Read Becca St.John for Free Online Page B

jaw, against a beard grown from sharp to soft in the past days. She dared to lift her eyes, to look into his, to see the battle he fought against hunger.
    Timid, still unsure of herself, she threaded her fingers through the coarse curl of beard, watched her actions, amazed, for she had never felt a man’s beard before. She touched, leaned in, her lips brushing against his, the tickle of the facial hair. So aware of each, every sensation, every touch, every tingle. She lifted her eyes from her exploration to find intense, dark longing.
    “Please,” she whispered, her hard edge washed away by tears.
    Ever so gently his fingers traced her face, her eyes, the length of her nose, her lips, gaze on every move, until he growled, “Lord, forgive me.” Then he took her lips with his, pressed the advantage she’d tried so hard to win and rolled them both to the ground.
    His weight shocked her to stillness and, as quickly, slipped her back in time to a weight forcing her down, choking her, pressing, pressing, pressing, jerked her to fight.
    He lifted away. She rolled, panting with the fear infecting her thoughts.
    She didn’t want that either, didn’t know what she wanted, what she didn’t want.
    “Shhhh.” He calmed her agitation. “Shhh, let’s slow this down.” Pulled them both to their sides, his hand stroking the length of their bodies. “I’ll not trap you with my body,” he promised, letting her know he understood what she only just realized.
    Raped, entrapped, no freedom, no say.
    Desperate to get past this, she pushed him over, sat astride him. “Aye, you’ll not.” Still breathing heavy, the whole change, the freedom of how she sat above him, the control. He looked like a child, cornered with the promise of a sweetie. Her laughter bubbled up, surprising them both. She laughed, for she could, for she could do—or not do—whatever she wanted.
    And she wanted.
    She grabbed his hair in either hand, a fierce hold, as she kissed him, squirming against his support, the solid long length of him a buffer to the hard ground. The thrill of him, as his large coarse hands cupped her backside, urged her against his hardness.
    They rolled again, over and over until he was atop her once more, but this time it felt good, wonderful. She laughed. The shock of her desire, spinning her into joy. Yes, please, press into me, put your weight on me, share with me.
    A woman, a real, whole woman, reeking with passion. Nothing could stop her now.
    “Maammmaaa!”
    She pushed Padraig away even as he pulled off of her.
    “Maaammmaaa!”
    “Deian!” she shouted, scrambling to get up, running to the dead fire, to her son’s pallet, but he wasn’t there and the night was dark.
    “Deian! Where are you?” she screamed, as Padraig lit a torch he’d kept close at hand in case of predators.
    “Here, Mama!” Deian’s panic fired her own until Padraig put his hand on her arm and called out. “Deian, stay still, don’t move. We’re coming for you.” His authority calmed even as his words revealed the problem. Bogs. Soggy earth that could pull a man in.
    They could not rush to him, or risk stepping in one, as Deian probably had, sinking into the black muck.
    “Can’t get out.” His fear turned to anger now that he knew rescue was at hand.
    Aye, he was her son .
    “How deep are you?” She’d keep him talking, to ease his worry, but only heard a sniffle in return.
    “Where to?” she whispered, her skin crawling with the need to move, to reach her son.
    “Deian?”
    “Here.” Padraig lifted the torch, as they found a path out, away from the camp.
    “Deian?” Seonaid called. “Are you very deep?”
    “It’s up to my knees,” he warbled, but it could be so much worse, so very much worse, especially when their progress forward depended on watching every step.
    Finally, the torch flickered across the lad. Seonaid ran to him. Still, Padraig reached him first, pulling him straight up out of the bog, his stockings left