“Say it,” he growled in her ear, his voice low and husky as he thrust into her again, burrowing into the sensitive, pulsing flesh high inside. Waves of pleasure rippled down her back, shot through her spine, charged along the backs of her legs.
Clinging to his shoulders, her head fell back as her body bounced with the cadence of his penetration. His hands were tight on her hips as he immersed himself in her, fierce and possessive, thrusting and hard.
“Griffyn.” It was a pant, begging for release.
“Tell me, Gwyn.”
She whispered the words he taught her last night, “Make me come,” and then she tumbled over the cliff, crying out his name.
When she opened her eyes a few moments later, he was watching her. He tightened his hold, and nuzzled into the warmth of her neck.
“For me?” she asked. It was a winsome, fragile thing, her question. He held her tighter.
“Just yourself, love.”
Chapter Sixteen
They walked back to their chambers while mist fell like a single wet kiss on the world, his arm slung over her shoulder. Gwyn was certain she was experiencing the first peace she’d had for twelve years. It lasted five minutes.
They were drawing near one of the rooftop doorways that opened from ramparts to the keep. He dragged open the heavy door and held it. She slipped beneath his outstretched arm, just as he said, “Gwyn, there’s been news.”
It may have been his tone, or some other way of communicating beyond words, but Gwyn knew immediately the peaceful respite had been just that, a small, short break.
She pasted a false smile on her lips. “What news?” She aimed her brittle smile in his direction. His face grew watchful.
“Perhaps we should talk in our chambers,” he said warily.
“Of course.”
She swung away, her spine hitched straight as a spoke on a wagon wheel. She did not wait for him, and upon reaching their room, began immediately straightening the manuscripts and cups and other items left out last night. Last night, when he’d reminded her heart it was not yet dead. Too bad.
She heard his footstep at the door. She pushed the edge of a manuscript so it was even with the others on the shelf.
“Gwyn.”
She began tidying already tidy clothes sitting on the shelves.
“Gwyn, there’s news.”
She picked up one of his tunics and smoothed it. “What sort of news?”
“News of Stephen.”
A small sound of terror escaped her mouth. He looked at her oddly. She pulled the tunic in her hands taut and folded it in a rigid line down the middle, making a crease so tight it would never come out. “What of him?”
He laid one of his hands atop hers. His touch was warm. “He is signing a treaty with Henri. Early November, in Winchester.”
She slipped her hands free and walked to the window. “What sort of treaty?”
“The sort that makes Stephen king in name only. He will yield the country shire by shire, and seek Henri’s counsel on all matters of state. All adulterine castles built during his reign will be razed.”
She nodded, as if he’d told her they needed fresh rushes in the hall. “So Henri will be king.”
“Aye.”
She looked out the window. The roofs of the buildings below were slick and bright with wetness. A boy in tattered breeches was rounding up an escaped chicken.
Her head felt immense, as if all the notions in the world could not fill it up. Every thought she had floated up and she couldn’t catch hold of it again.