Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3) Page 21

  His race no longer mattered. She would never admit that aloud but it didn’t matter. Her confession seared her soul, condemned her for all time—and still she did not care.

  “What are you thinking, Nimue?” His hand cradled the back of her head and held her close as if he feared she might otherwise escape.

  She looked up at him. Tried, one last time, to see him as she had the first time they’d met. But it was futile. Because even that first time by the mountain stream she had seen him as more than merely her enemy.

  “I’m thinking,” her voice was husky. She tried to clear her clogged throat, but it would not be cleared, “that I’m going to rip this Roman tunic from your body and have you at my mercy.”

  He laughed, and the intoxicating sound ignited the embers glowing in her blood.

  “I greatly anticipate being at your mercy.”

  “As you should, Roman.” She tugged at his robe and finally slung the linen to the floor. Tacitus stood before her in all his naked glory, his tawny flesh taut, muscles flexed and with a lascivious smile on his face that caused her knees to tremble as if this was the first time she had seen an unclothed male.

  “Do you like what you see, Celt?”

  Her gaze dropped and she watched, fascinated, as his erection thickened before her eyes. “I have never seen anything better.”

  Her words visibly aroused him further and he reached for her but she sidestepped his grasp. “You may look, but not touch.”

  “You ask the impossible.”

  Yes, she asked for the impossible but it was locked inside her heart and there it would remain. Because the foolish wish she harbored, that they might somehow forge a future together, was nothing more than that.

  A foolish wish. And treacherous. Again she shoved her errant thoughts to the darkest corner of her mind. She wouldn’t spoil this night with hopes that could never be.

  “You’ll be well rewarded for your patience.” She offered him a provocative smile and slowly peeled the linen from her body. Tacitus watched every movement, mesmerized. “Do you like what you see, Roman?”

  His gaze dragged across her body and flames licked her skin as though he physically scorched her with merely a look. Then his eyes meshed with hers, captured her as easily as he had captured her on the day they’d met.

  “I have never seen anything better.” His husky voice, with a trace of amusement at how he used her own words against her, enchanted her and she kicked the gown aside as she moved toward him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Once again Tacitus reached for her. Once again she avoided his touch. “Do you find it hard to follow orders?”

  “Not usually. But my orders aren’t usually issued in my own kitchens by a naked seductress.”

  She began to unbraid her hair, her gaze locked with his, willing victims of a dark bewitchment. “Has no woman ever given you orders, Tacitus?” She shook her loosened hair over her shoulders and hid a smile at the raw desire that flared in Tacitus’ eyes.

  “No.” She saw the way he clenched his fists, fighting the need to reach for her yet again. “Does it please you to know you’re the first?”

  “Very much.” She rested the tips of her fingers on his broad shoulders, their bodies all but touching. How hard it was to keep that whisper of distance between them. “It means you’ll never forget me.”

  Of course he would never forget her. When she left with the prisoners, he would hate her for abusing his trust. But how desperately she wanted him to remember her with warmth and, perhaps, regret that they had never stood a chance.

  He lowered his head so their lips brushed in a tantalizing caress. “Nimue, I believe I could never forget you even if I wanted to.”

  She trailed her fingers along his biceps, delighting in the granite-hard strength of his muscles, and ignored the dull ache in her shoulder. Her injury wouldn’t stop her from enjoying this night, or prevent her from doing her duty tomorrow.

  “I want this night to live on in your memory for all time.”

  His focus sharpened, as if he glimpsed the true meaning behind her heartfelt whisper and panic punched low in her gut. She didn’t want anything to spoil this moment. Certainly not his suspicion.

  She feathered a kiss across his lips as her palms molded his sculpted biceps. Her nipples grazed the hard planes of his chest, a torturous delight, and Tacitus’ moan sent tremors skittering over her naked flesh.

  “How much longer am I under your command?” The raw edge to his question was deliciously arousing, and she nibbled kisses along the length of his jaw and down his throat, where his pulse hammered against her exploring lips.

  “Until I tell you otherwise.” She slanted a glance up at him. He offered her a tortured grin in return. And did not touch.

  She slid her fingers over his and then sucked his nipple into her mouth. He gave a strangled groan and his fingers gripped hers, and she smiled as her teeth nipped his sensitive flesh.

  “Celtic enchantress.” He ground the words between his teeth and she couldn’t tell if he meant them as a compliment or a curse. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was that she burned a memory into Tacitus’ mind. So that when the sting of her betrayal had faded into the distant past, he would recall these moments with her, and remember her with something other than derision.

  Slowly, provocatively, she worked her way down his warrior hard body, exploring every ridge and contour with the tip of her tongue and graze of her teeth. Her nails scraped along his back and he jerked toward her but his fists remained clenched at his thighs.

  She sank to her knees and looked up at him, feminine power thudding through her blood at the look of enslavement on Tacitus’ face. “Your self-control is admirable, Roman.” Her voice was breathless and her gaze slid down to his glorious erection. She wasn’t so sure of her own control. “I have no need of enchantment.”

  “You enchant with every word you utter. With every look you give me.” His voice was hoarse. “I’ve never met another woman like you, Nimue.”

  Her fingers dug into his taut buttocks at the thought that he might ever meet another woman. A woman he came back to every eve. A woman he shared his meals with, laughed with.

  Trusted.

  In the eyes of Rome, she was Tacitus’ slave but she knew full well that he didn’t consider her such. She was a Celt, and her people had been conquered. That was an irrefutable fact. But he treated her as if she was, as much as a woman ever could be to a Roman, his equal.

  “And I have never met another man like you.” She wrapped her arms around his thigh and pressed her body against his leg. Her sex throbbed with unfulfilled need but her need would have to wait. “I know I never will.” Such confession would never have passed her lips in normal circumstances, but these were far from normal. And although tomorrow he might believe she had done nothing but lie to him, perhaps one day he would realize that in this matter she had spoken only the truth.

  Slowly she raked her fingernails along the back of his thigh and down his calf. His fingers tangled in her hair, forcing her to look up at him.

  “Gods, Nimue. What are you doing?” His eyes were glazed with lust and a frown marred his brow as though he couldn’t imagine why a woman would be on her knees before him unless she was taking him into her mouth.

  “Driving you to distraction.” She slid the tip of her tongue across his knee and fought the urge to giggle at the look of astonishment on his face. Then she bit him and savored his taste before dragging her fingernails up from his ankle and over the taut muscle of his calf.

  “You’re seducing my leg.” He sounded scandalized, but it didn’t disguise the desire thundering through every word. “Is this a barbaric Celtic love ritual?”

  Her foolish heart catapulted at his mention of love. But it was just a word, the same as barbaric was just a word, and he didn’t mean anything by it.

  “No, it’s my own ritual. Has no other woman ever made love to your leg before?”

  His fingers tightened
in her hair and she relished the sparks of pain that danced across her scalp. Almost as much as she relished the look of amazement on his face.

  “No woman has ever done the things you have to me. You could be a maiden of Aphrodite herself.”

  She molded her body around him, her thighs entrapping his calf, and delighted in the scrape of his hair against her belly and breasts. “And is Aphrodite your goddess of sensual pleasure?”

  His fingers massaged her head in a seductive rhythm that sent shudders of desire along her spine. “She is the Greek goddess of love.” His voice was raw with need but he didn’t haul her to her feet or throw her onto her back. Although she acknowledged she wouldn’t mind if he did either, the fact that he didn’t caused her chest to contract with a strange pain. “My mother is Greek.” The words were tortured, as though he confessed to something outrageous. Yet she already knew his mother wasn’t Roman. Otherwise he would worship the gods of Rome.

  But he clearly thought it important. And because he’d shared something with her, she wanted to share something with him.

  “My father is from Gaul.” It had always distressed her that her despised father’s lineage meant she was not a pureblood of Cymru but oddly, now that she knew Tacitus was not a pureblood Roman, her tainted heritage no longer seemed so devastating. “But I worship the gods of my foremothers.”

  His smile was fractured. “Does your father still live?” He sounded as though it took great effort for him to ask the question. As if his thoughts inhabited another sphere entirely.

  She slid her hand up his leg. Tantalizingly close to his impressive erection. She discovered she couldn’t tear her fascinated gaze away. “I don’t know.” And she didn’t care whether her cursed father was alive or dead. In this moment, all she cared about was bringing Tacitus to his knees. The image was alluring.

  She abandoned his thigh and brushed her knuckles along the length of his cock. With every featherlight touch, his girth increased and her mouth watered with anticipation.

  “I take back what I said about this being a Celtic love ritual.” Tacitus’ fingers, buried in her hair, were painful against her head. “It’s a form of torture. What secrets are you searching for, Nimue?”

  “I seek nothing from you.” Her fingers trailed across his taut sac and his groan vibrated through his body and sent tremors racing along her arm and across her breasts. She struggled to recall his question, could barely form the words to reply. “That you don’t willingly want to give.”

  “Do you know what I want to give you right at this moment?” His voice was rough, as rough as his fingers in her hair and she gave a breathless laugh.

  “You’re still under my command, Roman.” She cradled his heavy balls in the palm of her hand, loving their texture, loving the tension she could feel radiating from Tacitus’ rigid stance. Intoxicated by his raw, masculine scent, she lowered her head and licked her delicious prize.

  He tasted of every forbidden fantasy she had ever imagined. He tasted of Tacitus.

  She closed her eyes and gently sucked him into her mouth and his guttural curse spiraled through her senses. Without conscious thought, she wrapped her hand around his hot shaft, and the knowledge that he was at her mercy thrilled her soul.

  Slowly she released him from her mouth, her teeth scraping his taut sac, and then teased the tip of her tongue across his hard balls to the root of his cock. She looked up at him as she trailed her tongue along his rigid length, and the look of pleasured agony on his face was breathtaking. She had never imagined kneeling at a man’s feet before. Yet not only was she on her knees before this Roman—she reveled in the juxtaposition of power and submission that caused her nipples to harden and cream to trickle from her pussy.

  He swore violently in Latin, words she barely understood. Without warning, his fingers dug into her biceps, his grasp hard and possessive. He hauled her up, and his cock burned a path across her breasts and belly. She flattened her hands against his chest, breathless and aroused but determined to finish what she’d started.

  “I didn’t give you leave to manhandle me, Roman.”

  His grin was feral. “Consider this a mutiny, Celt. I’m the one in command now.”

  “Is that so?” She tried to sound fierce but his entrancing eyes, dark with passion, were too distracting. It was hard to remember what they were even talking about. “What punishment should I levy against you for such a crime?”

  He wrapped one arm around her and pinned her to his body. His erection dug into her flesh, hot and unyielding and her clit throbbed with need. He leaned into her, forcing her backward, and she felt him swipe the contents from the table behind her.

  “I look forward to my punishment.” His hand, splayed around her waist, was hard and possessive. “In the meantime, I intend to enjoy yours.”

  His words ignited what remained of her sanity and she gripped his shoulders to keep her balance. “My punishment?” Illicit tremors rocked her. “You would not dare punish me, Roman—”

  Her words caught in her throat as Tacitus flashed her a smile that surely Taranis, the god of thunder and lightning, would envy for its destructive intent.

  He swung her about and forced her over the table. She staggered and glared up at him. His smile sizzled and his palm, pressed between her shoulder blades, rendered her immobile.

  “You will find I dare many things, Celt.” He leaned over her back, his body encompassing her in a mantle of masculine strength and she wriggled her bottom against his hard thighs. It served only to heighten the need spiraling through her pussy and a frustrated moan razed her throat.

  He laughed, as though her evident discomfort pleased him. Curse the man. Her fingernails dug into the table and scored the timber but it did nothing to ease the thunder in her blood.

  She felt him ease back, his hand running along the length of her spine in a caress designed to enflame. She could push herself upright now if she wished. But she remained as she was, sprawled across the table like a pleasure slave.

  “Your obedience is welcome.” Tacitus’ voice was uneven but she heard the thread of amusement. “Although your continued silence is somewhat unnerving.”

  Her breasts and the side of her face were flattened against the table, and she could only partially see Tacitus from the corner of her eye. But she knew he was looking at her, splayed across the table, naked and vulnerable and Goddess knew, ready for whatever he planned to give her.

  “Would you have me scream for mercy?” Her words were breathless. Her chest tight and her heart thundered with erratic abandon.

  He didn’t answer. But his hands molded the curve of her waist and the flare of her hips. And then with slow deliberation he palmed her bottom.

  Nimue hitched in a ragged gasp. In her mind’s eye, she saw Tacitus as he looked at her. His hands spreading her arse cheeks, exposing her to his intimate exploration. Lightning flashed through her belly, ricocheted along her wet cleft and flickered with delicious need in the tight bud of her clit. She squirmed helplessly, her hands fisting on the table. How much longer can I bear this? But Tacitus continued to look at her in silence until the scream she’d threatened hovered with perilous intent in her throat.

  His finger slid between her spread thighs and teased the wet folds of her sex. A desperate moan filled the room and she scarcely cared that it came from her. “Tacitus.” It was a plea and she twisted her head around as much as she could so she could see his face properly. His focus was intent between her legs, and his finger slid farther and caressed her throbbing clit.

  “Yes.” His voice was savage and she had no idea what he meant. “Scream for mercy, Nimue. Scream for me.”

  Wild abandonment seared through her and she caught his intense gaze. “Make me.”

  Her taunt had the desired effect. He gripped her hips, jerked her toward him and for one glorious moment his erection jammed against her backside. He caressed her hip and thigh and teased her bottom with the tips of his fingers, and she squirmed helplessly beneath
him.

  Her clit throbbed with need, her pussy trembled with anticipation. She felt him grip his cock and cream trickled from her cleft onto her thighs. The head of his rigid shaft nudged her wet entrance and her moan echoed around the room.

  With one hard thrust, he filled her and the air rushed from her lungs. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel the way he stretched her, claimed her, made her his.

  She closed her eyes, fisted her hands and reveled in the way Tacitus slammed into her. Hard, rhythmic, the friction against her sensitized clit all but unbearable as he pounded against her exposed bottom.

  His hands roamed over her back and shoulders, tangled in her hair and clasped her throat. Ribbons of fire ignited wherever he touched. She writhed beneath him, incapable of coherent thought, incapable of processing anything but the pleasure his hands and fingers and cock wrought on her nipples, breasts and inside her quivering pussy.

  “Do you surrender?” His uneven words rasped against her ear. “Beg for mercy and give yourself to me?”

  How couldn’t he know that she was already his? The thought drifted through her mind, weaved through the lust and passion and the truth of it seeped into her soul.

  Of course she was his. She would forever be his.

  “I will never,” she panted, “surrender to Rome.”

  He rained kisses across her shoulder, along her throat. His teeth nipped her flesh, and then licked each pinprick of pain with the tip of his tongue. She could die of such pleasurable torture.

  “To Hades with the Eagle.” He sucked on her flesh, and a strangled moan vibrated throughout her body, quivering her swollen clit, erect nipples and every tender particle of skin she possessed. “Surrender to me, Nimue. Be mine.”