The Robber Knight's Love (The Robber Knight Saga #2)(160)

She hadn't realized until now that he wasn't wearing armor, not even chain mail. She noticed it now. All he was wearing was a tunic and trousers, which meant there was little to conceal his perfect musculature from her touch. Almost unknowingly, her hands traveled upward, sliding over the cool linen beneath which she could feel the hard muscles of his abdomen.

She closed her eyes. This was too intense. Too much to be seeing as well as hearing. She just lay in his strong arms as he held her, stroking her face, making her feel things she'd never ever felt before.

“So beautiful…”

Her eyes snapped open again. His voice had sounded so close! But it couldn't be any closer than before, could it? He would have to be almost touching her face with his.

And he was. He was hardly half an inch away. Why would he…?

And then, as she saw the resolve in his eyes, she realized. She knew what he was here for.

“No!” She meant to say it in a stern voice. Somehow, it came out as a whisper.

“Oh yes, Milady.”

“No, Reuben, don't. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be moral.”

He smiled his devastating, devilish smile. “And your point is?”

She grasped desperately for anything that would save her honor. She had to. If she didn't make the effort, she would have to admit to herself that she wanted this—had wanted it for a very long time.

“You're forgetting yourself, Sir Knight,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Aren't knights supposed to respect a maiden's virtue and never take advantage of her?”

His smile widened, and his fiery gray eyes burned into hers. “I'm a robber knight, Milady. I take what I want.”

And then he swooped down, his lips claiming hers. She had expected it to be forceful, ravaging, painful—instead, their lips seemed to melt into one another. His lips were soft, maybe even a little hesitant, moving with wonderful small caresses from the corners of her mouth to her center, entangling her in a dance of ecstasy.

Had he always been like this, with everyone? So gentle? So loving? She was sure she wasn’t the first girl he had kissed. Now that she was at his mercy, willingly, why didn't he just take all he wanted, like the rake she knew he was?

Then she realized: she might not be the first girl he had kissed—but she was the first girl he had kissed out of love. She could feel it, could sense it in every small touch of his lips, as he moved his mouth against hers. He had kissed her because he loved her.

The simple knowledge filled Ayla with a fiery light, and she snaked her arms upwards, over his muscular chest and to his face, caressing the stubble on his chin, feeling him, reassuring herself that he was there, and he was hers, and he loved her.

Still, there was more to his kiss than gentle love. As it went on, it deepened. The pressure of his mouth on hers increased, and suddenly she could feel a delectable trace of moisture there. How…? She tasted it, confused and careful. It didn't taste like water. Rather heavier, with a hint of musk that made her head swim and crave more. What could…?

It was him. It was Reuben's taste.

“Ayla…!” Her name, uttered in an animalistic growl, sent a shiver down her back.

Suddenly, the hand at the small of her back pressed even tighter. She was lifted into the air and away from the wall. He didn't even take the trouble to set her down again as he moved her backwards until they were in a free space among the green trees, where they had room to move. Still holding her with one hand behind her back, he increased the force of his kiss, bending her backwards.

And she let him. Her body shaped herself to the form of his, melting against him, into him. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice still tried to tell her that this was wrong, that pleasure like this should not happen until after marriage, if at all, but soon enough the voice was silenced by love and desire, fighting side by side.

Finally, his grip relaxed, his lips slowed their assault, and he drew away from her a few inches, so that their faces still were almost touching.

Ayla gasped, sucking in fresh air. She had no idea how long ago it was that she had taken her last breath, but it seemed to be ages. Air rushed into her lungs, carrying the scent of fresh earth, horses, and apple trees. Everything seemed a hundred times more intense now, more alive, more worth living for. Most of all, of course, she wanted to live to smell his scent, to feel the feeling of his arms, which were still holding her tightly, and to see the sight of his intense gray eyes boring into hers.

“And?” he asked, his voice raw. “Do you think that was wrong?”

Ayla stuck her chin out. She had to be true to her moral principles. “Yes, it was.”

His hold on her tightened imperceptibly. His eyes darkened. “Really, Milady?”

“Yes. But…”

“But?”

“But I think I'd like to do it again anyway!” she blurted out. Her cheeks burned as the fatal words escaped her. She looked up at him anxiously. She'd meant what she had said. What she had experienced was so glorious, so overwhelmingly full of love—she could not wish for it to go away, although everything she had been taught told her to shun it. She wanted more. More of him. More of them together, sharing love.

But did he? Had it been as wonderful for him, or had she displeased him? He didn't look very pleased. If anything, he looked a bit stunned.

Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. That smile.