She shivered. Is he crazy? Apparently both of them were, because she was actually listening to his one-sided conversation. That is, while she kept both eyes firmly on the horse.
Peaseblossom—a more unlikely name for a very large, brown, four legged animal she couldn’t imagine—halted inches from Owain. It snorted and bobbed its head. Megan felt the rush of air past her left cheek. Her face tingled and she clenched her hands in an effort to keep from bolting.
That kind of realism never entered her nightmares. The color of the horse was wrong, too. And there shouldn’t be a rider. But a catalogue of the differences between her dream state and the present situation didn’t seem to help. The resemblances—she was standing on the bank of a river facing a horse that seemed to have a mind of its own, despite the rider on its back—were too uncanny. Besides, during her nightmares she knew what was happening wasn’t real.
This was, except this time she was with Owain.
“I swear,” the young rider said, tightening her grip on the reins. “She’s in love with you, Owain.”
Then the rider laughed and Megan was certain she was hallucinating because she swore she heard the soft tinkling of bells.
“Peaseblossom never misbehaves when we meet anyone else,” Heather continued.
Owain shifted his stance until he totally blocked Megan’s view of the horse. The lines of his body were rigid. “What are you doing here?”
It seemed an odd thing to say, especially in anger. He reached out a hand toward the horse, but before he could touch the animal, it tossed its head and pranced a few steps backwards, directly into Megan’s line of vision again. Her body jerked and she absently rubbed her arm in an attempt to warm herself up.
The rider smiled down at Owain, not sweetly as Megan half expected, but with a touch of coldness.
“You didn’t think I would make this easy for you, did you?”
Damn his cousin.
No doubt the real Heather was back at her farm down the road, unaware that her horse was being ridden by a Fairy Queen bent on causing mischief. Nay, far more than mere mischief if he guessed aright. He was of a mind to call on Arawn regarding this violation of his three-day grace period. But what could the Overlord of the Fairies do? The damage had already been done.
Owain watched Rhiannon and Peaseblossom as they sedately walked away. The effort it took to ignore Megan was agonizing, but he had little choice. The charm he’d muttered when he’d finally touched the horse was simple enough, yet took every ounce of his weakened powers to sustain against his cousin’s greater strength.
Rhiannon hadn’t been far wrong when she said the mare was in love with him. More like Peaseblossom smelled the wild mate inside him, which only proved the Fairy Queen’s powers to disguise his appearance were at most skin deep. A weakness she’d exploited in an attempt to expose him. However, once the charm had cloaked his scent, the mare had shaken her head, her keen interest in him forgotten. Her mission accomplished, his cousin had once again assumed the demure attitude of the teenager she pretended to be and waved goodbye.
When he was certain they wouldn’t return, he spun on his heels to face Megan.
“That was a horse.” Her words were little more than a whisper of air and she swayed on her feet.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
He swung her up into his arms. Her body trembled against his. She gave a small cry as her arms circled his neck and she buried her face against his shoulder. He carried her as far as the nearest tree and then, rather awkwardly, sat down with his back against the trunk.
Megan snuggled closer and then lifted her head. Tear tracks streaked her face. “I’m afraid of horses.”
“I know, sweetheart.” He murmured the words and rubbed his palm in circles across her back, hoping to calm the tremors that shook her frame. He’d known for years about her fear of horses, but to witness her numbing terror only proved he’d not been wrong to bargain for his mortal looks.
“It’s stupid,” she said, wiping the tears away. “I’ve never even been near a horse in my life. This is the first one I’ve seen up close.”
“Hush.” He kissed her forehead.
“It was big, but not half as wild as the one in my nightmares.”
She seemed determined to tell him about the stallion, so he gritted his teeth and listened. Eventually she stopped talking. They sat quietly together, his arms wrapped tightly around her and he stared at the river.
After residing along this stretch of the Conwy bordering Trefriw for one hundred and seventy years, Owain knew every blade of grass and every dip and turn along the banks of the river. The s-shaped bend up ahead marked the northerly limits of his domain. Perhaps that was why he’d brought Megan here today.
On an eve, he’d often stand under the trees in either of his two forms—it mattered not which—and gazed downriver imagining all the places he was forbidden to visit. No, not simply forbidden. Rhiannon’s curse bound him to this spot as much as it bound him to his quasi-mortal and animal forms. The only times he’d been able to leave were when his shadow-self had been compelled to be with Megan in her dreams.
Except for those visits, his was a bleak, lonely existence. One he’d welcome an end to, for the truth was he never wanted to see the Conwy again. Given the chance, he’d willingly follow Megan anywhere she wanted to go.
He’d known her in her dreams since she was a girl. He’d spent today with the woman she’d become. In turns sharp-witted and shy, she possessed a passion for life he could only envy. The same way he admired her courage—for crossing an ocean to find him and for facing a horse, however terrified.
She stopped trembling and seemed much calmer, but he had no way of knowing what harm the Fairy Queen’s appearance on a horse had had on her. Or his own hopes. In truth he was less concerned about the single day remaining to him than he was about this night.
Whenever they visited mortal lands, the Tylwyth Teg were, by nature, creatures of the night. These days mortals rarely believed in the Fairy Realm, but ’twas best to guard against discovery. Even in his quasi-mortal state, Owain had preferred to make his forays among mankind during the shadow of darkness, though necessity had led him frequently enough out into the village in the light of day. The Fairy Queen had been bold, showing her face even in disguise, this day. Which meant his usual haunts along the river and his isolated farm were too vulnerable to Rhiannon’s influence, especially with the coming night.
Chapter Six
Megan Jones proved to be a stubborn wench and, the vines notwithstanding, the side of Mrs. Smith’s house proved a challenge to climb. But Owain conquered the latter with very little call for his meager magic, save to preserve his neck by preventing a fall off the wall. Now he planned to conquer the former.
He stood in Megan’s room, the window behind him closed and the draperies drawn. She’d turned on a desk lamp and stood watching him. Her look should be wary, given what he was thinking, but she appeared more amused by his recent athleticism. He would take her over his knee and warm her bottom, if he thought it would do some good. The idea alone stirred his cock and he took a step forward. Her gaze skittered across his form and then her eyes locked with his. In defiance? Probably. The thought heated his blood.
He’d resolved to keep her safe. To that end, he’d faced and mastered the demon automobile that purred like a cat and exhibited the self-same attitude as an independent feline. He’d ushered her into the pub and ordered her supper, only to be told at the end of the meal she was fine, thank you, and goodbye.
Not bloody likely.
“I’m staying,” he said, too annoyed to soften his tone.
“All right.”
Uncertain, because she agreed too easily, for the second time that day he pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Despite sating his appetite for her only hours before, he was fully aroused. His staff pressed painfully against the buttons of his jeans. And he swore a stream of fire pumped through his veins in place of ordinary blood.
“Owain.”
Now she sounded exasperated, which couldn’t be a good thing.
“In your bed,” he said, in case she had any other odd notions about where he planned to sleep this night. Or what he planned to do.
“Does that mean you want me to take my clothes off?”
The question caught him mid-stride. He’d teased himself this noon with the barest hint of her soft skin by undoing each of the tiny buttons on her blouse. He’d missed the chance to uncover the rest of her beautiful body when she’d laid herself bare for him. Not that he regretted her eagerness, which had matched his own for a taste of her. But this eve neither of them was in a hurry.
“Yes, sweetheart. Take off your clothes for me.”
She did, a little self-consciously. Willing and yet apparently unaware of how potent his need for her was. His heart thumped erratically against his chest as piece by piece her clothing came off, revealing the woman he knew so well underneath.
She shimmied out of her skirt, folding it and adding it to the blouse and bra she’d already piled on the edge of the desk. He loved watching her neat, economical movements, so different from his own haphazard negligence. His eyes skimmed the intriguing curves of her silhouette and his hands itched to rub the softness of her belly. He could tell from the way she hesitated, from the way her eyes darted to his flat abdomen that she perceived the slight roundness to be an imperfection.
“Sweetheart.”
Her head jerked up and her hands fell away from the elastic waistband of her panties.
“Come here.”
A flame warmed the brown of her eyes as she complied with his command. He circled his fingers around one of her wrists and settled her hand on his groin.
“Do you see?” he whispered, leaning forward so his erection filled her hand. “Do you see what the sight of you does to me?”
He heard the slight catch in her breath and then a roaring filled his ears as her fingers squeezed his cock. She made short work of the buttons on his jeans. Within seconds his hard length spilled into her waiting hands, for somewhere along the way she’d added the other. Wrapping her fingers around his girth, she stroked him long and hard.
By the hounds of hell. He wouldn’t last if she kept that up. And yet he would die if she stopped.
She didn’t stop. In desperation, he shoved his jeans to his thighs. Her laugh was warm and wrapped itself around his heart, but she obliged and cupped his aching balls. He bowed his head, burying his nose in her silky hair. A faint fruity essence teased his senses. Needing more, he reached for her. Her breasts were firm handfuls a man could play with. His thumbs circled her dusky-rose areolas, teasing the tips. She whimpered with a need of her own, her breath warm against his skin and he knew playtime was over.
He nudged her chin up and kissed her soft upon the lips. They parted beneath his, but he resisted the invitation. “Sweetheart.”
She blinked up at him, her hands still firmly gripping his cock. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. Then the tip of one finger slid over his slit and found the drop of precome. She brought her finger to her lips and tasted him.
By the hounds of hell. He grabbed the waistband of her panties and ripped them from her body.
“Yes, please.” She smiled at him, making him doubt either one of them had control of the situation.
“On the bed, sweetheart. On your hands and knees.”
Flushed with excitement, she stroked his cock one last time before turning on her heels and walking over to the bed. He fumbled in his pants pocket for a foil wrapper, damning the shake in his hand. When he looked up, his jeans hit the floor.
She was on her hands and knees on the bed, all right, displaying the firm globes of her buttocks for his perusal. She rested on her forearms so her cheeks were high in the air and her legs were slightly apart, allowing him a clear view of her dewy sex.
He ripped open the packet and sheathed himself, not daring to move until he’d protected them both. A moment later he stepped forward. His hands locked around her waist and his tip nudged her slick entrance and he rejoiced. ’Twas his second night spent entirely in mortal form. And this was an almost perfect reenactment of one of the rare daydreams he’d allowed himself about being mortal and with Megan—his woman wet and ready for him and an entire night to enjoy her. Unable to hold back a second longer he slammed into her, savoring the slap of his balls against the soft flesh of her thighs. Her muscles instantly contracted around his shaft.
“So tight for me, sweetheart.” And he needed to rein himself in else he’d shoot like a falling star.
Overeager, she wiggled her bottom against him, her urgent moans begging him to take her. Slowly, he rocked against her, matching the rhythm of her own thrusts, which pushed his cock deeper inside her. Soon she was panting, her pussy muscles clenching spasmodically and with each stroke his balls tightened. Neither of them would last long at this rate. ’Twas a good thing the night was young.
“That’s right, sweetheart. Show me.”
“Owain, please.”
She sounded desperate. No more than he, but at the moment nothing would please him more than to please his lady. He slid a hand between the soft curls of her mound and found her folds, wet with her juices. He nuzzled deeper until he discovered her nub. She bucked beneath him. He held her fast, his finger circling her clit, while his cock nudged her womb.
“Show me,” he whispered once more, when her body drew tighter than the string of a lute.
She cried out, the heat inside her igniting an answering blaze within him. Cream gushed from her core, coating his already slick cock. Unable to ride out the flash fire that swept through him, he reared back and thrust into her hard and fast. The walls of her pussy clenched around him, feeding sensation after sensation straight through his cock. The eroticism of the moment pushed him higher until he spurted, the jolt slamming through his entire body.
Somehow he managed to crawl onto the bed and tuck her within his embrace. Her fingers stroked his arm.
“That was perfect,” she murmured and kissed his hand.
No, he thought. Perfect would be a life with Megan Jones.
Megan woke to the sound of a soft snore in her ear. A muscled arm anchored her next to a very warm, very naked male body. It had been a good long while since she’d had a man in her bed instead of invading her dreams. She turned her head slightly and gazed on tousled hair and long, black eyelashes that rested against high cheekbones. Even asleep, Owain Deverell managed to look like an unrepentant bad boy.
She reached out and skimmed her fingers across his shoulder. Mine. The possessive thought skittered through her mind and made her wonder at the possibilities. Forty-eight hours ago she’d arrived intent on searching for explanations. She still didn’t know what Owain Deverell’s relationship was, exactly, to the man portrayed in the locket or why he appeared in her dreams. But, after spending the day with him, there were definite things she knew about the man sleeping beside her.
He was in turns serious and playful. A vegetarian sure of his convictions, he hadn’t minded at all when she’d ordered fish and chips at the pub last night. And he was protective of her. Fiercely so, which was a nice way of saying he’d been arrogant and highhanded. He’d refused to discuss options and her arguments that she’d be fine and wasn’t scared anymore had fallen on deaf ears. He’d snuck into her room at the B&B anyway.
And realistically, how could she say “no” to having the real man in her bed instead of his shadow-self visiting her in her dreams? She couldn’t. She hadn’t.
He’d held her all night long. Made love to her so many times she’d lost count. And in the middle of the night, she’d been very glad he was there, so she wouldn’t lie staring wide-eyed at the ceiling wondering if their encounter with a horse yesterday afternoon would trigger one of her nightmares.
She shifted, intending to carefully ease out of bed without disturbing him, when his arm tightened around her imperceptibly. Immediately giving up the str
uggle her head sank back onto the pillow and she turned to look at him. His blue eyes blazed with undisguised heat, even though the rest of his body hadn’t moved a muscle.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
He gripped the edge of the sheet and pulled it back. A shiver raced across her skin when his hand settled possessively over her exposed breast.
“Owain.”
Her nipple was already taut and aching. Then his thumb rubbed across the bud, sending the ache straight to her womb. He chuckled and propped himself onto his elbow so he could look down at her.
“I see you are a wanton.”
Before she could think of a suitable comeback, much less voice it, he bent his head and brushed his lips across her own. She opened to him and his teeth nipped her lower lip. A tiny whimper of need escaped from her mouth and she clutched his shoulder. She shouldn’t want him this much so soon after last night. But she did and she reveled in the fact that he was here and not some fading memory from a dream.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
She blinked and looked up at him, suddenly aware that he’d stopped his seduction and was watching her.
“I was just thinking. I could get used to this.”
“You mean this?” He flicked her nipple again.
She groaned and nodded.
“Or this?” He slid his palm along her ribcage and across her stomach until his fingers touched the edge of her curls.
Her grip on his shoulder tightened. “Lower.”
He grinned. “Demanding wench, aren’t you?”
In answer, she slid her legs apart. He bowed his head until his forehead touched the pillow beside her.
“You’re already wet for me, aren’t you?”
“Why don’t you see for yourself?” She tilted her hips in invitation.
He drew a sharp breath at the challenge, but his fingers delved between her folds. It was her turn to gasp as he found and stroked her clit. He murmured rough words, his voice raspy with desires that stirred her blood. He scraped his teeth along her shoulder and then his tongue soothed away the sharp pain. Her hips jerked in response to the contrasting sensations, seeking more of the pleasure he promised.
The Man of Her Dreams: A Sexy Shifter story. Page 5
