Lunchtime break for me.
I most often have a chef salad at home while I type madly away with news ideas cramming into my head.
'How to Marry Your Wife,' my second Medieval romance, exceeded all of my expectations. My goal is to double sales, with each book. This novel hit the bestseller lists, for the genre, in US, CA, and UK. In six years, I should be able to quit my dayjob, and write as a means of self-support. Woo hoo!
This is the prolog... I was afraid to write it, for fear of breaking all of the Romance writing rules. The deed should happen around 41% through the book. One NEVER puts the sex scene first... but I did.
Prologue
England, near London Towne
Year of our Lord 1276
Behind them, massive columns stood tall as their only chaperones in the ancient Roman bathhouse. Peepers croaked, night birds lamented, and water gurgled as it cascaded down from each of the three tiers. Sir Thomas led her deeper into the shadows made by blue moonlight. Tiny waves of light reflected off the pools and onto his beautiful Norman features.
The dark centers of his eyes widened as he brushed his lips over hers. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You don’t want me?” Merry’s lower lip quivered. Thick black hair caressed the tender places between her fingers when she reached her hands to the back of his head. Warmth spread from where their lower halves met and she kissed him with all her being.
Her Templar knight groaned. “I’ve promised your liege that I’ll not lay with you until we’re wed. If we continue down this road, my honor will be questioned.”
Letting go of his silky wet locks, she reached into her purse and waved six colorful ribbons of yarn in front of his nose. “But I brought these.”
He leaned over to where he’d placed his sword, belt, and boots and came up with similar lengths of wool. “As did I.”
Her cheeks ached with the wide grin she sent his way. “Anon. Let’s do it.”
Rough palms cupped her face as the man she adored bore a hole into her soul with his gaze. “Lass, ’tis serious. We’ll be hand-fasted. Are you sure you want this?”
She covered his hands with her own and fell into the depths of those magnificent eyes. The drum in her chest beat faster and her lips parted. “I’m six and ten seasons. I know my own mind.”
A soft moan escaped his perfect lips and his kiss went deeper than any of the others they’d shared all summer. One of his hands slid to the back of her head and the other glided down her back and clamped her bottom globe. He pulled her tight to his hard want and her mind filled with lustful thoughts.
Warm breath met her ear. “We’ll have a proper wedding when I return from London Towne in a fortnight. Ready?”
She nodded and held forth her hand with the yarns.
Never releasing her from his fierce gaze, he clasped his sword arm to hers, tied them together with the yarn, and bound them forever. “I take thee as my wife.”
With eyes watering, her hand shook as she brushed a dark lock from his blue-gray eye. “I take thee as my husband for all eternity.”
He flicked his cloak open and lay her down. Then there was only him; his scent, his tongue, and his hands pulling her so close that she mayhap died and went to heaven. He went to his knees with a small growl in his chest and removed his colors. Slivers of moonbeams danced across his glorious body. Strength bumps above his navel led down to small curls of black hair. The ‘V’ pointed to a staff so large, surely it would never fit.
Holy mother of God.
Her mouth lost its liquid and she swallowed hard.
“Don’t worry, love, all will be well.” He leaned over and devoured her in gentle kisses. Their tongues danced and her heart soared. One knee lifted, he straddled her, and found the hem of her tunic. He muttered an apology as it tore when it caught coming over her head. Then his mouth dropped open, his hard pintle danced upon her navel, and he sucked in his breath. “Bloody love of Christ. You’re perfect.”
She arched up so that the aching wet spot between her legs could rub against his length. His soft kisses started at her mouth, lowered to her breast, and he suckled.
“Please . . .” The lips between her legs swelled. She moaned at the sweetness of his hands kneading her breasts and his tongue licking the tips of her ever-hardening nipples.
He spread her legs wide with the outside of his knees and rasped, “We play with fire.”
A calloused fingertip rubbed the pebble between her legs, she closed her eyes, and prayed for release. Never had she experienced such need, such wanting. It was as if the gates of heaven were open and she but a foot away.
His wet tongue laved the perfect spot and she gasped. Heated breath from his hiss met her folds and she shivered. A gentle nibble and . . . Oh, dear God in heaven . . . She burst apart, bright lights flashed behind her lids, and her body shook in perfect release.
He slid up her naked body and kissed her fiercely upon the lips, tasting of her. “Clamp your thighs around my rod.”
She did as told and he rubbed it against her sensitive nub repeatedly, but did not enter her. He thrust once more, she clamped him tight, and he shouted into her mouth. His release sent her over the cliff again and she went to holy bliss as sticky fluid lubricated her inner thighs.
“You’re mine.” He fell onto his side, panting.
She sighed and turned toward him. When their breathing calmed, she said, “I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“But I do and you should be off to your pallet. Soon, we’ll lay together every night and I shall breach you as a proper husband does his wife.” He reached across her body for her skin of wine lying on the mosaic tiles and drank deep.
A tiny squeak escaped her lips. “Wait, no. Thomas, don’t!”
He looked at her askance and his eyes darkened with a fierce scowl. “What was in that draught?”
She shivered. “Just a foolish love potion from old Agatha. I wasn’t really going to use it.”
He moaned and his eyes rolled to the top of his head. “’Tis no love potion, ’tis juice of the poppies. Quickly, get dressed and leave. You’ve no idea its affect upon me.”
“I won’t. This is all my fault.” Oh, what have I done?
“Merry. Do as I say. Go.” His body convulsed.
Sobbing, she held him, not daring to leave and not daring to tell a soul. He hardened again and this time there was no stopping, no restraint, just his pure love inside her. He was fierce and hard and beautiful all at the same time. When his breathing became calm, and his moaning stopped, she dressed and ran back to her chambers, no longer a virgin. Already the
**** crowed and pale orange of the rising sun lit the grassy knolls in the distance.
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