Page 19 of Ena’s Surrender

She pressed the flat of her hand to his chest and let it slide down his powerful torso. The wiry hairs on his chest rasped against her palm, a sensual contrast to his soft skin. He groaned at her touch, a long, low growl that sent chills skittering over her flesh.

His fingers settled between her legs once more, rubbing, caressing, teasing, until she was gasping with the intensity of it and her knees were weak.

“I want ye,” she panted.

He buried his face against her neck and inhaled as he kissed her throat. “Let me see you.”

She stiffened. She knew what he meant. He wanted to see her naked. Which meant the full extent of her scar would be uncovered, bared for him to see.

He straightened and looked at her with a tenderness that touched deep within her, a place she had once thought cold and dead.

“My parents died when I was young.” He brushed his fingertips over her collarbones. “My mum in childbirth and my da in the fields.”

Despite her nerves, a pleasant heat followed his touch. “I’m sorry for ye,” she whispered.

“I was seven summers.” He stroked lower, to the tops of her breasts. “Too old to be taken in by others. Too young to be on my own. Too damn poor for anyone to bother caring.”

She was familiar with people’s lack of concern, and how they treated overlooked children in need. They’d done the same to her and Bran. But at least she’d had her brother. Renault had had no one.

“People are cruel,” she whispered.

“Aye.” His gaze found hers. “I had little choice but to beg for my food. As you said, people are cruel. Their maliciousness is in greater abundance than is kindness. It made me want to be better when I grew up, something greater than my father who had worked himself to death in the fields, and certainly more than a mud-streaked boy kicked at on the street by drunkards.”

She winced at the image of the lad he’d been.

His fingers caught the lacing of her sark and gently tugged. “We all have our scars, Ena. They shape us into who we become, what we believe.” He cupped her face in his palm. “Who we love.”

Her heart tripped over itself. Surely, he didn’t love her. They’d only known one another for a few days. They’d been enemies longer than they’d been lovers.

Why then did his words make her pulse race?

He took her hand and put it to his chest. His heart ticked with a steady, strong beat against her palm.

“Some of us wear our scars inside.” He ran the finger of his free hand along the neckline of her sark, widening it.

He bent over her and kissed first her collarbone, then the point of the jagged scar. “Some of us wear them on the outside as well.” His mouth trailed over the ropy, crooked line of ruined flesh in a way that was more intimate than any of his previous kisses or touches.

Tears burned in her eyes.

He slid the linen from her as he knelt, loving the gnarled end of the scar. The sark slipped from his grip and fell silently to the floor, leaving her entirely naked.

He looked up at her in earnest adoration. “You are beautiful, Ena.” He got to his feet and stroked his fingers down her cheek. “Beautiful.” He whispered the sentiment again.

This time its effect was palpable, stirring inside her chest and down to the very marrow of her bones.

She threw her arms around him and kissed him fiercely, saying everything with her body that she could not say with her words. Her mouth claimed his, her tongue grazing and stroking; her hands roaming and coaxing.

Her fingers wrapped around his jutting cock and he gave a grunt through gritted teeth. The skin was smooth as silk beneath her touch and hot with the same pounding lust that reverberated through her.

His palms skimmed over her as his fingers found the place between her legs once more.

She was on fire. It ran like scalding liquid through her veins in great pulsing beats. Until she could stand it no more.

She grasped his body to hers and sank to the bed, bringing him with her. He resisted at first, but she held tight to him. After a moment of hesitation, his body weight settled atop her. She found the waist of his trews and pushed them down.

He reached for them. “Ena, you’re a—”

She pressed her mouth to his to still his protests. She didn’t want his chivalry. She was no court lady; she was but a peasant, a woman with few indulgences in the world.