Bold (The Handfasting) - By Becca St. John Page 0,38

sensuous dance.

His woman wove hers through the air, a cobra’s salute to the pipers tune. Mesmerized, he startled when she jammed that sensuous limb deep within the vessel.

The women of his troupe rang tiny bells of encouragement soon matched by the young lasses who watched and learned; the men stomped their feet, their curdled cries riding on the night wind.

Perhaps there was something to these rituals after all.

Oblivious to the blood draped altar behind her, his night’s mate laughed as she lifted her hand high, fingers coated in thick, viscous, honey. Riveted, he watched as slowly, ever so slowly, heavy rivulets trailed down her hand, along her arm. Head angled, she watched him as she caught syrupy globules with her lips, followed its path with her tongue, darted flickers for taste, wide swaths for hunger. She traced the honey up, up, up to the tip of her fist.

Fight though she did, the fist did not fit in her mouth, it was too big. So she suckled each finger in turn, drew hard, her cheeks no more than shadowed hollows.

He groaned. All the men groaned as the women chimed their bells. Enough was enough.

"You will be as the earth!" He bellowed. "My seed will feed your womb upon the blood of our victim."

Startled, her sensuous sucking stopped. She settled her hand light on her breasts.

"It's a cold night for such things." Sticky fingers slipped inside the opening of her cape. He knew what ripeness was hidden within that cloak, imagined suckling their honeyed sweetness. He loved honey.

"I will make you burn." He advanced.

"You will make me burn," She trilled as lightly as the jingle of her bracelets. Despite her twirls and sways, he was pleased to see she moved closer before she stopped just outside the reach of his staff.

One moment a soft female, the next a forceful presence, up she went, high on her toes, vessel raised to the skies. He swung his staff left then right. Nimbly she jumped each swipe.

Without warning she hurled the honey pot straight at him. One mighty swing and he shattered her vessel with the knotted head of his staff.

"I will flame your fire."

Bracelets jangled as she clapped. "May the power of my essence incite your passion as I bear your strength."

He knew the younger lasses, the newcomers, were uneasy with the turn of play. They shifted, eyed each other, looked to the older women, but they could not run. His men clamped hands upon their shoulders, for it was their fight, not his, to keep the lasses from running. Foolish girls to trust strangers, to believe they could ever go home again to be comforted by mother or father, sibling or cousin.

One act of disobedience and they chose their destiny. It was their own folly that led them to the service of his band. To become outlaws. That is, if they survive this night.

Their restless movements, the terror in their faces, provoked a lust that had already burgeoned. He pawed at the earth, tilted his head, a stag in rut, and charged. Shoulder to belly, he swooped, lifted, carried.

The men’s chants thickened, heightened by the game, over riding cries of terror.

Not to be undone, his woman arched her back, rode him like a ships mast, opened her cape, offered her nectared breasts. "I give succor to your strength. Taste of my sweetness."

Greedily he accepted, licked and suckled as he carried her through their arena. His laughter rode the night, echoed by the tiny tinkle of bells as he dropped her upon the altar, hips on the edge, legs dangling.

"You must pay a price!" She commanded.

He chuckled. She was in no position to be making commands, but he would humor her.

"Vixen," he turned to his audience, "Is she worth a price?"

The men stomped and bellowed. "Plunder, plunder, plunder!"

"Honor her, honor her, honor her." Bells jangled as the women countered the men, some frantic in their pleas.

He was the Green Man, he would make the choice.

Slowing his pace, drawing out the tension, he ran his hands along the sweet curve of her thigh. They were full and round, would embrace his hips with softness. Just the thought, enflamed by the narrowing of her eyes, a sure sign she was ready to challenge him, made him hungry for more.

Without warning he gripped her legs, splayed them, revealing the shadowed opening to her womb.

Despite her tries to wiggle free, to negotiate the cost of this privilege, he held her firm. Let her know who had the power.

"What