Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 01] (2 page)

Her heart pummeled against her crushed ribs, blood pounded against her throbbing temples, and her wet clit ached for release against her massaging finger.

He would spread her legs. And then surge into her with his magnificent, massive cock, and she would come, as the great goddess decreed, until the stars in the heavens cascaded through her sated soul, leaving a shimmering waterfall of rainbow lights forevermore.

Hot, liquid heat flooded her pussy, and she bit down hard on her lower lip to stop from crying out. Her fantasy lover satisfied her in ways she had barely before envisaged. As her heart gradually eased its frantic beat and her breath slowed, she knew it was best he remained merely a fantasy. Reality could never compare to the joy she experienced in his arms, while safely cocooned within her mind. In her fantasy, she could orgasm. In reality, with a man, she never could.

She became aware of the sharp edges of the bark scratching her face and struggled to raise her head. A stab of disappointment, as sharp as a Druid’s blade, sliced through her heart.

Her secret lover had vanished from beneath the waterfall.

She inched back along the branch until she was once again safely against the trunk of the tree. It was of no matter. Perhaps he would bathe again tomorrow, and she would be here waiting for him. Or perhaps she would have to wait another moon. There was no method to his visits as far as she could discern, and for all she knew he might never pass this way again. But she didn’t want to think about that.

She was simply going to enjoy every illicit moment she could.

Carefully she climbed back to the ground, her limbs still shaky and filled with remnants of desire. But as her feet touched the leaf-strewn ground, trepidation raced along her spine, crawled across the back of her neck, and sent shivers coursing along her arms.

She was no longer alone
.

The trepidation mutated into stark terror. She had trespassed into occupied territory, and the enemy had found her. Stealthily she wrapped her fingers around the dagger strapped to her waist.

She might be imagining it. But she wasn’t an acolyte of the wise goddess Cerridwen for nothing. The Roman stood behind her, and was moments from slaughtering her.

And it was her own fault for not being more careful.

But she wouldn’t show any fear. Wouldn’t divulge any information, no matter how he tortured her. And besides, it was always possible her dagger would pierce his corrupt heart with her first thrust. She knew she wouldn’t be given the chance of a second.

She drew in a breath—her last?—gathered her fleeing courage, and turned to face the conqueror.

Tiberius Valerius Maximus stopped dead in his tracks as the woman slowly turned toward him. The adrenaline pumping through him in anticipation of the chase spiked into raw sexual energy, as he stared at the one who had been spying on him for Mars knew how long.

Pure reflex kept his gladius raised, and his soldier’s senses remained alert for others hidden among the trees. But his gut told him she was alone. Vulnerable. At his mercy.

He took a step toward her, emerging from the shadows into the dappled sunlight. He expected her to flee, but she remained where she was, looking directly at him as if she had every right to be there and he, none.

Slowly he lowered his gladius. He’d not imagined the spy would be so small or slender or without apparent means of defense. He flicked a glance at the gem-encrusted dagger she clutched to her side, and dismissed it. She possessed neither the strength nor ability to injure him.

Her pale lemon gown, with its square neckline, skimmed the tops of her breasts and hugged her tiny waist before falling in soft folds to just below her knee. The sunlight bathed her in a radiant glow, but her hair needed no such enhancement. Loosely pulled back from her face, it was braided into a long golden plait that trailed over her shoulder to her waist.

He took another step, barely aware he did so. Many of the local girls tied their hair in such a fashion. But threaded through this golden rope were tiny clusters of amethyst and jade, their polished edges glittering, momentarily dazzling him.

And then she moved from the sunlight into the shade. But not away from him. Toward him. And for the first time he saw her face.

For one eternal heartbeat he remained transfixed by her delicate, ethereal beauty. Golden tendrils escaped her braid and caressed her pale cheeks, yet not a hint of fear emanated.

Her serenity unnerved him. And then he looked into her wide, beautiful eyes, and primal panic whipped through him, knotting his guts and tightening his muscles. Instinctively he raised his gladius, but still he couldn’t tear his gaze from her strange, unnatural eyes.
One amethyst, one jade.
Was she one of the Celts’ barbaric goddesses, come to take vengeance for her people?

She flinched. Barely discernible, but his trained eye saw. Saw how she tried to hide her reaction. Saw, suddenly, the uneven rise and fall of her breasts beneath her woolen gown, a certain sign that despite the calm she displayed, in truth she feared him.

He didn’t want her to fear him. He was a soldier, not a tyrant. Her conqueror and master, but he didn’t need another slave.

With deliberation he once again lowered his gladius, pressed its tip against his thigh. Bizarrely, relief streaked through him at his foresight in wrapping a length of linen around his waist before hunting the spy. He cared not who saw his body, but conversely didn’t want her to see how much she affected him.

And she did affect him. Despite his early-morning ritual of self-gratification, already another erection caused discomfort. He sucked in a deep breath and struggled to articulate the Celtic tongue.

“I mean you no harm.”

Her glance flashed to his gladius, then back to him. He didn’t need an oracle to decipher that response. Without conscious thought he took another step toward her. “What’s your name?”

She pressed her lips together and tilted her head very slightly.

Maximus gave a reluctant smile. Her courage was strangely fascinating, since she had to know he could snap her slender neck with one hand if he so desired.

“So you’re giving me the silent treatment?” He lapsed into the familiarity of his own language. “That makes a change, a beautiful woman holding her tongue.”

Again she tilted her head and this time he laughed at the haughty glare she directed his way. “Although I’m sure there are plenty of things you’d like to say to me, if only we could understand each other.” With his free hand he reached out and gently brushed a strand of golden hair from her face. The silk of her hair and the unexpected heat from her soft skin sent molten darts of animal lust from the tips of his fingers directly to his throbbing cock.

Gods
. His fingers stilled against her face. She didn’t try to escape. His breath burned his lungs, closed his windpipe.
Why didn’t she try to escape?

“You haven’t been seen in any of the villages.” He’d seen countless girls and women as the legionaries had vanquished one primitive village after another. Had even sampled a few of the prettiest himself, those who were willing to fraternize with their enemy.

Had this golden-haired vision been found, she would have been brought to him personally. The best prizes always were.

“You’re no peasant.” His gaze raked over her, only now recognizing the fine weave to the woolen gown, the intricate, vibrant embroidery that decorated its neckline, sleeves and hem. And the semiprecious jewels threaded through her hair were repeated in her long earrings that brushed her shoulders, the delicate necklace that clasped the base of her throat and the bracelets around her fragile-looking wrists.

Another step and he was close enough to breathe in her evocative scent of spring flowers and summer breezes. A clean, pure scent, one infinitely elevated from the stink of the masses or the claw of poverty. Or the mindless slaughter of the blood-soaked quagmires.

“Where do you come from?” He used her language although he didn’t expect her to answer. This girl, whose air of fragility reminded him of a wood nymph, was from the chieftain class. Of that much he was certain. He trailed his knuckles across her cheek and gently grasped her jaw between thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him although she had shown no sign of dropping her gaze. “Where is your father’s settlement?”

Her eyes darkened, dilated pupils almost obliterating her mystical, bicolored irises. Lust burned deep in his groin. Hot. Painful. He traced his thumb across her soft lower lip, felt the heat of her breath scorch his flesh. “Your husband’s?” His voice rasped, as if he had been lost in the desert for days without liquid sustenance. As if the thought of this girl belonging to another man grazed his soul.

It made no difference if she were married or not. If he wanted her, he would have her, and to Tartarus with her entire family if they attempted to deny his desire.

The tip of her tongue moistened the seam of her lips, and he imagined that tongue slipping between his own lips, invading his mouth, and his fingers tightened around her jaw.

“I belong to no man.” Her words were low, breathless, yet clear and melodic to his ears.

“You belong to me.”

Her eyes never left his. “Do you take everything by force, Roman?” Her words were slow, deliberate, as if she wanted him to understand everything she said. She made an expressive gesture with her hand, encompassing the virgin forest. “My land. My people.” She paused for a heartbeat. “Me?”

He rammed his gladius into the ground and cradled her face with both hands. “I don’t need to take you by force, my lady. But I’ll use force against any who try to keep you from me.”

Her hand came between them, and the tips of her fingers touched his naked skin over the heavy beat of his heart. Her pressure was so slight he could scarcely feel her at all, and yet her touch branded him, reached deep inside and twisted his gut.

He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know which noble claimed her. But none of that mattered. Because he had conquered their land for the mighty Caesar and everything and everyone was now owned by Rome.

And here, he was Rome.

Her fingers grazed over his chest, as if the texture of his flesh and hair fascinated her. His hands slid from her face to her throat, and the rapid beat of her pulse against his fingers sank into his blood, an erotic echo.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” Her whisper flickered through his brain, making no sense. Had he misunderstood? His grasp of her language was far from comprehensive. An oversight he intended to remedy forthwith.

“Were you sent to spy on me?” Inconceivable anyone should send this fragile female on such an assignment, especially with only an ornamental dagger for defense. And yet the Celts were not Roman. Their women were rumored to be as ruthless as their men in battle.

He’d witnessed such himself, from those villages whose inhabitants hadn’t surrendered voluntarily beneath the might of the Eagle.

She looked up at him, fearless and silent. While he couldn’t imagine her engaged in bloody battle, she still had the courage of a warrior to stand up to him.

He lowered his head as his hands slid over her shoulders. “If you weren’t sent to spy on me, then why should I kill you?”

Her hand flattened against his chest, as if she meant to push him away but the touch became an irresistible caress as her palm rubbed over his erect nipple. His cock throbbed at her gentle touch, and the soft linen did nothing to hide the extent of his erection. Curling his fingers around her upper arms, he pulled her against his hard body, wanting her to feel how much she aroused him, wanting to feel the softness of her skin against him.

Her lips parted in a startled gasp as he ground his shaft against her stomach. Sliding one hand down her back, he cupped her round buttock and anchored her securely against his rigid heat.

He wanted more. But for now, this sufficed.

“My beautiful, fearless Celt,” he said in his own language. He squeezed her firm buttock, and she sucked in a shocked breath, even as she squirmed against him. “Would you look at me with such misplaced trust if you knew how much I wanted to rip this gown from your body?” He slid a finger between the crease of her tight little bottom, and her fingernails dug into his chest as she jerked toward him.

He wound his arm around her waist to keep her from any thought of retreat. His finger delved deeper into her hot crevice and she gave a low moan. “Do you know how much I want you, my little Celtic lady? How I want to bury my cock inside your body until I feel you writhe around my shaft? Would you let me, if I asked?”

She pulled, perhaps unconsciously, at his chest hair, and the stabbing pain shot straight to his straining erection. Gods, he needed to fuck her. But every word of her barbaric language had fled his mind, to be replaced by images of her naked beneath him as he filled every tight channel she possessed with his hot seed.