...“I still say he prefers boys, Bacchus. If not, let him demonstrate his manhood.”

Zeno might be costumed in leopard skins, but he brayed like a jackass.

Cymric clenched his teeth. Through sheer willpower, he kept his voice level. “I’ve no need to demonstrate anything.”

“Ah, but the nymph in red thinks otherwise, I believe. Look at her eyes. See how she beckons. She wants a demonstration.”

That Cymric ached to give her one didn’t help matters. He strained to remember who he was—an English earl of noble stock and not some panting, rutting beast.

Zeno smirked. “I think you should indulge her desire. If you are able.”

A chorus of cackles and calls rose up in agreement. Zeno had many friends and followers present, while the small entourage Cymric had brought with him were camped a mile away, making ready for a dawn departure. He was alone here unless Bacchus, as the banquet’s host, had the decency to back him. But Bacchus chose that moment to pass out into his plate. For a wine merchant, he had a most sorry head for spirits.

Hell and damnation.

One might have thought the host’s collapse the signal for mayhem. Granted, the joking had been none too pleasant before, but it fast waxed ugly.

“Come, let us see how well he wields his sword!”

A dozen hands gripped Cymric—Zeno and five lesser lords who leapt, laughing, to the sport—and he was hauled out of his seat and hustled onto the center of the floor. How lucky they were he didn’t fight, the fools had no idea. Even muddled by drink Cymric could have stomped them all senseless. God knew he wanted to. Why didn’t he?

Because they shoved him straight into the crimson queen.

“Oh!” She staggered at the impact and grabbed his shoulders for support.

Instinctively, Cymric wrapped arms around her waist to steady her. But there was naught to steady him. Off balance, he toppled backward, pulling her down on top of him. Together they landed on the tile floor in a close clutch.

No more was needed.

The wine in his system started it, and the scent and feel of the woman did the rest. Drunken laughter receded in the distance. Cymric’s discipline went with it. The din of debauchery, the absurd costumes, the sneering faces and crude jests… Everything and everyone disappeared save her. All soft curves and warm willingness, she was. An armful of fragrant, feminine fire pressed against him, frying his flesh, boiling his blood, roasting him down to the roots of his soul.

She wanted him. He felt it. With almost desperate determination she tore at his clothes, yanked up his tunic, freed the beast that strained at his braes. It was as though she sought a grand prize and feared someone might stop her before she claimed it. Who?

Not Cymric. He wanted the prize as much as she did. Mindless passion ruled the moment. Carnal flames consumed them both, or so it seemed. Silk ripped and thighs parted. His cock found a slick cunny and pushed inward.