No sooner were they in the hayloft, than he was over her, spreading her thighs with his roughened hands while his lips closed over one nipple and tugged upon it like a half-starved babe. She felt the quickening in her core, even at the first suck. No man had ever touched her there, or even seen her breasts before. In the convent, when they bathed, they wore shifts, as the nuns did. No eyes, other than those of their husbands, were ever supposed to see their naked bodies. She and Deorwynn had examined one another out of curiosity, but even that, interesting and informative as it was, could not compare with what she would learn tonight.

She was glad the Norman liked the look and taste of her.

And then, in their eagerness, his teeth clamped down a little too hard.

“Ouch.”

He licked the swollen nipple, chuckling softly in apology. In French. “It is for me without too long,” he admitted, charmingly sheepish in his broken English. She wriggled in the straw, discarding her robe. Suddenly he knelt up and wiped his cock on the tunic he’d already pulled off over his head. “Will you take me in your mouth?” he asked, offering it to her, the full head bobbing eagerly at her lips. She was nervous suddenly, the idea of taking that all in, fitting it within her…

He straddled her waist, one hand stroking his cock, the other holding the saddle packs that hung beneath it.

Jisella licked her tense lips. He groaned, directing the tip at her mouth.

She would do it, she decided. She wanted to explore him fully, her Knight. Later she would have a tale for Deorwynn and the others—and this time the experience to back it up.

He shuddered when she opened her mouth and let his crest slide between her lips, onto her tongue. Slowly she accepted more, her tongue running over the ridges of his engorged veins, exploring. He filled her mouth and her throat, salty and yet sweet, a combination she’d never expected and quickly found she liked. When she began to suck hungrily he growled, grabbing her shoulders to steady himself, then wrapping his knuckles through her long loose hair. She grew bolder, her sucking harder, rhythmic. It was mesmerizing, the taste of him rich and luxurious. She stroked his firm buttocks, tracing the hard, tense muscles with her fingertips. Whenever her touch ventured closer to the valley between his cheeks, she heard him draw a harsh breath, steeling himself. His prick swelled in her mouth. Interesting. Out of curiosity she let one finger venture between his cheeks.

Abruptly he tried to pull away. Groaning in her throat, bossy and defiant, she sucked again, her finger prying. He panted, his back arched, his hips thrusting. Only when he tugged her hair hard and swore did she finally release his cock. As it pulled out over her tongue she tasted a bead of liquid and knew he had almost spilled.

Hands to her shoulders, he shoved her down on her back in the hay. His eyes were long lashed and, despite their darkness, full of heat. The intensity scorched her skin as she lay before him and spread her legs. He lowered over her, licking her stomach, his tongue delving into her navel, making her squirm, ticklish. He worked his way down to her vulva, licking and nibbling. His breath was hot, ale-soaked, coming in short hard bursts. He hadn’t asked her name or anything about her, she thought dimly. This is probably how it always was with him and women.

A few moments later, his close shaven head was between her open thighs. Jisella felt his breath on her sex, wild and unsteady. He whispered something in his own tongue, and when she lifted up to look down at him, he was studying her labia, hungry as a wolf cub. His gaze met hers over the softly furred mound and she knew his hard Norman lips were an inch or less from claiming her tender womanhood. She swallowed, still tasting him in her throat.

“Remy,” she groaned. “Make haste.”

“You know my name?”

“Yes. I heard the other men…just hurry. Fuck me.”

He scowled at her above the small thatch of downy hair, his shoulders holding her knees apart. Evidently he took issue with her making commands. “Who are you?” he demanded. “You are no nun.”

Cursing under her breath, she hitched further up on her elbows. “Of course I’m no nun. Are all Normans this stupid? I’m a prisoner here.”

The ridges across his brow deepened.

“You’re a knight are you not?” she exclaimed. “Aren’t you supposed to save maidens in distress?”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“Of this I was not informed.”

“Continue!” She waved him on, laying back.

To her relief she heard a husky laugh before he dipped his head again. She lifted her hips to meet his mouth, exhaling in a blistering rush as his tongue lapped at her firmly, three masterful strokes. The Norman’s fingers parted her folds to let his tongue slip inside. She writhed, the straw pricking at her back. His tongue stiffened, pressing up into her, reaching for buried treasure. Afraid of crying out, she quickly stuffed the hood of her cloak in her mouth. Having found something in her, he fondled it with that same questing tongue, tugging and playful. Her heart beat was beyond her now, recklessly racing, taking her at speed across new, unfamiliar terrain. She feared not.

She had found him, her Ever Knight.