by Sunny
He shifted around until he sat propped up against it with me sitting on his lap and him still deep inside of me, thick and throbbing. In this new position, he began moving in me. A slow, languorous stroke, deep and fine. In this new position, his hands, freed, moved over me also, stroking me on the outside as he stroked me on the inside. Lazy, thorough. But whereas he moved inside me with firm hard pressure, along my skin he touched me with but the barest pressure. Deep strokes within, light tantalizing strokes without. His fingertips trailed almost ticklishly light over my skin, sensitizing it even more until I became screamingly aware of everything he did to me. Everywhere he touched me, inside and out.
Those grazing fingertips crisscrossed a devilish path down my back, arching me into him as he leaned forward until his breath fell with teasing, tantalizing puffs upon my breasts. Until my nipples hardened into pebbles, puckered up under the warm current of air moving over them. Inside, my sheath tightened in corresponding reaction, in parallel anticipation, gripping his thick stalk even more tightly, even more sweetly, as he did what I’d asked him to do—as he danced with me. As he danced within me. As he played me with his hands, with his breath, with his hard male organ. As he finally touched the spear points of my breasts, not with his soft lips but with his rough bristles, I gasped in shock, in surprise, in pure seething pleasure. Jerked against him. Bucked against him below as he rubbed that sandpapery roughness over me, scraped it over my peaks, drawing forth such an abrasive cascade of pleasure, of sweet, moaning sensation.
Light finger strokes down my back, over my buttocks. A hard, bristly rub across my breasts. While inside me he moved in a sure, lazy rhythm as he tilted his head back and watched with heavy-lidded eyes. Watched what he did to me. Watched the feelings he drew out of me. Watched my reactions to his every move, his every light and rough caress. And all while he felt what he did to me inside. In the quivering spasms that rippled my internal walls. In the wet sucking grip of my hungry sheath squeezing down on him with more and more tightness as he slowly built up the pleasure, the wracking tension once again.
He made love to me like his father and brother fought. With sure grace, with natural athleticism, with extraordinary physicality, as if his body had moved this way a million times before. No fumbling, no hesitation.
He’s a virgin. A virgin, a voice inside of me screamed. Had to be. But he played me like a master violinist played a beloved Stradivarius. With familiarity. With a skilled touch. With an exploring, swiveling plunge of his hips that drew forth a muttered gasp, a deep moan from me. That lit me up once more with a soft, illuminating glow.
A slow withdrawal. Another leisurely swivel-stroke in, that had me mewling and grasping his arms in breathless pleasure and hardening demand. It was wonderful and not enough. I rose to my knees, fisted my hands in his hair. Tightened around him even more, and rocked against him with hard, surging moves that brought forth his own light again. That made his breath catch and hold, and his eyes gleam even fiercer.
“No,” he said, his voice so harsh it was almost a growl. “Let me learn you. See what pleases you.”
“Everything you do pleases me.”
“Then let me do it more.”
“I don’t know if I can take more.”
“You can.” And unvoiced—You will. Those odd bright eyes of his demanded it, holding me still, almost in thrall as he began to move in me again. Screamingly slow. Agonizingly gentle. So that I felt every hard slip and slide of him in and out of me while I trembled and held obediently still, poised over him.
When he was assured of my compliance, when I ceded control back to him and harsh primitive triumph glittered in those warrior eyes, he rewarded me by leaning forward and brushing his bristly beard across my eager pouting nipple, then taking it into his mouth.
Just wetness, warmth, nothing else. And I gasped, swallowed back a moan of need. Please.
As if he heard my silent plea, he gave me the suction I needed. A hard sweet pull that zinged from my breast down to my womb as if the two separate organs were connected somehow. So that what was done to one affected the other. So that the light sucking, tugging pull of his mouth upon me was felt not only by my nipple, but deep inside me also, in that part of me that cried out to be filled by him again. Not just by his hard, throbbing length, but what it ultimately thirsted for—the wetness of his seed.
I trembled and shook and twisted against him. And wound even tighter within when his light, tracing fingers accidentally grazed over my sensitive rear rim as he trailed his way from one cheek to the other. He groaned as I unconsciously clenched around him.
His fingers moved back to trace around my anal pucker, both of us groaning as he did so. I was shaking, wound up so tight as he played with me there for an endless moment. Then his other hand moved in front, drifted down through my silky triangle and explored me there where we were joined. He moved those light, grazing fingertips along my stretched outer lips, and I tightened even more, cried out, jerked against him when he traced over my hard, swollen nub. Like an explorer finding treasure, he returned to the spot, traced over that tiny sensitive part of my body where so many nerves screamed. His two hands traced over me, one in front, one in back. And I drew tense, tremblingly tight, like a bow drawn back by an expert archer, my light spilling out from me, his light mixing with mine, making the room glow.
Those dancing fingers suddenly stopped. Stilled all movement of hands, but not of body. His body arched up with sudden thrusting force, plunging up into mine, filling me with his hard, spearing length once, twice. Three savoring strokes in that suspended, taut stillness, that spiraling tightness. Then those fingers moved once more, pressed down firmly over those two spots he had found, one in front, one in back. And it was this, that sudden pressing firmness in those twin spots along with the rough-frictioned drive of him deep inside me that gave me what I needed. Flicked the ignition switch. Made me blast off.
I cried as I came apart again. As my second climax roared through me in a hot, convulsive rush. And as I shook and shuddered, my light bursting from me, he drove into me again and again in a slow, steady rhythm, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to fuck me as he drank down my light, as he pulled it into himself, dimming my radiance for one brief instant while brightening his own. Then, as my twitching convulsions lessened, his pace quickened. His driving thrusts into me grew even more forceful, stronger. Deeper. His right hand moved down my leg and caressed my foot with the pleasing strength with which he had gripped my shoulders. With that same strong firmness and pressure, his thumb pressed down deep and hard into my sole. He pushed there, right in the center of my foot, and ripped another wash of splintering sensations through me so intense that it was frightening. With his other hand he squeezed my swollen clitoris while he speared himself through my spasming tightness, seating himself home deep inside of me. I came a third time, explosively. Crying out. Coming apart. Splintering into a million sundering pieces. I collapsed on top of him, drained, limp, literally shocked with pleasure, and felt him come inside of me again. Felt the powerful jetting of his own release.
And as he drank down my light, I drank up his seed.
We lay there, chests heaving, bodies and worlds torn apart and slowly coming back together, our lights fading. One last glimmer and we no longer glowed. The light of our pleasure vanished, and I felt the wetness of his seed ooze out, trickle down my thighs.
My eyes fell upon the innocent foil packet, unopened, unused, lying there abandoned on the floor. And the cold light of reality set in.
Oh my God. Oh my God. What have I done?
FIVE
I SCRAMBLED UP and off of him, and frantically threw on my clothes while that refrain ran over and over in my mind. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God! What have I done?
“What’s wrong?” Dante demanded, and I realized that I’d been muttering the words out loud. I shook my head and stumbled to the door, desperate to get away, my instinctive unease of him twining with fear of what I’d just
done. Behind me chains rattled, jerked harshly as he came up against the restraining length of them. “What did I do wrong?”
I glanced back, saw his face, harsh and wild, the muscles of his body bunched tight as he strained against the chains, trying to come after me. His body glistened—the sweat of his malady mixing with the sweat of the sexual exertion that had healed him. His male organ, semihard, was wet with our combined essence, with my fluid and his ejaculated seed that swam even now in me. That hard male body, that fierce, frightening face, the smell of sex thick and pungent in the air—I saw it all, smelled it all, and had to get away. Had to leave. Him. Everything. What I had done.
I slammed out of the room, past the startled faces of his brother, his father. Then I was outside in the dark and starry night. A cool, cleansing breeze drifted over me like a soothing hand, easing some of the panic, some of the madness that had gripped me for a second. Our mother moon, whose light we held within us, glimmered serenely down from above, her soft lunar rays falling upon me like the hand of a Madonna soothing her restless child. A comparison that reminded me starkly of my dilemma. That I may have just gotten myself pregnant…knowingly. That was the hard part to swallow.
I found a large, flat rock a short distance away from the house and sat there, my hand drifting down to cover my belly, the gesture part protective, part horrified. Sounds drifted from the house and I ignored it, shut it out, lost in my own world, my own tormenting reflections.
A baby. How could I have done that? Risked that?
How could I have not? a voice within me demanded. That dominant part of me that was woman. That was Monère.
The odds were against my getting pregnant because the Monère are not a fertile people. It’s hard for our women to get pregnant. But the man whose seed lay wet and pungent within me came from a line that had proven obviously potent. Not just one son, but two. Twins.
Shit.
I sat there, lost and alone, for a countless space of time. I don’t know how many minutes passed before the crunching of footsteps on fallen leaves alerted me to another’s presence. Sounds that were deliberately made to give me warning of their approach. Not that I needed it. Even lost in my thoughts as I was, I would have felt him. Dante. The possible father of my child…or not.
It was with this new and stunning realization in my eyes that I rose to my feet and turned to face the young man I’d just had sex with: If I became pregnant, I might not even know who the father of my child was. Dante or Amber. I’d slept with Amber several days ago, right after Basking.
Dante had showered, shaved, and dressed. His wet hair was slicked back and the grizzly beard gone from his face, allowing me to see the rough, stark beauty of his angles. But even groomed and dressed in the trappings of civilization, nothing could change those eyes. Those pale blue eyes that shimmered with wildness and aggression barely contained. The madness in them was gone, but not even sanity could soften the instinctive fright that coursed through my body like a shocking jolt when I looked into those formidable eyes. Eyes that I could have sworn I knew. He was unchained, free, and fear suddenly thudded within me, coursed in a riot through my blood.
He stopped twenty feet away and spread his hands in front of him to show he was unarmed, that he meant no harm. But my heartbeat did not lessen its rapid-fire staccato. When he took a step forward, I took a step back. I couldn’t help myself.
Something moved in his eyes. Hurt, pain. Reciprocal wariness, perhaps. His eyes dropped down to my hands that I had unconsciously lifted to ward him off, to keep him back, and his eyes narrowed. Something in him grew very still.
Suddenly aware of what I’d done, I made myself drop my hands back to my sides. “Are you well now?”
“Yeah.” But he spoke as if he were troubled, distracted, making no move to draw closer to me. With effort, he brought his attention back to me. “What about you? Are you well? Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I said, as gently as I could with all the adrenaline coursing in me.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I may be pregnant.” My whisper vibrated with the horror I was feeling. “And I just realized, if I am, I may never know for sure who the father is.”
His attention centered even more sharply on me. “You have another lover?”
“More than one.” A choked sound came out of me that was half-sob, half-laugh. “But only one before you who could get me with child.” Not Halcyon, my demon dead lover. Not Gryphon, whose child I had wanted in remembrance of him. Not Dontaine, with whom I had lain, but not in a way that could result in a child. “Just Amber. Or you.”
Something flared in those eyes for a moment before he dropped his gaze. His hands curled into fists, and tension seeped into his body before he consciously released it with a slow, deep breath.
“Thank you for saving me,” he said, his rough voice deliberately gentle, oddly formal. “And my deep regrets for any discomfort I may have caused you with my fumbling. It was not meant intentionally.”
Frightened though I was of him, I pushed aside my distress to soothe his. “You didn’t cause me any discomfort. Nor was there any fumbling on your part. You brought me great pleasure. Made me come three times, in fact. How can you doubt that you pleased me?” I said, shaking my head. “Was that your first time?”
He cast me an odd look but nodded.
“Well, let’s just say you show a true natural talent,” I said with a wobbly smile.
“Then why did you run from me?”
My smile disappeared. “Because we didn’t use the condom. It was right there in my hand. Then your need flared up my own and I felt this terrible, gripping urge to bear life, to have a baby. It came out of nowhere, ambushed me, drowned me in it, until I felt as if I would literally die if I didn’t feel your seed jetting into me. The condom was right there in my hand, and I deliberately dropped it, let it go. How could I have done that? I don’t even know myself anymore, who I am, what I’m becoming.”
“Would being pregnant be so bad if that is what your body craves?”
“You don’t understand.” And I couldn’t explain it to him. “It could be disastrous. Not for me, but for the baby. And I knowingly risked it.”
Even more distressing, I thought I was going crazy. I felt as if I should recognize Dante. That even though I’d never laid eyes on him before, my body knew him in some way…and feared him.
“Do I know you?” I felt like an idiot asking him that question, but was compelled to ask it anyway.
He stilled. Froze in a way that made him seem as if he were not real, not living. Then he moved, released a breath. He cast me a searing, searching gaze. Then without a word he turned and walked swiftly away—as if a ghost had suddenly sprung up before him and he was fleeing it.
Only when he was gone did my heart slow down.
God, I thought. Who the hell are you? How do I know you? And most important of all: Why do I fear you?
SIX
EVENTUALLY, I WANDERED back to the house. Dante was nowhere to be seen, deliberately avoiding me, it seemed, to my relief. After a shower, some clean clothes borrowed from Hannah, and one soothing cup of chamomile tea to settle my frazzled nerves, I called home. The phone at Belle Vista rang only once before it was picked up, as if someone had been standing there waiting for it to ring.
“Hello,” said a voice abruptly.
“Tomas?” I wasn’t sure if that was who I was speaking to. It sounded like him, but sharper, crisp, without his usual soft twang and easy way of speaking.
“Mona Lisa?” The shocking loudness of his voice was heard clearly by everyone in the room, which happened to be the entire Morell family. All but Dante.
I winced. “Yeah, it’s me, Tomas. Is Dontaine there?”
“No. He and everybody else are out looking for you. Where are you?”
“In the next state. In Texas. I’m okay. I, uh, found a healer, and I’m bringing her and her family back with me. But it might take a little while for them to pack up every
thing, and then hours more for us to drive home. I’m going to try to make it back before sunrise, but don’t worry if I don’t.”
There was just the jagged sound of his breathing for a few long seconds. Then his voice sounded in my ear again, softer. But it was a harsh softness. “Worry? Why should we worry? Wiley woke the entire house up and they tracked your steps back to the woods. They found the scent of two strange men there and signs of a struggle.” His restraint slipped then. “What the hell happened, Mona Lisa?”
Oh crap. I could imagine the panic and uproar that had followed. “Listen, I’ll explain everything when I get back home, I promise.” Hopefully by then everyone would have calmed down some. Please let it be so. As it was, my raw nerves couldn’t take Tomas’s distress any longer. I felt oddly fragile, like a ceramic doll that would crack with any additional pressure. “Call off the search, Tomas. Tell everybody that I’m okay and that I’ll be back soon. I’m going to hang up now.”
“Don’t!” Tomas yelled, panic in his voice. “Don’t hang up! Tell me where you—”
Gently, I disconnected.
“Was that your lover?” Quentin asked. He seemed the only one capable of speaking in the sudden silence. His mother and father looked shocked, as if what they had heard was not what they had been expecting to hear. Their surprise surprised me. What was the big freakin’ deal here?
“No, that was Tomas, one of my guards.”
The big man, Nolan, unglued his tongue. “You allow a guard to speak to you like that?”
“He’s obviously upset,” I said, shrugging. “I think it would be best if we left here as soon as possible, so my people back home don’t freak out anymore than they already have. How long will it take for you guys to pack?”
