Emboldened, she kissed his neck, then sucked rhythmically in time to the stroke of her fingers over one of his insertion points. Driving him to the edge with her touch—her love.
Bran could barely think. Mairi’s hand, so small and delicate, skated over his shoulder, building his passion, inflaming his body until he thought he might come. But then it passed, and the energy took over, flowing outward and into Mairi. She took him, pulling at him, and he let himself go. Let himself be taken in by her.
“Lanamnas is a sacred act,” he said, reaching for her hand. “It’s meant to be intimate and beautiful and . . . pure.” A white cloth materialized and he reached for her wrist. Palm to palm he fitted their hands, while winding the cloth around their wrists.
“Anam a Anam,” he said. “Soul to Soul. Not Sidhe to mortal, or male to female. Just two souls.”
Mairi threaded their fingers together. His eyes closed, and she couldn’t resist touching the crease where his long lashes rested against his cheek. “You were so worth dying for.”
His breath brushed her ear, as he nuzzled her lobe. “Will you have me, Mairi, to be your fate?”
“I will.”
Trailing his fingers down the smooth column of her throat with his free hand, he watched as his fingers reached her breasts, which were rising above the corset-style bodice, then down lower, to the pendant that was cradled between her breasts. It was his gift. A silver triscale with pale blue stones. It represented Annwyn and the trinity that was theirs—Mairi, Bran, and the raven. To see her wearing it filled him with pride, love, and possession.
Bran watched the rise and fall of her breasts, the droplets of mist that beaded there. In the silver light of the moon, the glistening droplets ran into one another until they were little rivers that trickled enticingly down beneath her corset. It reminded him of the night in the shower, the night when he knew he’d never be able to live without her.
Lowering his head, he inhaled the heady and lusty scent of her, listened to the erotic cadence of her heart, which beat urgently beneath her breast. The scent of her passion-infused blood was so strong it overtook all his senses. He could no longer hear, could no longer see, because of the lust that was blinding him. He could only smell, and the erotic scent only grew stronger and stronger until his own body was cloaked with it.
He reached for her bodice and pulled it down, revealing her breasts, swollen, heavy. Waiting for his touch. Waving his palm over her, he used magic to unclothe her, and he looked down upon her, naked and beautiful. Just like the goddess he thought she was.
He touched her shoulders, her arms, her hands. He felt her body take him in, felt her energy pulling at him as their joined hands pulsed together at their wrists. And then she began touching him, rubbing her palm along his sensitive skin, loving him with gentle caresses.
Together they touched each other’s bodies, quietly listening to the hitching of breaths and the softness of their moans. When he cupped her breast in his palm, he felt the stab of need snake through her body down to the juncture of her thighs, where she was wet and smelling sweet for him.
“You need me,” he said as he nuzzled the tender spot beneath her ear. “I can feel it, that need.”
Her head tipped back and her hair fell down from its pins, spilling out behind her. Bran had never seen a more erotic or beautiful sight than his wife beneath the moonlight, her eyes closed, her lips parted in ecstasy as he gently fondled her breast.
Needing to taste her, to feel her energy inside him, he took her breast into his mouth and tasted her flesh. Loving her slowly, he watched her uninhibited response. Seeing her arch, hearing her cry of pleasure, made his blood roar in his veins, made the electricity he felt in his body arc wildly.
He could not take his eyes off of her—his wife—she was his fantasy come to life. His erection bobbed, seeking pleasure against her lush belly. He pushed once, feeling his swollen tip cushioned by her soft skin.
“Make me your wife, Bran,” she said as she rocked against him. “Make it real.”
He followed her down as she slid her legs around his hips, opening herself for him—welcoming him inside her.
She was beautiful there; dark and wet, slick in the moonlight, ready for his penetration. He slid his thumb down her folds, feeling her slickness coating his skin. She writhed, widening her legs, lifting her bottom.
“Invite me in.”
Her gaze found his and she smiled, extending her hand to him. “Come to me.”
In a moment of sheer weakness, he fell on her, seeking her love. “I love you, muirnin. I hope you know just how much.”
Her fingers caressed his mouth. It was possession he’d never experienced before. A passion he never could have believed existed.
He slid into her, slow and easy, watching the wonder on her face as he filled her up. His hand came beneath her, cupping her bottom, angling her so that he could penetrate her more deeply with each measured thrust. And she took him in, her thighs clutching his hips, pulling him farther into her.
In the quiet of the grove, they made love. There were no words. Only gentle caresses and the sighs of lovers whispered between them. It was magic, it was sacred, and Bran knew, as he found completion deep inside her, that he had at last found his redemption—in his wife’s arms.
“I love you, Mairi. I’ll protect you from anything. I’ll worship you with my body, and heal you when you’re ill. I’ll make a life with you and strive to make you happy. You have my heart forever. This I vow to you.”
She smiled and pulled him closer. “I can’t promise to always obey you, but I’ll feed your curse. I’ll worship your body, and protect you with mine. I’ll love you in sickness and health, richer or poorer, for forever and a day. This I vow to you, Bran, till death parts us.”
“It won’t,” he vowed. “It won’t.”
EPILOGUE
The incense washed over him, calming him. The sputtering candles soothed him. Clearing his mind, he envisioned what he desired—what he craved. The incantation fell from his lips as he reached out for his brother. The only one who could help him.
“Look upon me.”
He raised his head and felt his face cupped in two palms.
“You came,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Yes, brother. I’m here.”
“Help me,” he begged.
“Help to free you?” Aaron asked. “Such a beautiful darkness in you. How you ache. I can smell it. I can feel it. How it must haunt you, brother. No one knows, do they? No one knows the darkness inside you, the darkness you have so cleverly kept hidden. No, do not hang your head in shame, brother.”
“Please,” he begged. “I need—”
“Salvation. Yes, I know. You are not yet ready, but soon. Soon,” he soothed. He kissed each cheek, then his forehead. “When you are ready, I shall come, and I shall rid you of this pain. Together, we will save you. But not yet,” he said as he waved his hand over the bowed head before him. “You will not remember this night. You will not remember me—not yet.”
He awoke, conscious that he was on his knees in a distant wood. Moonlight shifted over the low-lying fog. Filled with loneliness, he wept. The tears were for his past, the present, and the future. The future of darkness he sensed looming before him. The future that was comprised of hate, loneliness, and rage. A future he felt he no longer controlled, but controlled him. His was a future preordained, a destiny to fulfill, a fate he could not alter.
“Save me,” he chanted, as he dug his fingers into the moist, cool earth, needing an anchor to tether him. Over and over he begged to be freed, not knowing to whom he prayed.
“Save me,” he whispered, bowing his head until it rested against the earth. “Someone save me.”
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
Velvet Haven Page 27
