Dream of Me/Believe in Me

covering her along every inch of her body.
    He spread her legs wider and moved between them. She had scarcely a moment to draw breath before he thrust into her, rearing back to thrust again and again, quickly, remorselessly. His possession was so abrupt, and with an edge of roughness to it, that Cymbra felt the stirrings of fear, but she had no time to think of that beforeher body, already so perfectly attuned to his, responded helplessly
    The pleasure built and built, became unbearable, and suddenly, without warning, release was upon her. She cried out, moaning his name against his sweat-dampened skin. His answer was a guttural rasp as he drove even harder and deeper, taking his own satisfaction.
    Scant moments later, he moved off her. Cymbra felt curiously stunned and bereft. The suddenness of his possession, his silence throughout, the lack of gentle caress, all made this time different from any other time between them. She reached out across the bed, seeking some small comfort and reassurance, but he had moved too far away. She encountered only empty space and the chill air of the Norse night.

Chapter NINE

    W OLF LOOKED UP FROM THE WEAPON he was sharpening, saw his wife returning through the open gates, and scowled. Gloriously beautiful as always, she was still paler than she should have been and there were faint violet shadows beneath her eyes. The stubborn wench was wearing herself out.
    In the week since Marta had turned the household keys over to her, Cymbra had risen each day before the first hint of light, dressed quickly, and hurried about her duties. Wolf, who had never been one to lie about in bed, was damn tired of waking up alone. Especially when he invariably did so with a powerful desire for his Saxon beauty and no way to slake it before nightfall.
    He ran a finger over the blade, confirmed its sharpness, and set it aside. Rising, he walked in the direction of the mounted escort that had accompanied his wife and was now drawing rein in front of the stables.
    Cymbra had wanted to go into town without being surrounded by armed men who looked inclined to kill aseasily as they breathed. Wolf took that as further proof of her foolishness. Not that he actually believed anyone in Sciringesheal yearned for the savage death that would be his if he so much as looked wrong at the Wolf's woman, but he had to allow for the effect of her extraordinary beauty on even the sanest man.
    The escort, six grim-faced warriors well blooded in battle, nodded to him. He returned their silent greetings, pleased to see that none was so ill-disciplined as to actually look in his wife's direction. It took more effort to select the best men and train them solidly, but it always paid off in the end.
    He raised his powerful arms, lifting Cymbra from her saddle before she could attempt to dismount. She started a little in surprise. Smiling, he slid her down the long length of his body but did not let go of her even after her feet touched the ground “What have you bought now?”
    Caught within the circle of his arms, she tipped back her head and looked up at him. That he was her husband still amazed her. That she could touch and be touched by him as though that were the most ordinary part of life was astounding. After living untouched for so many years, the sudden intimacy left her feeling as though she had walked from a dark room into brilliant sunshine—bright, glorious, seductively warm, and yet a bit painful, leaving her as yet unsure of how she truly felt about it. She was doing her very best to hold on to her hard-won serenity but increasingly she knew herself to be losing the battle. And never more so when she was like this, so vividly aware of the warmth and strength of the man who held her. Aware, too—no, too aware—of her tremulous response to him. All the same, pride drove her to conceal the dishevelment of her senses he so effortlessly provoked. “Cloth for the servants' new tunics,” she said briskly, then reminded him, “you did say I might.”
    That was true, he had. Cymbra was meticulous about asking his approval for every purchase she made. Although he was astounded by the sheer variety of
things
she thought necessary he couldn't find it in himself to refuse her. And after all, he had to admit that from what he had seen so far, everything she bought had a practical use.
    Moreover, judging by the coin she was spending, she was a champion haggler. Of course, that shouldn't surprise him. The poor merchants