GypsieRose - A Ranger's Temptation 2

Aragorn heard the firm, light knock at his door just at the instant he'd convinced himself that Meredith was not coming up to him--that she'd simply taken his coin as a very generous tip and had left him to ponder both her mysterious interest in him, and his in her. He had removed his leather greatcoat and boots already, preparing himself for bed, at least, if she should not come. But now, alone in his shirtsleeves and breeches, he realized she had arrived, and all his second-guessing had come to naught.

"Come in," he called in a soft, hoarse voice, giving in to the insistence in Meredith's knock.

The door creaked open. From his supine position propped languidly against the bed's headboard, Aragorn greeted his guest. For a fleeting moment, the Ranger felt as if he should rise in a lady's presence, but his mind registered that Meredith was no lady, and he endured this encounter only to gather information as to her interest in his affairs. Instead, he settled for a perfunctory nod in her direction.

For her part, she had at least removed the stew-stained apron she wore in the barroom below, though her exquisite auburn hair was still confined to its braid. She shone soft and white against the dark silhouette of the open door.

"Close the door," he ordered in a gruff voice, annoyed at the betrayal of his own hungry body as the heat began rising in him at the sight of her.

Meredith did so. Aragorn stood and pulled off his shirt in a single, fluid motion, feeling the sudden chill of the room against his exposed skin. As he tossed the travel-soiled garment aside, he was aware of the gooseflesh along his arms and torso, which made the little hairs there stand on end. And in the far corners of his mind, he told himself firmly that it was only the cold.

"What, Sir, would you have me do?" Meredith asked him, her voice wrapping around him, around the annals of his mind, like rich, suffocating silk.

He stood firm there, half-undressed, and raised a dark eyebrow to her in silent answer to the ageless question that hung between them. And she, as if on cue, nodded and slipped silently to him.

Her eyes were the green of the deep wood in springtime, rimmed with long lashes surprisingly dark when contrasted with the wisps of auburn hair, which, loosed from her braid, floated about her face. Her skin was perfect in its alabaster purity, save for a few faint freckles across the bridge of her nose.

In the far reaches of his mind, Aragorn heard the voice that reminded him that this woman had come specifically *to him*, that she had wanted something specifically *from him* that had gone beyond where a whore's interest should. And yet, that voice was fading behind the insistent pulse beating in his ears.

He reached for her suddenly, grasping her face in his calloused hands. He drew her to him, the stubble on his cheeks scraping roughly against her smooth skin, as he covered her mouth with his in a wanton kiss.

Aragorn released Meredith only when he felt her struggle and push away from him. She stumbled back against the door, panting, and muttered, "Sir, 'tis against.... My...kind...do not kiss so."

He cocked his head slightly to the right, watching her. Eyes widened, pupils large and dark, nostrils flared--this girl, he realized, was afraid. She would tell him nothing about herself if she feared him, he conjectured. She would give up nothing if he threatened her, however unintentionally. He very deliberately closed his eyes, then opened them slowly, focusing all the power of his gaze on her. And then he approached her as he would have a wounded animal, slowly, deliberately, so that she could see he meant her no harm. He brought his hand up to her face, and ran a calloused thumb over her lips.

"No," he said simply. He tapped her on the lips and released her chin, retreating to the bed, lying back, with his hands behind his head. He would let her come to him. He gathered that she would do so, in time. After all, she plied her trade for money, and he had paid. And so, he watched her with a sidelong glance, and waited.

And come she did, though it took her several long moments, made longer to the Ranger by the insistent heat that had settled in his groin. She approached the bed cautiously, timidly sitting on its edge, placing herself with her back to him, yet easily within his grasp. He did not, however, reach for her--though to his shame, he wished to.

"I am sorry to have contradicted you, Sir," she said with what was clearly a practiced meekness, underlaid with a tremulous quality that only one as observant as Aragorn would have heard. She was still afraid, though he wondered now if she feared him, or if the fear ran deeper still--a hidden menace of which he was unaware.

"The fault is mine," he said softly, to her back. "No woman deserves to be...treated poorly--no matter what her profession."

Meredith turned abruptly to him, her mouth agape. Her impervious whore's mask had slipped, he mused. She was apparently unaccustomed to basic kindness from the men she serviced. And perhaps, Aragorn thought, this was the angle he needed to discover the reason behind her curiosity in him.

"You have lovely eyes," he said then, gently, focusing his own gaze in an intent line with hers. "Like the trees in a deep wood." He patted the bedsheets next to where he'd stretched his tall form. "Lie here, will you?"

She nodded and stretched down beside him, her body turned halfway between him and the ceiling. Her smell was intoxicating: woodsmoke and roses and something else--a musky primalness that increased his heat, making him swallow hard against his anticipation, his forced delay.

She put a hand out to trace the firm, sinewy muscles of his chest and stomach. He trembled slightly beneath her touch. He could feel the heat of her body, the curve of one breast pressing into his arm as she reached across to touch him. He closed his eyes and drew in a shuddering breath. This felt good, so good...

He rolled over onto his side then, so that he could search her eyes directly. At such scrutiny, he could see that there were flecks of gold hidden in the green depths. The dancing firelight found further hints of gold in her auburn hair. He reached out with his hand, and--slowly, so as not to take her by surprise as he had done before--started to rub his hand over her shoulder, down her arm, then back up again. He slipped a finger into the neck of the loose white shirt which showed above her tightly-laced bodice, eased it down so that her shoulder was exposed, then bent forward and planted a kiss upon it.

She let him kiss her this time--after all, it wasn't on the lips, wasn't the kind of kiss shared by lovers. He understood now, what boundaries to stay within. And he tugged at her bodice-strings with renewed vigor, loosening her breasts from their confines. The bodice fell away easily once he had the strings out. He cupped one firm, round breast in his hand.

She smiled when he tore his gaze away from her breasts to read the expression on her face. It was, again, the trained smile of a whore. "Shall I take this off, Sir?"

There was no turning back from what he'd begun without rousing her suspicions, Aragorn realized then. He had closed the contract his coin had bought when he had reached for this woman in lust, and now he had no choice but to see the event to its inevitable conclusion, if he wanted any hope of discovering her true intentions toward him. At least, that was what he repeated to himself in the silence of his mind as he nodded consent to Meredith's question.

When she'd complied with her own suggestion, he drew her to him nearly immediately; he did not wish to see her, so much as to feel her, to touch her, to let his body satisfy its cravings without the reminder that this woman in his arms, in his bed, was not Arwen Evenstar. He felt her clutch at his back as he rolled her beneath him, felt her wrap her legs around his waist, encircling him in a lover's embrace. And as he sought to relieve the aching desire, he envisioned behind his closed eyes that these were Arwen's breasts he kissed, Arwen's hands at his abdomen, loosening the drawstring at his breeches' waist, slipping his pants down over his hips. He moaned as he imagined it was Arwen's thighs he parted, that it was Arwen who allowed him sweet entry, and in whom he would find even sweeter release.

But this was not Arwen. Aragorn knew it, even as his body was rushing to make him forget. This was Meredith, a Prancing Pony barmaid who moonlighted as a whore. He had never yet lain so with Arwen, and at the rate he was going, he might never, still. He thrust hard, his body eager to quench its need, and then with a low growl and a shudder, he felt the sudden, desperate release from the physical ache he'd harbored for so long. He sqeezed his eyes closed, unwilling to open them to the realities of the evening.

He fell forward, half of his weight on the bed and the other half on Meredith. She reached to brush his damp hair from his forehead. He started at her touch, rolling off her quickly. "Get out," he said hoarsely, his eyes open now, and wild. Suddenly he no longer wished to question her. He only wanted her gone as quickly as possible.

The girl was staring at him with what seemed a look of complete surprise. Why, he wondered, was she unwilling to follow the simplest of commands?

She was talking again now, a little worried, a little self-pitying, more than a little disappointed, all apparent in her voice. "Sir, you have me for the evening, if you--"

"Go." He tried his best to make it plain to her without exploding in either the shame that rose behind his eyes like a headache or the rage he felt at her not simply leaving when she was told. He knew his voice was shaking, and only hoped she could not hear the tremulousness there. He turned his head away, stared at the soiled sheets.

"Should you need me, Sir, my own chamber is at the end of the hall. I'm at your call all evening," she offered, her voice hopeful.

*Your call.* He had called her, indeed--there was no denying that. "Please...go...." His voice broke when he said it. He could not look at her, now. He did not wish to confirm, at last, that this whore was not Arwen.

He heard her close the door as she left, and only hoped that he'd started the weeping he was now unable to control after she'd already gone. He still lay in the bed, alone now, and nearly naked, his face pressed to the pillow, the scent of the whore and their illicit union still strong on him.

*Curse me!* he swore in his head, *Curse me and my lack of self-control! I do not deserve a love such as Arwen's, for I cannot keep it...I give it away along with my flesh at the slightest provocation from a barroom whore!*

And yet, even as he thought these words, a part of him remembered that Meredith had sought him out. She had been searching for something in him--unusual behavior for a whore. Certainly different than any whore he'd been accustomed to--certainly unlike any he'd lain with before...

A new wave of shame overtook him then. He *had* been unfaithful before, had lain with loose women in rented inn chambers when the loneliness of life on the road away from his betrothed had proved too difficult to bear. But always he had kept those encounters perfunctory--had made sure they were no more than a release of his tensions along with his seed. And usually, the trollops seemed grateful that no more would be required of them for that evening.

Meredith, though, had *wanted* to stay. The Ranger in Aragorn told him that her reluctance to leave could be a sign that she was dangerous, that there was more to her than there appeared to be--that she'd wanted something particularly *from him* that was more than just money. If nothing else, that alone warranted further investigating.

He sat up and began to search about for his clothes, telling himself that the investigation was necessary, convincing himself that his need to find Meredith was on an informative level alone, that he didn't want simply to touch her beautiful auburn hair again or to gaze once more into her forest-green eyes.

Arwen would forgive him a need to protect his secrecy--he was certain of that.

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