They circled each other while in the valley below the battle raged on. Her sword arm ached from the weight, the effort, her hip throbbed, and sweat coated her skin. She could hear her own breath, wheezing a little now, and see the blood staining the torn leather on Roarke’s shoulder.
She was having the time of her life.
She lifted the sword high over her head, point toward her opponent, and once again planted her feet. “Tie breaker.”
He smiled at her, baited her with a crook of his finger. Though her eyes narrowed she wasn’t so easily caught. She pivoted, spun, met his thrust with a downward arc, then swiped up and barely missed that compelling face.
Sun eked through the clouds, shone on the biting blades as they whizzed, hacked, clashed. Her heart thundered in her chest, a drumbeat of battle pounding in the blood.
The wind and his own rapid movements had his hair dancing around a face damp with sweat. She thought his eyes brighter, bolder than the blades.
He gave no quarter; she wanted none. Thrust, strike, attack. Thrust, strike, defend. As they matched power against power, speed against guile, she felt the thrill of battle against a perfectly matched opponent.
Once more their swords crossed, held. They stared at each other, breath labored, sweat dripping.
“Screw the game,” he said.
“Oh yeah.”
They tossed their swords aside and leaped at each other.
They rolled over the thick, coarse grass, mouths meeting, clashing as their blades had. Breathless, desperate, she gripped his hair, used her teeth. Her breath came short and harsh as she tugged and yanked at leather.
“How the hell do you get this off ?”
“How the devil do I know?”
“It’s your game.”
“Bloody hell.” He rolled her over, shoved her facedown in the grass to attack the laces. “Bastard’s knotted like steel.” Inspired, he yanked the dagger from his belt and sliced them free. He flung the dagger point down in the grass.
Lowering to her, he gave himself the pleasure of her naked back, the lean length of it, the play of muscle under hot, smooth skin. When his hand passed over the wound in her hip, she flinched.
“How’s the hip?”
“Hurts—just enough to let me know I took a hit.” She flipped over, reared up, pulling the dagger out of the ground. “Shoulder?”
“I’ll live.”
She smiled. “Better hold still or I’ll win by default.” She sliced the dagger down the leather. Her eyes on his, she turned the blade. “Trust me?”
He gripped her wrist, shoved her arm down until her fingers opened on the hilt. “No.”
With a laugh, she pulled him down to her.
His mouth warred with hers, quick bites, sliding tongues while their bodies, slick with sweat, stained with blood, moved over the rough grass.
Smoke plumed from the valley below, and on its edges echoed the endless combat. It seemed apt, she thought. No matter how in tune she and Roarke might be, there was always another battle brewing under the calm.
And always with it, always this need to take, to consume, to have, to be. Even now, in the midst of this violent fantasy, she wanted nothing more than his hands on her, then his body mated with hers.
She rolled again, straddled him. His hands closed possessively over her breasts before he pushed up so his mouth could do the same.
She tasted of the fight—hot, damp, hints of leather, and under his hungry mouth her heart thundered. For him. As her body trembled—all that strength, all that will trembling. For him. That was his miracle, his greatest treasure.
“Mine,” he said. “My heart.” And he felt the new thrill of hearing her answer him in the language of his blood. His hands tangled in her hair, the long, wild tumble of it—another new and oddly seductive sensation.
He overbalanced, taking her down to her back with the swords crossed just above her head. Now when he thrust, when she cried out, it was only in pleasure.