With Her Kiss (Swords of Passion) by Cerise Deland Page A

hay. He had undressed her and sucked her pert nipples. Enchanted with each other’s bodies, they had met again and again. Unable to contain their excitement or their curiosity, he had settled her atop his cloak and primed her gently. Their daily caresses grew bolder, wilder. Both of them were so hot to have each other that, at first sight of each other, he would go erect and she would cream.
    At the same time, her father, long interested in marrying her to a rich lord, was negotiating with one. The man was known as a brute, a libertine. Kat fretted about the nature of the union and shared her fears with Geoff. With word that soon those negotiations would end in agreement, Kat railed at her misfortune. Her agony had inspired Geoff’s affections to fever pitch. He had seized her hand and they had taken to her bedroom.
    Upon her lavender-scented linens, he had taken her maiden’s shield and her desire for any other man. She had taken from him all he had to give. His cock, his cum, his words of undying devotion. Bess had intruded, intervened and changed her world. Yet the servant had never taken from Kat the mysterious beauty of that hour, those days when she had enjoyed the first blush of love and sex with Geoffrey St Claire.
    Days later, her sire had told her he had concluded his contract to wed a baron chosen by John. Furious with her for lying abed with a minor knight, her father had ordered her confined to her room. Kat had gone to her solar and sobbed, pleasuring herself with her hands, stroking her nipples as Geoff had, probing her chat as Geoff had. Certainly, the night of her wedding, she had longed for Geoff’s agile hands, his fervent lips, his sweet, hard shaft inside her.
    “Lie down,” her husband had ordered her on their wedding night after he had ripped the gown from her body and cast the delicate linen to the floor like so much rubbish. “Do not flinch! There. Hang your legs over the edge. And spread your thighs.”
    He had knelt—fallen, actually, to his knees and pushed open her cunny lips. “Pretty pink cat. Been petted before, my wife?” he had asked as he had jammed his fingers inside her and made her squirm to be free.
    But he had pressed her down, oaf that he was. He had leered at her private parts, then pinched and bitten her clit. “You have not lain with any other man, have you? I shall know.”
    He had never taken the time to learn. He had buried his face in her woman’s flesh, slurping at her like an animal. Then he had bared his rod, stroked himself for long minutes and poked his skinny prick inside her. In a minute, he had spent. He had sat upon her thighs and played roughly inside her folds. He had taken to licking and biting her delicate flesh, demanding that she have her release and beating her ass and even her chat with his belt when she could not, would not.
    She had bled that night. Thankful that she had, she had owed the red spots to her bridegroom’s brutality. Her maidenhead, gone in the joyful service of loving her father’s young knight, had broken weeks ago on a bed far sweeter with the kisses and the misty joust of desire.
    The next morn, her husband, much as he could remember of ‘deflowering her’, was satisfied. For that night, she had had a reprieve. For the next year, when she had carried and given birth to Matthew, she had had an excuse to elude her husband’s rough fucks.
    After that, her husband resumed his attentions to her. Usually emboldened by wine and a mistress or whore who had refused his brutalities, her husband would beat and rape her. His seed had brought forth her second son, that poor dead child. He had ordered her bedroom door torn down and would come to her as he pleased, when he pleased. Taking her against a stairwell or slamming her onto the solar table, he had claimed her dry and withered. If wit were her ken, she would have proclaimed the same of him.
    He had cared naught for anyone.
    “Not even himself,” she recalled. He had had not honour