Carlton, Amber - Trinity Magic (Siren Publishing Romance)

by Amber Carlton

“Why don’t you slit your own throat and make it easy for her?”

  He opened the door and shoved the trunk into the keeping room. He closed the door and made a wiser choice in his selection of barricades, piling the smaller trunks against the door. The soft glow of faery lights wrapped around the door frame.

  He undressed and slipped into bed. He lay for a long time staring at the ceiling. The details of the day were still stark in his mind, but the alcohol kept them manageable, pushing them to a place where they settled like a dull ache. Finally, when he had managed to turn off his brain for the night and sleep tugged at his consciousness, a soft, silky leg slid across his thigh, and she rolled toward him.

  Her scent overwhelmed him. The musky aroma of sex, the flowery smell of her hair. Her fingernail traced a line across his chest, and the curve of her naked breast nestled against his arm.

  “Knock it off, Arleigh. Go to sleep.”

  Her hand trailed down his side and touched the band of his boxers. He tensed. Her hand moved lower, stroking him through the thin cotton. Despite the anger and hurt, his body did not seem to mind at all. It responded with a quickness that surprised him, considering the whiskey and bruises should have been a major deterrent. His mind struggled, seeming to forget there were reasons for the anger. But there were reasons, and for one moment, his mind cleared. He pushed her hand away.

  “You’re killing me here. Stop.”

  The relentless little Leanan sidhe was on a mission. Her hand cupped around his cock, folding around him possessively, and she snuggled closer.

  “You promised,” she said. “You’re ready. I’m ready.”

  Ryder struggled through the alcohol fumes, trying to make sense out of her words. They’d already had sex. He might be drunk, but he clearly remembered that, because he hadn’t given her a choice. She had lost time and didn’t seem to remember anything that had happened between them. Did she remember Flynn?

  She pushed against his leg until he felt the heat that poured from her. It practically seared his flesh. Her damp skin pressed against him, and his body throbbed in response. He gritted his teeth, steeling himself to push her away.

  She sat up and hovered over him for a minute, her hair falling against his face. Her lips touched his gently then she moved. Her hands ran across his hips, her fingers gliding into the waistband of his boxers. She began to tug, her fingers searing his flesh as they pulled the boxers away, trailing down his skin and across his aching body. The cotton slithered down his legs, and her mouth followed, raining soft kisses against his hip bone, the curve of his thigh, below his knee, leaving a path of fire. When she reached his ankle, she pulled the boxers from his legs, flung them to the floor, and her lips started back up his body again.

  When she reached the soft nest of warmth between his thighs, her hand swept around his cock and gripped tightly. Her mouth rooted in the darkness, her tongue flicking across his skin, and he moaned. His hand found her hair, and he grabbed at the silky curls, pulling her head up.

  “Stop,” he said roughly.

  “Let me. I want to taste you.”

  He groaned, and she moved to take him in her mouth. Her lips were so soft, the movement of her tongue intoxicating. His fingers combed through her hair, tugging and pulling as she tugged and pulled at him. A soft suction. A gentle stroke of her lips from base to tip. A swipe of her tongue against his balls. A swirl of her tongue around the throbbing head, where she licked the pre-cum from the tip, right before she pulled him into her mouth. On fire, he could do nothing to stop her. Her mouth was filled with him, and he was filled with her smell, her touch.

  For endless moments, she sucked at his flesh, driving his body into a frenzy. His hands caught in her hair, wrapping around her face, pulling her closer, tighter against him. He had never been a selfish lover, but her mouth drove him insane, and he pushed her head down to make her take more. Her mouth opened, and she swallowed his length. She moaned, sucking on his flesh with hard, rapid tugs, suckling him, wringing from his body so much pleasure there was no conscious decision, no means to stop her. He released the pressure without thought.

  He throbbed as the cum spurted from him, wave after wave of pulsing warmth. Her mouth continued to suck, milking every drop until the swelling subsided. She finally pulled her mouth from him, but her hands continued to roam the length of him, and her mouth continued to lick and suck, caress and kiss. When his dick started to swell again and grew hard and rigid under her hand, she finally released him, her mouth pulling along his skin, hot and tight.

  She slid up his body, her skin warm against his, the friction unbearable. She kissed his abdomen, his chest and throat, and came to his face, kissing his mouth and finding the spot on his jaw that sent pulses of electric fire through him.

  She kissed his neck again, and her teeth lightly nipped his shoulder. She finally returned to his mouth. Her tongue explored and licked the inside of his mouth, over his teeth and across his lips.

  She threw her leg over his hips and straddled him. She slowly rocked against him, his body growing tenser, more rigid, hers softer and more yielding. The folds of her pussy burned him.

  He reached out and grabbed her hips.

  “Arleigh,” he groaned. “We have to stop.”

  “No, we don’t e’re have to stop. We belong to each other.”

  She reached down, and her hand fastened around him. She moved closer. His dick pulsed in her hand, rigid, hard, eagerly pushing against her. She rose slightly, brushing his cock over her warmth, letting him know how wet she was. She moved it back and forth. He enjoyed the feel of it and the flickers of pleasure quivering beneath her skin. She lowered herself onto his cock, and pushed down. He slid inside of her easily, gratefully, filling every inch of her. She sighed, and he belonged to her. He had always belonged to her.

  She sat on him, moving slowly, exquisite torture. He was buried so deeply within her, and their bodies were so close, so perfectly connected, that as she tugged against him, her muscles tightening deliciously around him, he rose with her movement. Her hands rubbed against his chest, her body moving forward and back, her hair trailing along his skin. She leaned down, and her breasts grazed his chest as she kissed him. Enticed by the feel of the hard pearly nipples against his flesh, he grabbed for her, and her husky laugh filled the darkness. His hands splayed across her breasts, kneading the soft flesh, flickering across the nipples, pulling her down until his mouth caught at them. He suckled her, moving between them greedily, his tongue sweeping around her nipples, his lips pulling them into his mouth. His hands continued to caress her breasts, her back, down her sides.

  She moved faster, and Ryder sat up, pulling her to him, forcing himself deeper into her. Her head fell back, and his mouth locked on her throat. They moved slowly, their bodies tight against one another, her thighs locked around his sides. His hands spread under her ass, lifting her up and down against him, pulling her forward, pushing her back. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her head tucked into his shoulder, and she moaned as her body quivered and tiny spasms flickered through her muscles. Her pussy gripped him harder, locking, releasing, pulsing against him and making him shudder.

  “Come for me, Arleigh. Please be mine.”

  He pushed her back, and they fell together onto the bed, still locked tightly in each other’s bodies. Heart pounding, gasping for breath, Ryder plunged deeper into her, pounding into her, and she pulled at his hips eagerly. Their joining seemed to last forever, and yet, to Ryder, forever would not have been enough. This was where he belonged, what he had been searching for all his adult life. Her body trembled, and she spasmed, a giant burst of quick pulses that pulled his cock tighter within her. He could wait no longer.

  He let himself go with a shudder and poured his life and love into her. He kissed her mouth, his hands wrapped around her hips. Fiana had been right. Arleigh was a perfect gift. He could think of nothing he wanted more in the world than her. When he collapsed against her, she moaned, and her arms tightened around his
neck. She took a deep breath.

  He lifted himself away from her and put his hand over her mouth. He couldn’t take it again.

  Chapter 27

  Cameron Flynn forced another bite of mutton into his mouth and chewed. He hardly needed food, in fact the idea of swallowing it made him sick, but eating was a necessary evil when one pretended to be mortal. He grabbed the goblet and poured the wine down his throat to wash away the taste. Shuddering, he pushed his plate away and plunged his hands into the finger bowl.

  He eyed the humans at the dinner party. They chewed and swallowed, cows chewing on their cuds, barnyard animals at a slop trough. Their gluttony revolted him, and the atmosphere of the room repulsed his senses. The humans seemed to relish the flavors, stuffing greedy mouthfuls into their bodies, but Flynn was nauseated by the globs of fats, the grease that smeared their fingers, the aromas that hung cloyingly in the air.

  Listening to the vapid conversation around him created another nuisance associated with his pretense. The mortals talked between bites, another pleasant sight. He wanted to hurl his goblet at someone. If they knew how dangerous he really was, they wouldn’t waste their time with their gossip and their eating.

  Running them through with his sword might be fun. What pleasure it would be to simply skewer the entire lot and revel in the blood as it darkened the pristine tablecloth. Better yet, he could use his powers to entice the women at the table to do the things they conjured in their depraved little minds. He sensed the licentious thoughts that swirled through his female companions. Their lewd glances touched on him, lingering on his body with lusty invitation to fuck. His fingers curled around the stem of the pewter goblet, and he fought hard against the impulse to work his magic. As enjoyable as it sounded, he knew there would be consequences.

  He tuned out the din and tried to relax. He had nothing to fear here. He allowed his mind to wander, to go home, to the place where he had even more control and power, the place he longed for in his heart. His heart? He laughed, and his pretty dinner companion smiled. Well, the fact that he had no heart hardly mattered. He still wanted to be there. He struggled against the human clamor and took himself to Ireland. 1235. He took himself home and thought about his last mortal day.

  He had known he was dying. His spirit strained against the confines of a body that grew weaker with each step he took. He felt his spirit fighting against the thin webbing of his skin, searching for a way to escape the mortality of his dying body. His head became light, like his very thoughts were made of air. Each time he exhaled, he saw pieces of himself scatter into the hot summer day as flecks of blood.

  He had also seen the banshee hovering nearby. She followed him for hours, flowing through the hills like a ghost. When he caught glimpses of her white ragged cloak shimmering in the summer sun, his nerves flared with fear. She keened softly, but he knew her moans would intensify, and when that happened, he would panic.

  It had been better not to think of the banshee. Instead, he focused on the reason the blood leaked from his body and stole his life. He pictured her in his mind, and the anger kept his feet moving. Green eyes that spoke of pleasures yet discovered. Red hair that wrapped around him like a warm blanket. A body that swept him beyond reason on a tide of ecstasy. Bitch. He decided he would live to spite her and make her pay.

  Damn her! No woman had been worth his life. It wasn’t the first time he’d been a fool, but he could bloody well make sure it was the last. The blood gurgled in his throat and splattered onto the earth at his feet with each breath. He planned to get to the village, enlist help, and have his revenge.

  Rivulets of blood flowed from the wound in his side. He staggered over craggy rocks, stumbling over the stones and hazards hidden in the tall grasses. The bright summer sun burned hot on his dark head, and sweat poured across his face. The insects hovered around him, little vultures eager for a taste of the blood smell that clung to him.

  Why had he wanted to kill Remy Caindale? What had possessed him to travel all night to kill a man he barely knew? Oh, he paid the price for that decision, didn’t he? He had left a trail of blood that stole his life with each step. And Caindale clung to life with the aid of his three witch sisters. He planned to see them burn. He didn’t care that most people in the county sought their advice. A witch was a witch. He cursed the name of Caindale and the woman who started the downward spiral of his life, the woman he loved. Bitch.

  He knew now that she hadn’t been a real woman, but he hadn’t known then. He hadn’t understood how she could have such a hold on him when no woman could have wielded such power over him. He should have been able to toss her aside and forget her. But he couldn’t then. Something about her stirred his senses and pulled at what remained of his heart.

  He had laughed, despite the pain that had torn through his chest. His own mother had decreed he would never find love because he was incapable of giving it. And then some wench had wrapped her arms around him, looked deeply into his eyes, and stolen his very soul.

  Bitch. Green eyes that tugged at him like an ocean current. Red hair that stirred a fire within him. A voice that whispered and promised all the magic that life had to offer. A body that smelled of intoxicating flowers and offered all the earthly delights he could possibly imagine. He should have known. No other woman had ever been able to hold him more than several hours, and she had captured him for months, stirring passions in him that sucked the very life from him and left him pining for more. He could not get enough of her touch, her laughter, her glance.

  Even dying, his cock stirred at the thought of her. The pain that had surged through him paled next to the ache of his need for her.

  “Bitch,” Flynn muttered.

  It was all so vivid in his head that, even now, he felt the excruciating pain flare through his side where the knife had dug in and ripped his lung to shreds. And his memory of the red-haired bitch became so vivid, and his need for her so strong, the throbbing began, and his cock stirred in his breeches. Well, he could take care of that little problem soon. He had worked his magic on the mortal wench, his Leanan sidhe wrapped in human skin, and soon the ache could be appeased.

  His pretty dinner companion—What was her name?—glanced toward his lap and smiled. He smiled back, his eyes offering promises, but she meant nothing to him. He would take her body later and drink of her soul. Not too much. He wouldn’t want anyone to become suspicious. Just enough, a tiny taste to boost his energy. Aye, his dinner companion would come in handy later in the night. He let his mind roam back to Ireland.

  Though wounded and tired, he’d continued to move, but he had to concentrate to get his feet to obey. Light-headed, he knew if he fell, he would not be able to get back up. So he had kept on his feet through will and the anger that increased with each thought.

  Flynn had wiped the sweat from his face, but his body had been cold. Despite the heat of the sun and the muggy air, his body shook like it had been dipped in a frozen river. The banshee continued to follow him. Her presence shimmered around him. His mind hadn’t been quite right, and he thought perhaps he imagined the banshee. Was there more reality than mysticism to the feelings that plagued him? Could Remy Caindale be following him? Perhaps one of the witch sisters scryed for his presence.

  “They will be punished,” he had said to no one. “All of them. I am a warrior. How can it be that Caindale lives and I am dying?”

  “He lives because he loves with his heart.”

  The voice had blasted him like a winter wind and cut through to the marrow of his bones. He had stumbled and fallen to the ground. A pain of such magnitude roared through him he nearly passed out. He tried to breathe, but the blood bubbled in his lungs like he was drowning. He panted for a moment, his head down, streams of dark, sweaty hair falling across his eyes.

  The voice had been in the grass, murmuring to him, making him shiver, like ice frosting a winter stream. The voice of death. He hadn’t wanted to look at death. His empty heart told him not to risk his last moments of lif
e, but he had never been a coward. He would accept it.

  He raised his head, and there she was, crouched several yards away. Her tattered cloak, once white but layered with centuries of dust, covered most of her shriveled body. She was reed thin, a framework of bones held together with gray, mottled skin. Her red eyes, swollen with tears yet unshed, peered at him through strands of lank silver hair. She tried to smile, but the ghastly image unnerved him, and he swallowed hard.

  “My Flynn,” she whispered. Her voice was hollow, dead, a blanket of dirty snow on frozen ground. “My Flynn is dying.”

  A wail had risen into the hot summer sun and frozen his soul. The high-pitched keen stirred the grasses, and hundreds of insects rose from their summer nests and fled the sound, rising into the air in a torrent of swirling air. The banshee cocked her withered head, surprised at the life around her. Another ghastly smile spread across her face.

  “So much life,” she crooned.

  Flynn had smelled her rancid breath rising into the hot, muggy day. It swept toward him on the dead air of her lungs, reminding him of maggots in carcasses, the steaming air that shivered around rotting corpses. He tried to hold his breath against the smell but couldn’t. He breathed it in, nearly choking on the taste of it.

  “I thought I imagined you,” Flynn said. “I thought the witches were toying with me.”

  “The witches are occupied, trying to save their brother. He should have died, but they have great power.”

  “Power,” he had groaned. “I am sick of power, of creatures who possess it. I am a man of great power, and yet I find that means little. Look at me!”

  “I have come for you.”

  Flynn had nodded. “I hoped you would come for Caindale.”

  “I cannot take him,” the banshee said. “He is not for me. He belongs to a dark cloak. But he is not going to die. It has been decided by others. His love is pure. He resisted the spell. He loved with his whole heart.”

  “Witchcraft,” Flynn said.