John snorted and a bit of that very meat flew from between his lips onto the table. “Nottingham, do you hear this? Does the meat taste rank to you?”
Remembering the way Will had guided her during the chess game in John’s chamber, Marian moved her foot very carefully, but swiftly, toward Will. She took great care not to cause the heavy cloth that covered the table to shift. She pressed her foot against his as hard as she dared while looking at the prince and his lean cheeks, bulging with victuals.
Fortunately, she saw out of the corner of her eye that Will had just lifted his goblet to drink, giving him a moment to pause before speaking. “I do not claim to be expert,” he said as he lowered the cup. He did not move his foot away, to Marian’s surprise. “But the meat does have a strange taste.”
“Bah,” said John. “I do not taste it.” He leaned toward Lady Joanna and asked of her the same question. Her response was unintelligible, but since it was accompanied by giggles and overt flirtation, Marian did not think the other woman agreed with her.
Marian did not eat any of the meat in question, and she noted that Will did not touch the remainder of the slice on his trencher. But she dared not look at him and instead focused on keeping her conversation with the prince light and banal as she hid her apprehension.
The meal was only half-over-that is to say, the meats and breads had been served, but there were still potatoes, carrots, and beets to follow, as well as fruit tarts-when Marian became aware of movement under the table.
Something brushed against her legs, bumping near her feet, and she knew it wasn’t one of the hounds. It felt too . . . human. Hands, most definitely … moving along her thighs beneath the table.
Marian froze, her breath catching in her throat. She carefully looked to her right, toward Will. The cloth hanging over the table had bunched and moved slightly, and she noted that he seemed to be holding himself as rigid as she was holding herself.
But now hands were lifting her skirts. Warm fingers eased up along her hose-encased legs gently, so gently they tickled her sensitive flesh, prickling the skin beneath the thin fabric . . . and then onto her bare skin at the tops of her thighs.
She knew her eyes had grown wide and that her lips had parted in shock. Clearly it was not Will who accosted her; he was too still beside her. Nor was it the prince. She dared not look at John, for from the activity happening beneath the table, bumping and nudging her leg on the left side, she knew that he was fully involved in his own pursuits. In fact, the bumping and nudging became a familiar rhythm next to her, and it took little imagination to confirm that someone had knelt before John and was working his cock in and out of her mouth. This knowledge, combined with the pressure of the hands on her legs, pulling them apart, sent a warmth flushing over Marian’s face.
But whose hands were they?
Next to her, Will had remained completely still, yet she could feel the same sorts of movements happening on his side. The brush of his leg as it shifted against hers, and the flush of cool air over her now-bared thighs. The cloth of her undertunic and overgown had been bunched up in her lap beneath the table, and Marian stifled a little gasp as her legs were spread wide despite her attempt to keep them closed.
Her knees bumped into the rhythmic legs of the men on either side of her, and something warm and wet buried itself in the folds of her quim.
She could not move away; she could barely squirm in her seat as the tongue drove relentlessly into her warmth, tickling and teasing her little pip. Fingers spread her nether lips wide, and she felt the gentle scrape of teeth over her flesh, followed again by the strong thrust of a tongue . . . deep. Long, smooth strokes, licking around the inside of her as if it were a gentle knife spreading soft cheese.
Marian gripped the edge of the table and realized that John had turned to speak to her. His own eyes held a glassy look of pleasure, and the rhythm between his legs had become faster and faster.
“And how do you like my little . . . surprise, my lady?” he asked in a strained voice. His lips stretched in a pleased smile even as a tiny gasp burst from him. “Ohh . . . ,” he said softly, his eyes fastened on her, still murky with pleasure. Yet there was a dark glint there that made Marian’s belly twist.
“I prefer to confine … such activity . . . ,” she said, working hard to focus on her words, and not the insistent sleek thrumming between her legs, “. . . to the bedchamber.”
John smiled wide, showing yellow teeth and glistening gums. “That . . . can be . . . arranged.”
Nauseated, yet flush with warmth and the need to twitch and move, Marian turned away. The pressure between her legs, the focused tip of a tongue vibrating against her, the gentle pull of lips . . . she could no longer ignore the delicious torture.
