Dream of Me/Believe in Me

He laid his mouth against her delicate skin, tracing the pale blue line of her life's blood down to where it disappeared beneath the gown she still wore. His teeth tore at the fabric, ripping it aside, freeing her breasts. Urgently, he suckled her, drawing her deeply, raking her lightly, the sensation teetering on the edge between pain and pleasure. Before it could tip over, he raised his head and took her mouth, his tongue thrusting with the same powerful, driving rhythm as his sex.
    She was lost, the world shattering, every particle of her being resonating with the exquisite fury of her release. Yet still she felt his own when it followed swiftly, incredibly renewing and extending her ecstasy until nothing remained save sweet, soft oblivion.
    G AZING DOWN AT THE FACE OF HIS WIFE, WOLF traced a finger carefully over the faint, half-moon smudges beneath the thick fringe of her lashes, and a little farther over the curve of her cheek, along the delicate line of her jaw, lingering on her rose-petal lips, now slightlyswollen. He kept his touch feather-light, careful not to disturb her. A rueful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. A man could do worse than to make his wife faint with pleasure. Much worse.
    Tentatively, he sought the stinging anger that had struck him the moment he realized what she had done, anger he had struggled mightily to control even as he faced the grim but seemingly inescapable duty of punishing her. Only the faintest echoes of it remained and those were fading fast. He let them go gladly.
    If he had failed in his duty, so be it. For once in his life, he was content and more than content to be only a man—and a husband. Cymbra's husband.
    The sudden image of his wife as she had looked when she threw the cheese at him made him chuckle. No meek, docile little woman, his Saxon bride. No cloying, simpering female to make him long to go adventuring.
    No wonder Frigg favored her. She had the spirit of a true goddess. For surely she had taken him like one, milking the life from him in a soul-shattering rapture he could still scarcely believe for all that he had experienced it. He could well believe that no god had ever climaxed as long, as hard, or as intensely as he had just done. She made him feel like he could conquer worlds, if only to lay them at her feet.
    Something nibbled at the edge of his awareness, slowly distracting him from the pleasant contemplation of his wife. He glanced over his shoulder, seeking the source of the faint, dripping sound, and saw the upturned pitcher of water, no doubt spilled in their … contest. Yes, it would be as well if he thought of it that way. A contest between two superbly matched contenders, so well pitted as to assure that both emerged victorious.
    Standing, he righted the pitcher, then looked again at Cymbra. She had turned onto her side, one bare leg drawn up, an arm resting over her full breasts. Escaped flourcovered the sacks on which she lay and drifted over her skin. Traces of the whey still clung to her and there was a little stain from the berries on her chin.
    He glanced down at himself, noting that he had fared worse still. Flour and egg clung to him along with the sticky honey. A deep laugh rumbled up from his chest. The master and mistress of Sciringesheal, coupling in the kitchen on flour sacks amid the wreckage they themselves had caused. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done something so inappropriate to his rank—or so pleasurable.
    Grinning broadly he lifted Cymbra in his arms. She stirred against him and blinked. “Wolf … ?”
    He looked down at her, his smile softening, becoming tender. “I think the cooks would like the kitchens back.”
    She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. “Oh, no!” Turning bright red, she hid her face against his chest. Yet was her muttered distress clear enough. “I can't believe we did this! What were we thinking of? The kitchens! Everybody will know … they'll—”
    “Cymbra,” he said gently, with utmost patience.
    She peered up at him. “What?”
    “They already know we lie together.”
    “Not in the kitchens! Not on flour sacks! Anyone could have come in and—”
    He laughed even more at the sheer absurdity of that. “You're joking! They feared the worst and were glad to get as far from it as they could. When they realize what did happen, they'll be relieved.”
    “Maybe they won't realize. Maybe they'll think we talked and—”
    She faltered, looking around at the