Now his arms were around her, and he was pressing her back, away from the tree trunk and down onto the soft bed of pine needles.
His open mouth was against hers, his lips devouring hers. His hands caressed her shoulders and her back, moving ceaselessly. One hand slid around and held her breast, and she heard his little indrawn breath of pleasure. It must feel good to him, she thought. It felt good to be touched there, and she pushed back against his hand. She felt her body relax and grow warm. It had been so long—nearly a year—since a man had held her in his arms.
I need this as much as any man does. Men can go to whores, but where can I go?
She loved the feel of his strong arms around her as she lay beside him. He moved so that his whole length was pressed against her, and now he did not seem any taller than she was. She felt the hardness at his groin that he pressed against her leg, and she felt an answering heat within herself.
No!
I cannot let this man make love to me and then send David after him to kill him. I cannot, I cannot. I would hate myself forever.
She felt her body opening to him, felt her bone-deep need of him. If they came together now, it would be love, not the love she felt for David, but love even so. And if she condemned him to death then, she would destroy herself. But if she did not tell David where Simon was going, she would betray him, and bring ruin down on his people and her own. If she let Simon make love to her, she would be so torn that afterward she would probably go mad.
He was already partly on top of her, and she wriggled away from him, pushing at him.
"Stop it!" There was a power in her voice that she had not intended to unleash. She was no longer Cardinal Ugolini's sweet little niece, Sophia Orfali from Sicily, but Sophia Karaiannides, the woman of Byzantium.
A hand's width of space separated their faces. Her voice seemed to freeze him. He stared at her as if he were seeing a stranger.