"P. N. Elrod & Nigel Bennett - His Father's Son" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

Nancy Hill
Nick Marcelja
Helen Mesquita

remembering:
Deborah Heinrichs &
Vashti of the Flaming Tresses—Ruth Woodring

and a special thanks to:
Teresa Patterson & Kevin Topham

Baen Books in this series:

Keeper of the King by Nigel Bennett & P.N. Elrod
His Father’s Son by Nigel Bennett & P.N. Elrod
Quincey Morris, Vampire by P.N. Elrod (forthcoming)
 Chapter One
Normandy, the Beginning

He awoke in a meaningless half light that could have been dawn or dusk, and in all truth it did not matter.
His eyes pierced the gloom easily; to him the inside of her tent was as bright as day. He lay on fur and
beneath fur, and the small of his back was wet with sweat. He shifted sleepily and became aware of her
next to him. He turned his head and saw she had her back toward him, only partly covered by the stifling
fur. Her dark hair, long and lustrous, tumbled away from her shoulders and across the pillows. The side of
her neck was bare, and his gaze followed the line of her body from that point, over the rise of her shoulder
along the slope of her side and up the sudden sharp rise of her hip. By the slow steady beat of her heart she
was still sleeping.
He smiled at the memory of the long hours of love and passion and pure pleasure with her. He’d lost
count of how often they’d coupled and ridden together toward that little death, surrendering willingly to it.
Each time he’d thought it the ultimate ecstasy, and each new encounter had proved him wrong. They’d
kissed and tasted and sucked and stroked. Their sweat and juices had mingled; every moment was perfect.
He reached out and caressed her thick, heavy hair, absently straightened it, smoothing it down, and yet
his touch was so light, so gentle that she did not wake. Her skin was alabaster cool and delicate as that of a
babe, and he traced her spine with a finger down to the deep cleft between her cheeks. He cupped their
firmness, then slipped his hand around to the flat wonder of her belly, and her thatch of dark curls. She was
still wet, and as he stroked, a soft low moan escaped her.
He hardened quickly and feeling it, laughed under his breath in surprise at the strength of his desire. He
pressed closer and buried his face in her hair. It smelled of blossom and earth and sky and moonlight, and
he breathed in deep. He was fully erect now, hard along her spine, and she pushed back against him,
shifting her legs. Without effort, he was in her, once more held in her sweetness, and he closed his eyes and
gasped at the feeling, at the warmth, at the sense of wholeness.
She moaned aloud now and as one, they began to slowly move against each other, caught up in the
rhythm of creation. She did not open her eyes. Perhaps she slept still, and this was all a dream to her. He
did not know. One of her breasts filled his questing hand, hard-nippled, compelling, and he found himself
pushing deeper, deeper into her. All his being was centered on her, her every reaction to his touch. They
moved together so slowly, so languidly.
Sweat seeped from his brow and disappeared into her hair. He kissed the soft nape of her neck, tickling
the fine skin there with his tongue. Lips parted, she murmured something; it sounded like a prayer. Her
hands pressed against his as he held her, enjoining him to further exploration. He took his time, touching and
fondling, until her breath came short and fast, grew harsh with desire. He brought her right to the edge of it,