Brits in Time Anthology
He glanced at Willow where she watched the mock battle with a horrified expression on her face. If he had to hazard a guess, he would say she was worried about him. She gripped the fence post, holding to it as if it was all that was keeping her upright.
Bors used Gareth’s distraction with the woman to knock him against the railing right next to her.
She gasped as he hit the rough wood. How in the name of God was he supposed to give her to another man. “Worried about me, priestess?”
A frown tugged at her full lips. “I was just thinking that not even the Lady of the Lake has enough magic to reattach your head if it gets chopped off.”
He doubted the hag would even bother attempting to heal him. “It would never happen.” He winked at her as he pushed off the fence. “I am too good.”
Willow watched as he feinted to the left and leapt back into the fray. He was right—he was good. He was very good. She watched with barely concealed fascination as both men stopped the fight long enough to remove their tunics. Sweat coursed down the centre of Gareth’s chest and over his sharply delineated stomach muscles. For a brief moment, she imagined tracing each line with the tip of her tongue. Her woman’s flesh moistened and quivered at the thought of touching his sculpted body.
What was she thinking? Gareth was a childhood friend—she should not be imagining touching him in such a way. She should not be imagining what his mouth tasted like. She certainly should not be imagining dragging her lips over his chest and neck.
She gasped as he swung fiercely, blocking a deadly thrust from his opponent. She started to squeal and slapped her hand over her mouth. Gareth spared her a glance and grinned, his lips lifting crookedly.
“Be careful, you fool!”
His smile widened. “I knew you cared about me.”
Taking advantage of the conversation, Bors swung viciously at Gareth. This time Willow could not squelch her fear. She screamed. Gareth seemed to anticipate the other man’s move. Parrying, he disarmed Bors with a swift move. Gareth extended his hand to his fallen comrade and hoisted him up. They clapped each other’s shoulders in the age old sign of male bonding over sheer stupidity.
Ridiculously, she found herself completely aroused by this display of male prowess and domination. Gareth stood there panting. Dust and sweat mixed on his skin and she fought the urge to reach out and trail her fingers through the mixture. Walking to a barrel of rain water, he filled a pitcher and dumped it over his head. Water ran in rivulets over his head and shoulders, sluicing over hard-planed muscles and silky looking chest hair. He bent at the waist and shook his head like a large, shaggy dog. Droplets spattered everywhere—mostly over her.
Willow drank in his wild beauty as he straightened and ambled towards her, a predatory gleam in his eyes. Her stomach fluttered in nervous anticipation as he drew closer. She clasped the fence in front of her, to keep from reaching out and touching him.
“I have come to claim my token.”
She could not make sense of his words, she could only follow the movement of his firm lips and watch the light in his eyes. “Pardon me?”
“The victorious knight receives a kiss from his lady fair.”
Her mouth dropped open, and Bors stood grinning at them. “’Tis true, milady. But I must confess, I let him win, knowing how much he was longing for your kiss.”
Gareth tossed a wry glance over his shoulder towards his friend before turning back to her. “What say you, priestess? Will you give me your mouth?” he murmured.
Her heart pounded. Give him her mouth? She would give him her whole body if he wanted it. She tried to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry. “Since Sir Bors had the good grace to let you win, I suppose the least I could do is—”
He never let her finish. His lips dipped over hers and captured her mouth, in a hard, breathless kiss that swept her senses. He cupped her face in both hands before sliding his hands through her hair and drawing her closer.
Her lips parted on a sigh and his tongue slipped between her teeth, teasing and tasting. Unable to stop her response, she reached out to clasp his damp shoulders. The heat coming off his body surged through her along with his strangled groan. The small sound vibrated against her as desire tumbled through her middle.
His fingers stroked the nape of her neck and scalp, pressing gently as he delved deeper. Her nipples peaked against the fabric of her dress, insistent little buds that begged for his touch. She moved closer, only to feel the rough, planks of wood pressing into her aching breasts.
Slowly, he lifted his head, breaking the contact between their mouths. Her eyes fluttered open only to be caught by his brilliant blue gaze. Heavy lidded and watchful, his eyes seemed somewhat darker than they had earlier. He stroked her cheek with his thumb as a crooked smile lifted his lips.
Disappointment pierced her and she tried to keep herself from leaning into his touch. His kiss, his touch meant nothing—this was as much a game as any they had played as children.
