“Aye, that you did.” And still he did not release his gaze . . . which had somehow become fastened upon her lips.
“And yet you string my patience taut.”
He gave a low little chuckle. “My lady Alys, I am most accustomed to a woman speaking what she believes is on her mind . . . but more oft than not, I find that what she speaks is not what she truly means.”
“And so now, sirrah, you accuse me of not knowing my own mind?” she replied, raising her hands to push at his chest.
Not as tall as the forbidding sheriff, nor as powerfully built, he was nevertheless muscular and graceful. Lean and strong, and more wickedly handsome than she would willingly admit. And he did not make the slightest shift when she shoved at him.
“But ’tis quite obvious, Lady Alys . . . for if you’d truly intended to cry ware, you would have done so long before now.” His grin was wide and knowing and he leaned in.
Infuriated-for he was partially correct, curse the man-Alys drew in her breath to shriek to high heaven.
The scream was forever caught in her mouth, for he timed his assault perfectly and covered her lips at that moment.
This kiss was violently different from the one they’d shared in his treetop hideaway; his lips were much more demanding, much less tentative and coaxing. He ate at her, his tongue thrusting into her mouth as if he’d die if he did not kiss her . . . and she found herself closing her eyes, opening her mouth to take him in farther.
His hands, fingers trembling, shoved into her hair, pulling it free from the braids that had long since loosened, and his hips pressed her against the cold, damp wall. Alys found that her fingers had curled into his plain-cloth tunic; instead of pushing him away, as she’d attempted a moment ago, she drew him closer. She didn’t know why. She didn’t care.
She loved the long, strong lines of his body, the warmth of him pressing her against the wall as her hands moved over the planes of his chest, feeling the swell of muscle there, as she tasted the heat of his mouth. Her knees began to loosen, and she felt herself falling. . . .
When she fully realized what she was doing, that she’d become weak-kneed and mind-boggled, she yanked her face away from his. Breathing heavily, she opened her mouth and screamed.
Robin reeled away from her, his eyes wide and shocked as she continued to cry warning at the top of her lungs.
“Foolish woman!” he said, every trace of good humor gone. His eyes flashed sparks instead of charm. “Do you want me killed?”
“Foolish man,” she gasped, still out of breath. “Did you not listen when I warned you thus? I am no simple and easy woman, Robin Hood. I will not be wooed by falsities and a flattering tongue.”
“Viper!” he accused, and as they heard the pounding of footsteps coming toward them, he disappeared into the shadows.
“I do not care for your green ribbons!” she hissed after him, and leaned against the wall, pressing her hands against her lips. Trembling.
She knew that she would lie to the man now coming to her rescue. Just as the Sheriff of Nottingham had lied to her earlier.
The cloak fell away, leaving Marian chilled and warm at the same time . . . an odd sensation. Her hair, braided and coiled heavily around her head, left her fully exposed. Her nipples puckered tightly, her skin heated from the fire, yet pebbled where the warmth could not reach. Her body stood, stretched, pale and creamy, dusted with brushstrokes of rich, golden freckles. The dance of flames warmed every swell and hollow.
Robin covered her mouth with smiling lips, laughing with great humor as they curved over hers . . . his hands sliding over her, slender and elegant, drawing her close to his warm, lean body . . . and she was falling, falling. . . .
The bed caught her, the slick, smooth furs embraced her . . . and he landed next to her, his hands sliding between her legs, his fingers finding her hard little pearl, covering it, teasing . . . and when she rolled over, there was Will, dark and heavy, on the other side. His eyes, shadowed and flat, filled her vision as he came closer, bending to her. His mouth covered hers, masking her soft little moan as Robin knelt before her, his fingers warm on her hips.
Hands all over her . . . too many, sliding, caressing, cupping . . . large, dark ones on her white breasts, lifting, stroking . . . a swarthy face bending to cover her lips again, blocking her view as someone drew her knees wide. The brush of his silky hair over her legs, on the sides of her thighs as he bent there . . . teasing, taunting, as she lifted and rocked her hips, desperately seeking completion, her mouth filled with a slick hot tongue, devoured by hungry lips.
Her quim opened, ready, hot, and wet . . . then a dark head at her breast, sucking long, hard . . . pulling away and then slipping a strong tongue around and over the tip of her nipple so that she gasped and arched and writhed.
