Tempting the Knight: A Novella by Annette McCleave

Author:Annette McCleave [McCleave, Annette]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Anthologies, Historical, Medieval, Two Hours or More (65-100 Pages), Collections & Anthologies, Historical Romance
Amazon: B0050UQRQQ
Published: 2011-05-12T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 5

Melissande trembled as Rolfe laid her upon the bedclothes.

His hands were gentle, and yet she sensed ruthless determination seething beneath the surface, ready to explode. Were he still the young man of her memories, she’d not have been concerned. The Rolfe she married had been nothing if not chivalrous. Their wedding night had been awkward and a tad painful, but he had done everything in his power to make the experience as pleasant as possible. And the handful of beddings afterward had been ... sweet.

This Rolfe would never write a sonnet describing the color of her eyes, nor would sweet ever be used to describe his actions. He was too intense, too hard. Frankly, she was not certain he could be trusted to be solicitous in bed.

He buried his face between her breasts, inhaling deeply.

“You are mine,” he murmured against her flesh, his breath moist and hot. “And if I ever catch you cuckholding me again, I will kill you. Immediately after I slay the bastard who dares to touch you.”

Melissande’s heart thudded.

Many a man might utter those same words and invoke nothing more than a thrill, but Rolfe said them with a note of finality that rang cold in her blood.

“Such a threat is unnecessary,” she said.

He lifted his gaze. “It is not a threat, merely a truth. De Russe is very fortunate that I was six hundred leagues distant.”

“If killing me is your desire, then do it now. Wrap your hands around my throat and squeeze the life from me. No one would fault you.”

He shook his head. “There is only one death you’ll receive at my hand this night, wife. La mort petite.”

A soft wave of heat rolled up Melissande’s chest. The little death. Orgasm.

By God, the man was arrogant. She knew quite well that her body was a difficult instrument to play, never having reached orgasm except by her own touch. De Russe had attempted to bring her that pleasure, and failed. Several times. What made her husband so certain he could do what another man could not?

“I certainly invite you to try,” she scoffed.

“Daring a man with such a comment is very dangerous, ma belle.” He kissed the underside of her jaw, nibbling his way to her ear. When he bit her lobe, tiny bolts of raw sensation shot through her body and left her womb aquiver. “I may decide to hold you here, slowly exploring every possible route to satisfaction, until you come apart, wracked by unrequited need.”

Goose bumps rose on her arms as she imagined herself his sexual prisoner, teased beyond bearing, excited to a mindless fever by want. The notion was not nearly as disturbing as he might think.

He straightened, staring down upon her with hooded eyes.

With a gaze seemingly entranced by the rise and fall of her breathing, he, too, removed his belt and tunic. But he did not stop at his undergarments. His shirt met the floor in swift order, baring the broad expanse of his chest. That same muscular terrain she had gazed upon with such interest at Miron.

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