The Mercenary's Bride. Terri BrisbinЧитать онлайн книгу.

      After the dampness of the evening had allowed the cold to seep into the very marrow of her bones, Gillian enjoyed the heat that pulsed through her. As she shifted around within the tight cocoon formed by her cloak and the blankets on the pallet, she realised she was also encircled by the source of the heat. As the sounds of a camp stirring to life began around her, she opened her eyes to find him, her husband, draped over her.

      And staring right back at her.

      It took but a moment for her to comprehend his intent before he leaned even closer and touched his lips to hers. With the blankets and her cloak and his arms holding her so tight, she could not move away. Or so she told herself that was the reason, but once his mouth took hers, she could think of nothing else but him.

      He held her cradled with one arm under her back as he moved the other across her stomach to rest on her hip. The same feelings, the same heat that had rippled through her the last time he touched her like this did so again and her body shivered under his hands.

      ‘Are you cold?’ he asked softly, lifting back from the kiss just enough to see her face.

      ‘Nay.’ Gillian shook her head though another shudder shook her body even as she spoke. ‘I think not,’ she admitted. Then as his gentle, exploring touch ignited a path of fire across her stomach and down towards her legs, she said again, ‘Nay.’

      He smiled then and her heart seemed to beat faster. He moved his hand along her hip and down her leg, and breathing became difficult as her lungs gasped and strained for even breath. But when he gathered the edge of her gown and tunic in his large hand and began to slide it up her legs, her body became a thing she could not recognise.

      The skin of her thighs shivered beneath her gown as his hand glided over her and the blood and heat rushed through her veins to pool between her legs. For the ten-and-nine years of her life, she’d rarely had cause to take notice of the sensitive nature of that area, but now, with his attentions last night and this morn, it ached in a way that seemed almost pleasurable.

      Without waiting for her permission and certainly not waiting for her to object, he held her closer and kissed her again—this time until she lost her breath and he felt her body press against his. He chuckled against her mouth, continuing to touch and taste her with his tongue even as he stroked closer and closer to that intimate place.

      She knew his intent. She knew he would join with her and make her his wife in reality, but all the arguments she’d convinced herself of evaporated in the heat of his onslaught. Having sampled it last night before she tried to escape, she wondered now if fear of this unknown but provocative man and the feelings he made her body experience were what had driven her to run. When his fingers slipped between her legs, Gillian’s body arched and tightened, renewing and escalating those feelings and that same fear and need to escape.

      Drawing back, she tried to move away from his touch, but the blankets and his arm held her to him. In spite of her movements, he never stopped his advance, his fingers dipping and stroking against the sensitive folds there, making her centre tighten and throb. She lifted her mouth from his and took in a breath, preparing to argue or fight her way out, when his expression stopped her.