Henry’s arms encircled her, enclosing her in safety. Summer smiled into the kiss, relief and happiness suffusing her. His desire tasted of honey and wine, intoxicating to her senses. She pressed against him, trying to communicate her own want, fingers curling against his chest. But she refused to break the kiss even for a second, chasing his mouth if he tried to pull away, biting softly at his lips.
His chest felt tight as if there was something trying to escape at him, as he held her and kissed her, pulling her closer to him as he moved against her. Suddenly he felt something push him in his back and he let go of her, and broke the kiss to see Poiters nudging him in the back.
And the world came back to them, his breathing was heavy and he turned to her, “It is late…”
He was breathless and he looked at her, there was still hope in his eyes.
“And you are still injured, you should return to the castle.”
Summer’s face was flushed, her eyes sparkling. While Henry held her, she had forgotten about her ankle, about the bruise on her wrist, about everything. It was jarring to be recalled to the sense of the world. “Yes, my lord … Henry,” she murmured. She laid a hand to his chest lightly, over his heart. “I am at your service, your grace,” Summer told him, looking up into his blue eyes. “I’ll try to abide your wishes in this, only give us this chance as you said.”