The Raven and the Rose by Doreen Owens Malek

Author:Doreen Owens Malek [Malek, Doreen Owens]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Historical
ISBN: 9781611874051
Publisher: Zebra
Published: 1994-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

“I’ll be awkward,” Larthia whispered. “It’s been so long and I was never very good at it in the first place.”

“You’ll be good at it with me,” he promised. He picked her up and carried her into the house.

Larthia lay back in his arms, content to let fate overwhelm her. She was tired of worrying about her love for him, tired of debating what to do and how to keep all the conflicting elements of her life from running into one another. This was what she really needed; it was like a miracle to touch him after wanting it for so long. He was so warm and secure, he enveloped her slight form with his larger one as he set her on the bed; his kisses drove everything but the hunger of the moment from her mind. When she opened her mouth under his she felt the response of his body in a single fluid movement.

Verrix took the initiative masterfully, reversing their traditional roles, and Larthia reveled in her submission as he enclosed her in a muscular grip, binding her to him. One large hand moved up her back caressingly, his fingers tangling in her loosened hair, the silken strands clinging to his palm. He held her motionless as his mouth took hers greedily, with such total abandon, that Larthia clung to him desperately. He was the only stable object in a reeling world. Verrix made a sound, half sigh, half groan, and dropped his hands to her hips, pressing her into him forcefully. Larthia gasped against his mouth as she felt his fierce arousal.

He was a complex of contrasts: the lean strength of his limbs, the surprising softness of his mouth, the clean scent of his skin and hair, the dry woolen smell of his homespun tunic. Her fingers slid luxuriously into the wealth of golden curls at the nape of his neck as she responded to him helplessly, powerless to resist. She forgot that he was a slave and she a great lady with a name to protect; she forgot that he was a Gaul who wore a torque and trousers and she a Roman matron with a house and staff on the Palatine hill. He was a man, and she was a woman. That was all.

He kissed her over and over again, with the deep avidity of long denial. When he stepped back to remove his tunic she waited breathlessly, then embraced him once more as soon as he had pulled the shift over his head. Her fingers encountered the scabs on his bare back and she paused, unsure, unwilling to hurt him. He felt her hesitation and said hoarsely, “Touch me, Larthia, I’ve wanted you to touch me so badly.”

She took him at his word. He inhaled sharply as she bent to kiss his chest, running her tongue over his pectoral muscles, the flat hard nipples nestled in soft golden hair. She didn’t know what she was doing, she was acting on instinct, but his reaction told her that her instinct was correct.

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