Medieval 03 - Enchanted

sensual heat burned from his navel
to his knees.
    He let out his breath and lightly stroked the
violet cloth that concealed Ariane’s hips and legs. The
fabric slid aside with the ease of water flowing, leaving Ariane
naked.
    Careful not to jar her, Simon lifted Ariane and
turned her onto her unwounded side. He told himself that his hands
hadn’t lingered on the swell of her hip. Nor had he molded
his palm to her leg and curled his fingertips around to skim the
lush darkness that lay concealed between her thighs.
    A stifled sound came from Simon as the sword
between his legs grew more adamant to be sheathed. It was as if he
had never touched a woman before, never known the heady scent of a
woman’s desire, never parted soft, perfumed lips and delved
between to the very heart of desire.
    Abruptly Simon jerked back his hands as though he
had been holding them too close to flame.
    This is madness .
    Neither Simon’s reasoning side nor his
unruly, passionate one disagreed with his
conclusion.
    He closed his eyes and dipped his fingertips into
the small pot of balm. Slowly he began stroking balm down
Ariane’s back. When he reached the flare of her buttocks, he
hesitated.
    Ariane’s long legs moved restlessly. The
motion brought her hip up against the palm of Simon’s
hand.
    His fingers flexed in sensual answer, testing the
resilience of her flesh. When he realized what he had done, he
froze, afraid that he had disturbed Ariane’s healing sleep.
After several breaths, he slowly relaxed. Ariane hadn’t
awakened.
    Nor had she moved away from the long fingers
cupping her hip.
    Slowly Simon lifted his hand. He dipped up more
balm and followed the line of Ariane’s spine to its base.
Without truly intending to, he skimmed over the shadow cleft
beyond.
    Fire licked up his fingertips and shot through his
arm, sending a surge of heat through his loins. Reluctantly he
removed his hand while he could still trust himself to do so.
    Simon wanted to give more to Ariane than a caress
that ended almost before it began. He wanted to follow the curve of
her bottom all the way around, until his palm was pressed between
her thighs, snug against her softness while his fingers penetrated
her sleek, scented heat.
    Then he would retreat slowly, drawing her moisture
with him, letting it wash against his palm until he slid into her
again, penetrating her deeply, withdrawing, spreading the scent of
her desire until it clung to both of them like heat to fire.
    I cannot. She isn’t
awake .
    But I am .
    Sweet Jesus, I am on
fire .
    Simon would have cursed, but hadn’t the
breath. He felt both potent and immensely alive, blood pouringthrough him in powerful waves, making him even
harder than before.
    A deep, almost soundless groan threaded between
Simon’s clenched teeth. Carefully thinking of nothing at all,
he rubbed the scented ointment down the curving length of
Ariane’s legs and into the finely wrought arch of her
feet.
    Sighing, Ariane turned onto her back as though her
body had memorized the routine of balm and stroking. As she turned,
long black hair fanned across her breasts and belly. The faintly
curling ends of her hair caught and held on the triangle of
thicker, more curly hair that protected her most feminine
flesh.
    As though entranced, Simon reached out and slowly,
very slowly, separated the two shades of midnight that were
Ariane’s hair. The temptation also to part the black triangle
with just one fingertip and seek the heat beneath was so great that
Simon’s hand shook.
    I must not .
    Yet as quickly as he told himself it was wrong,
another part of himself rebelled.
    Why? Look at her shifting,
sighing, wanting. Look at her breasts swelling in hope of my touch,
her nipples drawing taut, needing to be stroked .
    Rather grimly, Simon silenced his inner argument by
dipping his fingertips into the creamy ointment. He massaged it
into Ariane’s shoulders, her arms, her hands, until nothing
above her collarbones remained untouched.
    Wishing that he were finished with the maddening
duty—and simultaneously glad that he wasn’t—Simon
probed deeply in the pot, scooping up more balm. He rubbed the
ointment over his palms and began speedily to complete his
task.
    Ariane’s breasts were fuller than Simon
remembered, vibrant, taut. Even when he closed his eyes, he could
see the image of her burned against his eyelids. Her skin was as
fine-grained and pale as a sultan’s most prized pearl. The
tips of her breasts were tight