The Virgin Proxy Read Free Page B

puddles on the stone floor. Her tongue, pink and wet, slid over her lower lip as she let out a mewl of excitement, her cheeks glowing, another lock of hair slithering free from its loose binding.
    When he came there to look at her, he expected nothing much, especially considering the peevish temper he was in. It was only out of duty that he came to see his bride, knowing Thierry expected him to make use of the side door and the convenient screen of drying hides. Should Guy not go to see his bride bathe, the other men might hear of it and think there was something amiss with him.
    Expectations low, he first put his eye to the hole just as she lowered into the water. Of course, Thierry had told him she was a beauty, but he could have said that as a joke or even just to be polite. After all, Sybilia Senclere was merely a good political match for an upstart like Devaux; he didn’t expect their union to ignite any passionate fires.
    But as he viewed his bride from behind the screen of animal hides, he felt a searing hot flame leap instantly to life.
    She moved in the water, lifting her shoulders against the edge of the tub. Between every wave her nipples bobbed into view, hot pink and splendidly perky. Her breasts were not large, yet beautifully formed, perfect handfuls, just as Thierry hinted.
    His loins quickened. Aha. This was more like it. He unfastened his leather chausses. Just when he’d begun to think there might be something wrong with his tools, they started working properly again. With speed too. He gripped his hardened shaft, trying not to breathe too loudly and give himself away.
    She slipped back into the water. Damn. He couldn’t see her breasts now. She opened her legs wider and let them hang over the wet sides of the bath. Now she used both hands under the water and he saw her small white teeth biting her lower lip. He ground his jaw, watching the water where it lapped around her arms. Guy knew, without seeing it, that his wife’s cherry basket would be as pretty and well-ripened as her plums.
    And he yearned to plunder it, to plant fruit there of his own.
    His balls tightened; he exhaled. Just a little too loud.
    Her eyes flew open, staring directly at the screen of hides. He halted, the tendons in his arm standing out, his fingers curled tight around his growing, surging manhood.
    She sat up, arms crossed over her breasts. Had she heard his breath, or just sensed him there? He wouldn’t be surprised by the latter, for the air was full of hot prickles, tense and thick, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm.
    “Is someone there?” she demanded. Her voice was soft, but not fearful or timid.
    Guy made a quick decision. She was his bride. He had a right to look at her, every part of her, and she had no right to stop him. So he stepped out into her view, still holding his proudly erect cock in one hand. He gave the shaft several slow, casual strokes and looked at the woman in the bath, waiting for her gasp of outrage. She wouldn’t know who he was, of course. Surely she would scream until a guard came. Then she would learn two things in quick succession—his identity and her only duty here in his fortress. On her back with her legs spread.
    Her deep brown eyes widened. Still she held her arms over her breasts and drew her knees up to her body.
    Neither spoke.
    She turned her gaze to his manhood and what was, at first, fear and astonishment on her pretty face, swiftly became curiosity. Then candid admiration. Rather than scream for the guard, she stared boldly at his nakedness.
    A spur of anger kicked at his temper. Had that old tight-purse Senclere promised him a virgin and cheated him with a whore? Some nobles from the old country resented the success of fresh, young blood here in this newly acquired land and they looked down on men like Guy, a common soldier raised up by the sword. Sending used stock, instead of the avowed maiden, would be one sly way for the Baron Senclere to bite his thumb at