There was a long pause, and then what suspiciously sounded like a giggle. “No.”
She squealed when he started slamming into her again.
When Gwenvael finally lifted himself up, Dagmar scrambled off the bed and stumbled across the floor.
Turning around, she gripped her loosening robe closed. “Stay away from me, you mad bastard.”
Gwenvael went up on all fours and began to crawl across the bed. “Apologize.”
“Never.”
“Beast.”
“Defiler.”
With his knees resting on the edge of the bed, Gwenvael reached out to grab Dagmar. She squealed again and made another run for it. Charging off the bed, Gwenvael reached for her again. He lost her … but he got the robe.
He held it up. “Look what I have here.”
Dagmar stopped in mid-run and spun around to face him. She had her right arm over her chest and her left hand over her sex. “Give that back!”
“I don’t think so.”
“Gwenvael, give it back.”
He tossed it over his arm and planted his feet firmly. “No, my lady, what I think I’m going to do is …”
“Gwenvael,” she pushed when he stopped talking. “What’s wrong with you?”
He let out a hard breath, his gaze locked onto her body. Her hands and arms blocked much of it, but still …
“Gods, woman, what have you been hiding?”
Dagmar looked around and down at herself. “Nothing, I don’t think. I mean, I told what I knew to Morfyd and Annwyl—”
Gwenvael shook his head. “Not that. This.” He walked toward her and she quickly stepped back. “We really must find you clothes that do you justice.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t move,” he snapped, and Dagmar immediately stopped moving away from him.
Gwenvael walked slowly around her, his gaze feasting on her.
“What, in the name of reason, are you doing?”
Behind her, Gwenvael slowly went to his knees. “Enjoying myself.”
When Dagmar felt something brush against her ass, her entire body jolted. “Did you just—” She cleared her throat. “Did you just kiss my … uh … backside?”
Gwenvael didn’t respond, but when she felt a warm tongue lazily wind its way up to her hip, she jumped away.“What are you doing?” she asked again, quickly facing him.
“If you turn back around”—he purred—“you’ll eventually find out.”
“I can’t … We can’t … I know we’ve danced around it, but … uh …”
She took a step back when Gwenvael stood. “It’s all right.”
Dagmar realized she was panting, as if she were running down that main road toward Spikenhammer again.
“I didn’t mean to panic. I just … I’m not used to …”
“Sssh.” He walked toward her and she took another step back.
“Stop moving,” he ordered.
And she did.
Gwenvael put her robe over her shoulders, took one arm and put it through the sleeve and did the same with the other. He closed the robe tightly and belted it.
“Feel better?”
She let out a shaky breath. “Yes.”
“Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
She swallowed. “No.”
Gripping her hand, he walked her over to the bed and knelt on top of it, tugging at her until she joined him.
Kneeling across from each other, he said, “You know, Dagmar, not everything has to be so serious. Every moment involving a life or death issue that needs to be analyzed and sussed out.”
She winced. “I try not to be stuffy.”
“And you’re not, thankfully. But the games played that involve whole kingdoms don’t need to be played here. Here it’s just us—and we can do whatever we want.”
It dawned on Dagmar that he was right. She wasn’t at her father’s fortress, one of her brothers liable to walk in unannounced at any time. Nor did she have to worry about her sisters-in-law listening at the door or bribing the servants for information. She was thousands of miles from her kinsmen and in a place that knew nothing of her.
Dagmar felt a delicious, wicked thrill lash through her and carefully stated, “I don’t have your freedom, my lord. I have my … honor to think of. To protect.”
“Your honor?” Confused, Gwenvael stared at her for a long moment, and then his expression cleared and slowly, carefully, he began to play the game with her. “Ahh, yes. Your precious honor. There will be no protecting that tonight. Not with me.”
Gwenvael lowered his head, his mouth heading toward hers. Dagmar turned her face away, her hands firmly pressed against his chest, trying to push him back even while her hands begged to explore.
But he wouldn’t let her turn away, grabbing a handful of her hair and forcing her head back until she had to look at him, his mouth again lowering toward hers.
His tongue slid inside, taking full ownership as it stroked and teased her and Dagmar whimpered desperately, her fingers digging into his shirt-covered chest. There was no rush to this kiss, no desperate invasion. He simply took what he wanted in his own time—and she let him.
So lost in his kiss, she didn’t know he’d opened her robe again until he palmed her breast. Startled by the contact, Dagmar instinctively tried to pull back, but his grip on her hair kept her firmly in place. Unable to escape.