The Tarnished Lady

He lay down next to her on the bed for a time, just holding her as if she were a fragile piece of fine glass, not the hard rock she had been forced to be these past few years.

“You are mine.” And, of course, Eadyth disagreed, claiming, “Nay, you are mine.”

He chuckled softly and continued, “Well, let me tell you, dearling, good lovesport is long . . . and wet . . . and messy . . . and noisy . . . and very, very hot.”

Beneath that cold facade she liked to portray, he suspected there lay banked the embers of a hot sensuality, just waiting for the right man to blow them to life.

Could he be that man? Did he want to be?

Hell, yes!

“Kiss me, dearling.”

“Kiss yourself, you bloody fool,” Eadyth exclaimed, her face flaming hotly with embarrassment.

Eirik watched, mesmerized, as the pink tip of her tongue unconsciously traced a path from one corner, to the divot, to the other corner, then across her full bottom lip. What would it be like to do the same with his own tongue? Eirik fantasized, feeling an immediate swelling at the joining of his thighs.