by Lois Greiman
Embarrassment struck her, fused with excitement, heated with longing.
“You are perfection,” he said, and with his fingers drifting over her nipple, he weighed her breast in his hand as he moved closer still. Between them, he bucked with impatience, but his hands were still slow as he trailed his thumb with trembling gentleness over her taut nub. She shivered at his touch, then he was kissing her again, covering her lips with his as he urged her slowly backward. She felt the mattress touch her legs and sat down. In a moment, he was kneeling before her. His chest brushed her legs, and she opened for him, breathlessly inviting him closer. He leaned in. His cock brushed the inside of her thigh as he kissed her breast. Feelings sizzled like comets through her ravenous system. His hands captured her ribs and slid downward until they met the edge of her pantaloons. His fingers moved toward the center of her waist, found the drawstring, and paused.
“One final chance to change course,” he said. Perhaps his words were meant as a warning, but to her they sounded like no less than a promise.
She shook her head, scared but exhilarated, and he sighed as he tugged the string loose. The garment pooled gently around her hips. His broad hands followed, pushing the cotton down. She raised herself slightly, allowing him access as he slid the garment over her buttocks. She scooted onto the mattress, and he followed, his right thigh brushing the insides of her knees as he moved with her. She lay back against the pillows, watching his face, waiting for the fear to come crashing in on her, but he was so careful, so slow, so strong and patient and caring as he stretched out half atop her that she could feel nothing but desire. He throbbed against her belly, kissed her, then slid his hand along the outside of her quivering form, along the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip, the length of her thigh, tilting it up slightly as he settled against her.
Firelight crackled along the hard lines of his chest, setting his skin aflame, his eyes alight.
“You are beauty come to life, lass,” he breathed, and soft as thistledown, skimmed the flats of his nails along the back side of her leg.
She shivered in the wake of his touch. His coarse-haired thigh had settled snug and hot against her wet center.
“Soft and firm and moist.”
Embarrassment pursued her. Surely this was not the time for conversation. “Why are we talking?” she whispered.
“You’ve no wish to talk?”
“I can…I can think of other things to do.” Which was true in an abstract sort of way.
“But they say…”
“Perhaps they do not have your magic,” she whispered, and with that, he gently grasped her hips and rolled her atop him.
Her hair cascaded down, spilling over his shoulders and onto the pillow as she shifted her legs around him.
“You are the magic, lass,” he whispered. “Wonder come to life. Touchable music.”
“You talk a great deal,” she whispered, and pressed against him. Their gazes locked, and, with slow deliberation, he raised his hips. Muscles coiled as he slipped inside, easy, hot, fluid.
She arched into him, welcoming more, and he gritted his teeth against the bursting feelings, rocking slowly against her.
“I’ve no wish to rush you, lass,” he rasped.
Tightening her knees against his sides, she let her eyes fall closed, let her head drop back.
He clasped her buttocks in gentle hands, squeezing. Desire roared through her, driving her faster. Clasping his pectorals, she bucked against the strength of him, head thrown back, breasts thrust forward. Her hair swished against her back, brushing his thighs, his hips, his balls.
He hissed against the wispy sensations and pressed into her. Controlled. So demmed controlled.
Impatience boiled within her; there was a banquet beneath her, waiting to be shared. Dragging her fingers down his rigid chest, she leaned forward and, with slow deliberation, sucked his nipple between her teeth. He cursed with raspy impatience and jerked against her. She sat up straight, propped against his chest, feeling the burning excitement build as he held her hips and stoked the flame with hard strokes, pushing to the hilt, taking her with him on a wild flight.
She gasped, felt the primal, snarling release, and contracted around him. He pushed again, every muscle taut beneath her, then shivered, still pulsing, as he let his hands soften on her hips.
She fell to his chest, heart racing against his as she struggled for breath, for sanity. Good heavens, did others realize how this felt?
His fingers trembled slightly as he pushed the damp hair from her neck. “Are you well, lass?” His voice was breathy, uncertain.
She managed a nod but could not quite trust her voice.
“I did not hurt you?”
“No.” She was embarrassed suddenly, cowed by her own wild feelings, her own noisy actions.
Shifting her gently to the mattress, he captured her chin with one broad hand and caught her gaze. “You are certain?” he breathed.
She forced herself to hold his gaze though a dozen tantalizing parts of him called for exploration. “If you’d hurt me, I would not wish to do it again,” she breathed.
He blinked. “Are you saying…” He paused, uncertain, possibly holding his breath. “What is it you’re saying?”
“Perhaps I owe Connelly my thanks,” she whispered. Against her breasts, his chest felt as hard as sun-warmed marble.
He scowled, and for a moment she thought he would protest, but finally he spoke. “You wish to do it again?”
“Don’t you?”
“I do, lass, yet I do not think I can immediately—” he began, but she let her hand trail downward, easing along hardened muscles, heavy bone, reawakening desire. “My mistake,” he rumbled, and kissed her.
Chapter 26
Five times. Not that he was counting. But for such a delicate lass she seemed extremely…energetic. They lay now in the aftermath, his arm curled about her body, his torso pressed tight to the smooth length of her narrow back. Between the taut curve of her buttocks, his manhood remained semierect as if it saw no reason to retract at this late date. His legs cradled hers. She was a marvel to him, every nook and cranny, every thought, every sigh. A small, perfect, kindly angel sent for him alone.
“You are well, lass?” he asked, and felt the rumble of his words seep into her back. She turned her head slowly, sleepily. Summer gold hair spilled across his arm, bright as an angel wing against the sun-stained skin.
“I do not think well is quite the word,” she said, and he tensed.
“Is something amiss? Did I press you too hard?” he asked, but she turned in his arms, her face seeming to shine with solemn beauty.
“Hush,” she said, and placed a single finger across his lips. “I am beyond well,” she said, and smiled shyly into his eyes. Her face was slightly flushed, and with this change of position, his arm fell across the snowy curve of her breast. He felt himself harden again, though his desire was no longer the ravenous beast that had consumed him earlier.
Taking her hand in his, he kissed her fingertips. Her lips parted slightly, passion-reddened and curving as her eyes darkened with renewed desire. And in that moment life was too good, too full, too hopeful to be true.
He pulled her hand to his chest, feeling his heart fill. “You are desire itself, lass. Beauty and grace and kindness all bound together like a Yuletide gift. Yet it may be best for me own health and well-being if you do not gaze at me like that just now.”
“Oh.” The thick fringe of her lashes flickered downward. Her face colored again, as pink as a spring sunrise. “I am sorry if I was too…” She paused, seeming unable to go on.
“Too what?”
“Demanding,” she said, and he laughed, for he could not help himself. His heart was too full, his soul too happy. But she pursed her lips, a silent reprimand for his humor.
“I do not think this be something that can be demanded, lass,” he murmured, and, leaning forward, gently kissed the corner of her mouth. Feelings flared through him like a
velvet spear to his heart. “’Tis freely given or is not give a’tall.”
Her gaze flickered away again, fleeting on the wings of a scowl. It was almost as becoming as her smile.
“Shaleena said not to expect more than three times unless…” She paused, cheeks autumn-apple red.
He raised his brows, curiosity nudging aside his contentment.
“…unless you get plenty of sleep,” she finished, and studied his amulet for an instant before turning her eyes away.
“Shaleena does not possess your magic, lass,” he murmured, and, touching his knuckles to her chin, raised her gaze to his own.
For a moment, her eyes looked almost frightened, but in an instant she calmed whatever misgivings she harbored, and her expression could only be called adoring. The sight of her thus made his heart twist.
“And you are like none other,” she breathed.
Her statement eased into his soul like a balm, and yet there was a niggle of something else. A hopeless prickle of foolish jealousy. “Not even your husband?” he asked.
“Not even he,” she said, but she could not hold his gaze as she spoke, and with that lack of eye contact, she looked so suddenly sad that his heart cracked quietly in his aching chest. Better far to take a rapier than to feel such emotional pain. But he kept his tone steady, kept his fists unclenched.
“So you miss him still,” he said.
Time ticked silently away. She tugged her fingers from his hand and placed them ever so gently on the amulet that lay against his nipple.
He closed his eyes against the pleasant torture.
“I would share a truth with you,” she whispered, and raised her eyes to his.
He braced himself, for he knew these perfect, pristine moments were too fine to last, and so he steeled himself against the upcoming pain. “There is another,” he guessed, though it was nearly impossible to force the words from his lips. But she did not collapse into tearful agreement. Did not admit that he was right. Instead, she scowled, brows lowering over ethereal eyes.
“What?”
A flicker of hope lit his soul, but he damped it, put it out, scattered the tinder. “’Tis clear you still feel deeply for your husband.” He tried to look away, to fake nonchalance, but there was no hope. She was all-consuming. “That you miss him.”
Her lips parted again.
His muscles ached with sudden tension. “A lass such as yourself, so filled with fire, you would not have delayed…this…” He nodded vaguely toward the bed, toward the magic they had just shared. “Unless you felt some loyalty for another.” The truth struck him suddenly, as painful as a blade to the ribs. “He is yet alive,” he deduced.
She blinked.
“Your husband,” he said, voice roughening with emotion he could not quite resist. “He is yet alive, is he not?”
She shook her head, but he would know all now before he could no longer bear to hear the words.
“You can tell me the truth, lass.”
“I am,” she murmured, but he continued on his headlong course, certain beyond reason that he was right.
“Has he found trouble somewhere? Is that why you came to me?”
She shook her head, and he watched her, wanting to believe. But he could feel the untruth in the base of his soul.
“Tell me true, lass. I will help if ever I can.”
“I…” She exhaled softly as if overwhelmed, and he waited, tense with grinding anticipation.
“I but ask that you do not lie to me,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. There were tears in her eyes. Tears shining like dewdrops in her precious-jewel eyes, and though he was certain he was right, that she would betray him, he found he wanted nothing more than to see her smile. To set her world aright.
“Where is he, lass?” he asked. “Incarcerated? Hiding from an enemy?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Is he someone I know?”
“No.”
“What sort of help does he need? Brute force, I assume since that is—”
“I was never wed.” Her words came out in a rush.
He stopped. Stopped talked. Stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. Merely let his heart beat a steady tattoo against his ribs, as if to remind himself that he yet lived, that this was not a dream.
“What say you?” He said the words quietly, steadily, lest the world evaporate around him.
“You were correct. I lied.” Her words were no more than a whisper. “I have never known a husband.”
Relief was a shy blossom in his chest. He spoke slowly. “So this man you care about—”
“There is no man.”
Joy bloomed like a winter rose in his soul, but he kept it in the dark though he knew, was certain that if there was none other, he could mend whatever troubles plagued her. “You are not a widow?”
“No.”
“And you do not cherish another?”
“No.”
The relief was so poignant it actually hurt, but a new problem came to him. He scowled. “But there have been other men. Other lovers.”
She inhaled as if she were breathing in strength. She was gripping the amulet in her right hand. “No other lovers.” Her eyes flickered away.
He scowled. Was it a lie? “Then I should have been slower. More careful, more…”
“Any slower and I would have taken you down like a wolf on a lambkin.” Her cheeks were pink, her gaze still lowered.
He remained absolutely silent for a moment, considering. “So you do not resent my…impatience?”
“Is that what you call it?”
He could breathe properly again and reached out, needing to touch her, to feel her angel-soft skin against his own. “But why the lie, Faerie Faye? Why the fictitious husband?”
Her eyes fell closed for a moment. “I was once…” He could barely hear her and leaned closer so as to catch each pearlescent word that fell from her lips. “My past is not what it should have been. There were troubles.”
“Of what sort?”
“What I told you before of my parents…” She winced. “It was untrue. I, too, was left alone at an early age. But not…not entirely alone. There was a man…” She shook, trembled like a chilled goddess. Her face was pale suddenly, as white as death, and he pulled her into his arms, skin against skin, wrapping his strength around her. Still she spoke, spilling the words quietly onto his chest. Her breasts felt like warm magic between them. Her tears were hot against his skin. He closed his eyes against her pain and cupped the back of her silken head with his palm.
“What was this man to you, lass?” he breathed.
“He was a noble. Lord Tenning.” She swallowed. “He liked for me to call him Uncle Max.”
He waited, stroked her hair, and forced himself to breathe.
“But he was not my uncle. Not my kin. I was given to him,” she whispered.
He waited for more, dreading yet needing to know, but she did not speak for many seconds, and when she did, the words struck him like a blow.
“In actuality, he won me in a game of chance.”
Rogan gritted his teeth against the truth and tightened his grip, holding her as if he could shield her from the agony.
“He was not a good…” she began, then paused. Another tear fell, scalding him as it squeezed between them, heat on heat. “For years I believed he meant me no harm. Wanted to believe as much. But…” She ran out of words. He stroked her back. “He cared for me for a long while. Sheltered me. Clothed me. Educated me. What difference did it make that he did not allow me to venture from the house? That sometimes he touched me in a way that…” She swallowed. He felt the constriction of her throat against his skin. “Or watched me with a strange expression in his eyes. He knew I was…different. Had from the start. Said I was gifted. Special. Always wanted to know what I sensed of people. Wanted to know the truth.” She winced. “He warned me never to lie to him. Said there would be consequences if I disobeyed his wishes.” She hunched
her shoulders, seeming smaller, more fragile than ever as she continued in a whisper. “Perhaps he wouldn’t have harmed me.” It seemed almost that she no longer spoke, that he could but feel the force of her memories through the heat of her skin. “But he was so angry. I had never seen him thus. Not even when I tried to escape.” She laughed. The sound was breathy, eerie. “I knew he would be, of course. Knew he would…if I did not do his will.” She swallowed. He felt the contraction of her throat against his chest. Felt her body tighten and tremble before she tried to force herself to relax.
He held her close, as if they were one, his thigh between hers, their hearts in unison. “He forced you to…” He clenched his teeth, trying to remain calm, to understand. She had said there were no former lovers, and he longed to believe. But now he realized there were other options that were far worse. “To do his will?”
“Force…” She breathed the word, then stiffly shook her head. “There was no need for force. I was too much the coward to resist his simplest command. Nay…” Her lashes brushed his chest with dewdrops as her eyes dropped closed. “I would ruin lives at his whim.”
Silence slipped into the room, echoed there in uncertainty.
“You are joy itself, lass,” he said finally. “I am sure you could not harm—”
“Bartholomew Langley was a decent man.”
He tightened his jaw against her pain and ran his hand down the length of her hair, pulling her nearer still, as if he could take her agony if they were close enough. “Langley?”
“Decent. Wealthy. A doting father. A loving husband.” Another scalding tear slipped between them. “But he had a weakness.”
He didn’t press her.
“For men.”
Somewhere in his soul he knew what she was about to say, but he waited for the words.
“Tenning…learned of that weakness and…He was not above using secrets,” she whispered. “There are times I believe he was not above anything.”
“There is evil in the world,” he said.
She nodded brokenly, then drew a deep breath, filling her lungs, though when she next spoke, her words were no louder than a hopeless sigh. “At times I can see…” She paused, seeming to search for strength. “There are times I sense things. Inexplicable things.”
