The Black Lyon

At the first touch of Ranulf’s lips, Lyonene thought all her senses had flown. She felt only his lips, his body next to hers, and she had never experienced anything that made her feel like this. She slanted her head to the side and put her arms around his neck, pulling him closer and closer to her. His arms tightened and she felt his strong, hard body pressed to her, every inch of her hungering for more of him.

His lips parted and she followed his example, moving her lips under his. She clung to him, meeting his demanding, searching mouth. Her heart beat wildly, thundering in her ears. She would never let go; she never wanted this moment to end.

Lyonene had so tamed the Black Lion that, when her head was turned, he looked upon her with the lovesick expression of a young squire gazing at his chosen lady.

Ranulf stared at her. “I would not know when a man is such as you say, good to look at.” His voice was stiff.

She studied his black eyes, the thick curling hair, which he left uncovered. “I should think you would know.”

Ranulf, to his consternation, could feel the blood rushing to his face. Confused, he looked at his men and saw that they had paused in their eating to stare at him. He turned back to Lyonene, who smiled up at him mischievously. He returned her smile slightly. “You are an imp. What man is going to follow a knight who blushes?”

Lyonene’s laugh rang out, a pretty sound which was infectious. She put both hands on his arm and touched her forehead to his shoulder.