Mâk held up his finger again for silence as he led her around the corner and through a gate at the rear of the courtyard. They stayed close to the battlement walls so that the guards atop would not see them.
At the end of the first wall another gate opened into the orchard. The smells of spring were ripe here. The trees were in full bloom. Petals from the tiny flowers drifted through the air like snowflakes that would not melt. The grass was fresh and high and soft beneath their feet. Mâkakao turned her into his arms, caressing her as if she, too, were a fragile flower that might break in his hands.
Whatever their lovemaking had been, it had never been gentle. This new, slow pace might have been designed to drive her insane. She moaned out her desire as his fingers unthreaded the tie to her robe. Like the flower petals, the shimmering gauze floated to the ground, puddling around her feet. She stood before him naked, allowing him to look his fill.
"You are exquisite, Mia~Ell. A sculptor could not ask for a more perfect model."
She giggled, embarrassed. "Ye are besotted."
"I am," he agreed. "But you are still beautiful."
He ran his hands up her sides, lifting her breasts with his thumbs, then cupping them to feel their weight. She could feel her nipples, already hard, elongate to sensitive points of pleasure. He dropped his head to take first one then the other in his mouth, licking gently around the areolas, wringing another moan from her tightly clamped lips. There were people near. Too near. She had no experience in trying to be quiet.
"No fair," she managed. "Ye are still wearing clothes."
"What are you going to do about that, my bride?"
As an answer she reached for the buckle of his sword belt. The ceremonial blade tumbled with its scabbard into the grass. Next she lifted the surcoat over his head, followed by the shirt of fine light mesh mail. She would have wondered at its construction, but another time. For now all she wanted was to feel him naked beneath her touch.
The tunic joined the pile in the grass, allowing her to run her hands over bare flesh as she sought the laces for the leather breaches. She couldn't help noticing that his breath came harder now and that his restraint showed some signs of cracking. She smiled to herself, pleased with the power she had over him.
It was her turn now to make him wait as she raked her teeth deliberately across his nipple. With a groan of desire he fisted his hands into her hair, pulling her head tighter against his chest. She suckled there at his breast like a baby, enjoying the feel of his body responding to her touch. Her hands molded his well-formed loins, pulling him closer against her as she thrust her hips against him. She could feel the swell of his cock behind the thin leather.
The wanting of him was driving her crazy, but she knew that making him wait would be its own reward. She tilted her pelvis, rubbing her aching clit against his heat. She was so wet she felt her juices beginning to moisten the soft leather.
"Dance with me," she whispered.
His hands slid low, pulling her back against his bulging cock as he began to move to the distant strains of the musicians floating out on the warm spring air. He danced now as she'd wanted to before, his every move bringing him into contact with her aching breasts, his hands touching her everywhere.
Her fingers sought the lacings for his breaches, allowing them to drop around his feet. Without breaking his step he left them behind. Freed at last, his massive cock jutted against her, hard and hot and heavy. She moved against him in rhythm to the music, sighing when he lifted her high against his throbbing cock.
She opened herself to him, but still he held her in the rhythm of the dance. Her legs locked around his waist, she leaned back, making room for his greedy tongue to find her breasts once again.
"Mâk," she whispered, still cognizant of the guards not so far away. "I need ye, Mâk." She strained to lift herself onto the tip of his melting heat. She felt as if a fire might consume her if he did not enter her soon. "I want to feel ye inside me."
"And do you always get what you want?" he asked hoarsely, using words he'd said so long ago.
"Always," she agreed. She bent her head to suckle his nipple, pleased when his self-control crumbled under her attack. He laid her gently into the grass, still taking his time as he poised over her. Her need was like a pain that would not be satisfied. She growled deep in her throat, demanding more, raising her hips until she met him, swallowing his long hard length with her frenzied thrust.
He slid into her in one long, hot thrust, searing her, driving her instantly toward the climax she longed for. Almost immediately he withdrew, leaving her hollow and aching for his touch.
He did not disappoint her. His lips followed where his cock had just been, his tongue thrusting within her as she convulsed around him, whimpering in both pleasure and distress at his absence. She looked for parts of him to torture as he did to her, finding that with a little work she could draw his hips toward her.
An idea took hold. She kissed the dark hair at his waist, following it down to the v where it pointed like an arrow to that waiting cock. Her first touch of the tongue was tentative, experimental, but the results were all that she could have hoped for. His groan of desire told her she had guessed well.
Mâk shuddered beneath her touch as she ran her tongue along the thick, hot length of his engorged shaft. He rocked hard against her, his hands tightening over her breasts convulsively. She kissed the tip of his penis, then circled the head with her tongue, pleased when he strained against her in response. She slid her mouth over him experimentally, only to feel him go completely still.
"Cass, my love, if you continue on your present journey 'twill be a very short one."
She pulled back, disappointed. "Ye dinna like that? I thought ye would."
"Like it? Mia~Ell, are ye trying to drive me completely insane with lust for you? If so I fear you have succeeded."
She laughed at that and slid her lips back over his engorged shaft. He sucked at her clit with a kind of desperation. She found that the sound of his cock sliding in and out of her mouth mingled with the sound of his tongue sliding in and out of her hot, wet flesh made her ache for him even more.
"Enough!" he growled in a rasping breath. He rose up over her with one heave of those powerful, vein-roped arms. His mouth closed over hers as he drove into her, sending her almost instantly into yet another hard, shuddering climax. Still he drove into her again and again, his balls slapping against her drenched sheath in rhythm to the dance, each thrust driving her toward the pinnacle of her desire. She met him thrust for thrust, arching up hard against him, taking the full length of his massive cock within her suctioning flesh time after time.
Wave after wave of pleasure broke over her, yet still it was not enough. She screamed his name, though his mouth on hers swallowed the sound. His hands worked her aching nipples, kneading the sensitive buds into one long wave of hot desire. He twisted the rings she wore in her nipples back and forth, tugging gently at first, then more roughly as she responded to his hands. "Now!" she screamed. "Now!"
His thrusts became the waves beating down on the rocks at the shore, breaking over her again and again, the sound of their wet flesh slapping together almost loud enough on its own to attract attention. He bucked against her hard and fast, pumping into her at a ferocious pace, demanding all she had to give, pushing her toward that edge with as much desperation as finesse.
She felt his climax building, smelled it with keen senses, his body shuddering as he spilled his seed into her. She convulsed around him, breaking at last, the pleasure coming in waves so strong they were nearly painful. His kiss smothered her mating cry, swallowing the sound even as she reached the height of her climax.
Exhausted, they fell back limply together onto the grass. When she could move, she raised a hand to trail it through his flower-strewn hair. Laughter spilled over her lips.
"What amuses you so, Mia~Ell? Are you pleased that you have managed to nearly kill me with the strength of our desire?"
She r
olled to one elbow and studied the hard, powerful length of him. "I was just thinking."
"And what were you thinking, my love?"
"We have finally made it to thy father's house, and where are we? In a field of fruit trees. Ye promised me beds."
He grinned. "There are many beds within the castle, my love."
"Indeed. And I believe we shall have to try them all before I can tell ye which is my favorite."
"You shall be the death of me, woman," he growled. "But I shall die with a smile on my face."
And for a while, as they lay in the grass that smelled of sweet springtime flowers, they shared no thoughts of the coming war.
A Rogue's Virtue:
Way of the Wolf II
Chapter One
A soft murmur of whispers and hushes drifted around the crowed hall. Tranorva stood perfectly still, her position the formal parade stance the occasion demanded–feet spread slightly apart, hands clasped behind her back, eyes forward, every ring of her impeccably kept Mithral mail laying perfectly placed. She'd stood that way since she'd strode in to take her place at the head of the bride's honor guard.
Seanen hated waiting. Waste of time. Unless, of course there was a good reason. If, for instance, there was something large in the way that might kill you, then it was worth waiting...
Seemed like he'd been standing here for hours. He'd been one of the first ones in, naturally, making a thorough search of the room one last time. No hidden traps. No danger of any kind that he could find.
Except from boredom.
He didn't belong here. Not here with the wedding party, dressed up in his finest dress uniform, feeling like a stuffed bird on display. Most of these fine Ladies and Lords wouldn't have spoken to him on a normal day. They still wouldn't. Oh, they wouldn't complain that he had been invited–or rather commanded–to attend. No one would be so bold as to argue Lady Lochinvar's choice of a wedding party. No, the nobility wouldn't say anything. Nothing at all. They would just look right through him as if he didn't exist.
Not that that was anything new. It no longer even bothered him. In fact, their silence was something of a relief. Mostly such people had nothing to say that was of any interest to him in the first place. With a sigh he went back to studying Tranorva, hoping he could manage to stay awake through the long, boring afternoon to come.
* * * * *
Yarwyn made herself small, sitting out of the big Northlander's line of sight, observing him silently before she made her move. Her breath caught in her throat. He was everything his guild had promised, and so much more. She'd done her homework. So far, everything she'd learned about this man appeared to be accurate. But nothing in the guild files had prepared her for the man who stood at the back of the bride's honor guard.
He was incredibly tall. Granted, he was a Barbarian—no, they called themselves Northlanders–so she'd expected tall, but not like this. She'd never actually seen one of them before, and this man stood half a head above his countrymen.
She'd expected something of a dandy. If anything, his dress was subdued for the occasion. He wore a plain black wool cut-away uniform jacket, remarkable only for the fine weave and tight finish of the fabric. Beneath it she could see an unruffled shirt of fine white linen. Even the kilt that covered most of his long, hard-muscled thighs was a subtle weave of brown on brown like the forest floor at dusk.
For a man who'd started out as a petty thief, her target had done well for himself.
The intensity of the man's emotions nearly overwhelmed her. She'd been prepared for reserve. She knew he wasn't really part of the gentry, and he didn't mingle with them. He was here to do a job–a job that by all accounts he was very good at. That didn't mean he had to like these people. Her carefully gathered intelligence reported no instances of his many affairs spilling over into his work. He was known as a ladies' man, always available for a good time, but not amongst women of this sort.
Nowhere in his files had anyone mentioned that the man was incredibly handsome. The broad shoulders and heavily muscled body were racial norms. The thick mane of long dark hair that cascaded over his shoulders and the strong, broad jaw with the tiniest little dimple in the chin were strictly his own. Even the scar that ran across his right eyebrow and down his cheek managed only to add character. He had the sort of looks that would only improve with age, too. His lips were broad and full, just made for kissing. If he smiled…
But he wouldn't. She could feel it in him. He rarely smiled.
Though the gentry didn't openly flirt with a member of the working class, the Ladies around him certainly enjoyed the scenery he provided. Seeing him in person, Yarwyn had to admire his professionalism. Women who looked at a man that way would go after him. Perhaps not publicly, but they would go after him, all the same. The fact that not a hint of scandal associated itself with his name did him worlds of credit in her eyes. She couldn't even feel him acknowledge the women around him as his eyes swept over them.
So far she'd seen him speak to no one, not even casually. Her trained eye told her he was surveying the crowd, watching, waiting, looking for any sign of anything amiss. The strongest waves of emotion hit when his gaze strayed back to the bride's sister, the one with the unpronounceable name. Travornia or something like that. Cruel thing for a mother to give a woman a name like that.
Yarwyn nearly reeled as the force of his desire washed over her. She knew without looking that Seanen was studying that woman again. When he did, when he actually let his eyes rest in one place, everything about him changed. The austerity slipped away. The lines about his mouth softened. The set of his shoulders became less severe. The carefully maintained distance he surrounded himself with fell away. The most incredible difference came in the fine lines about his eyes. If he ever looked at her like that she knew she'd be completely undone.
He was merely looking at some other woman and she was already undone. She felt her body respond to his fantasies. She wanted to strip out of her clothes in front of hundreds of people.
As if there was any chance he'd ever look at her that way. She had none of what a man like that looked for in a mate. He wanted what that one had. She was his own kind. A Barbarian woman. Tall with broad shoulders, hard muscles, and generous proportions.
Nothing about Yarwyn was generous. Besides, even if the big Northlander didn't despise her on sight for her racial heritage, he was much too young. He looked to be in his late twenties. Not even middle-aged for a man of his race. She was more than twice his age. Granted, she would outlive him by decades if she lived long enough to get old, but he wouldn't see it that way.
She was a fool to even think about the man as a lover. She was here to do a job. Nothing more. If that job put her in the way of one of the most attractive men she'd ever had to work with, she would manage to remain professional. She could handle spending days, maybe weeks, in close proximity to the first man she'd seen in ages who stirred her interest. As long as he kept his hands to himself she'd be fine.
It was a lie, and she knew it, but lies were the price a woman paid to keep her sanity.
* * * * *
Seanen let his eyes drift back to Tranorva. To the casual observer, she might appear detached or even bored. That wasn't the way Seanen saw the picture at all. Tranorva's eyes barely shifted, yet he knew she was surveying the room, even as he did, looking for the odd, the unusual, the dangerous. People who knew her, even those close to her, if anyone was truly close to her, described her as cold and efficient. Always efficient.
Seanen wondered again what she'd be like in bed. He'd have been willing to bet he could crack that cold reserve. Under it all, under the uniform and the military posturing and the years of training, was there still a flesh and blood woman in there? If he could get close enough to her, he could break through those defenses.
He was a thief, after all. Breaking into things was his specialty. Tranorva was a challenge he was up to, he was sure of that. If he could just find a way to get close to her…
&nbs
p; "You're wasting your time, handsome. You're just setting yourself up for a heartache."
He jumped. By the gods, he never jumped.
The voice was breathy and feminine and incredibly sexy in a teasing, half-annoyed sort of way that said "Pay attention to me," the way a woman did when she didn't like the direction a man's thoughts had taken. Made him feel like he should apologize. Not that he had a clue who he should apologize to or why. Yet the words were meant to be heard only by him, he was sure of it.
How in Hades had anyone known what he was thinking? He was good, damn it. Very good. No one ever knew what he was thinking.
Where had the voice come from, anyway, and who did it belong to? He was good with voices, but he didn't recognize this one. He wouldn't have forgotten a voice like that.
"You're not her type. She'll never even notice you exist," the mysterious voice assured him.
Even when she was mocking him, her voice fairly dripped with sex. Where was she? Who was she? Her voice came from his left elbow. He was sure of it. He searched the crowd, as discretely as he could. He hated being caught off guard like this. Trouble was, there was nothing but a stone wall on his left. Yet his sense of direction and his hearing were both acute. A necessary trait for a thief.
Seanen surveyed those closest to him again, but he knew them all, knew their voices. Of course, those with magic could throw their voices, disorient the listener. If that voice was done with magic, she was going to break his heart. He'd already painted a picture of her in his mind, warm and pliant in his arms, contented that she was sharing his attention with no one…
"Some thief you are. Down here."
He blinked again, feeling like a fool as he looked down, and then further still. There, sitting atop the short cut stone footer that lined the huge hall, almost at his feet, was a tiny little woman.
"Hello handsome."
Seanen snorted at her humor. Disappointment shot through him. He'd thought he'd been prepared for almost anything. Looks weren't all there was to a woman. With a voice like that…
Way of The WOlf: The Northlanders Book I Page 8
