth, the touch of their lips tender, chaste by comparison to what had just transpired between them.

“Mmmhmmm.” She nodded with a dreamy expression. “When can we do it again?”

12

The following afternoon Bronson had the solar all to himself. Or at least, as to himself as was possible with Moppet in the room. The little beast remained perched on the edge of the shelf like one of the nightmarish gargoyles the French enjoyed carving into the corners of their ostentatious cathedrals. A pile of shells lay about the squirrel as he cracked each nut open with his sharp, yellowed teeth.