Not at all homey or comfortable like her rooms in D'Licorice Residence. She considered. "This doesn't reflect what I know of the quality and attractiveness of Clover Fine Furnishings."
Before he could draw breath, she leaned against him. "And is completely uninteresting at the moment when compared to the very fine and attractive Clover man I have." She hesitated. "My husband."
He expelled a harsh breath, stared at her. Emotion flickered in his eyes -- a hint of fear? Surely not. When he spoke, his voice had roughened. He took her hands, gazed down at her.
Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labor, I in labor lie.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tir'd with standing though he never fight.
She shivered as the poetry in that powerful voice caressed her, then answered the innuendos with her own truth. "It has been a long day of . . . yearning for you."
A laugh and he swept her into his arms, pivoted and strode to the staircase, sprinted up them and down the hallway to a bedroom, again minimally furnished. One bedsponge big enough for the two of them. A new no-time food storage unit. Two spell globes in pale yellow circled the room, casting warm light.
Touching her shoulder tabs he said, "Wedding robe off!" The bespelled cloth dropped from her and she stepped from the pool of it, then it whisked away to hang in the open closet.
She didn't, quite, grit her teeth. Now she stood only in breastband over her very modest bust and wispy pantlettes.
Gently he curved his right hand over her left shoulder and she felt the hardness of calluses that he had developed. Heat flooded her.
Your gown going off, such beautious state reveals,
As when from flow'ry meads th'hills shadow steals
This time his voice trembled and giddiness surged. He liked the way she looked! He placed both palms over her breasts and her nipples puckered at the thought of those fingers stroking her bare breasts. Petting her lower where she was going wet.
He continued skipping and mixing lines and verses. That he should know the sexy poem in the first place, and should recall it now when her own mind fogged with desire, impressed her. Especially that he could improvise and match it with their loving. Then he knelt at her feet and she swayed, put her own hands on his shoulders to steady herself. He flinched, and though his head bowed, she thought she heard a low groan.
One large hand ringed her ankle, lifted her foot shod in special wedding slippers, white with crystals on the top, soft leather below, but good for dancing. She didn't want to dance. She wanted to have sex— to make love. Her whole body throbbed with need.
He slipped her shoe off, drew his fingers along her sole and her foot curled and her fingers dug into his thick shoulder muscles. He didn't seem to notice. Because he was looking straight at her thin, lacy pantlettes. His nostrils widened. Could he smell her arousal?
Embarrassed heat washed through her, flushing her skin from forehead down her torso. He rumbled a hum of satisfaction, licked his lips, cleared his throat and said, as he reached for her other foot:
Now off with those shoes, and then softly tread
In this, love's hallow'd temple, this soft bed.
He stripped that shoe, tossed it aside, rose, and set his hands on her waist, lifted her again until he stood, holding her off her feet. His eyes appeared wild. "Trying," he gritted out. "Trying to be romantic, to slow down so I don't take you hard and fast . . . 'soft bed.'" He looked at the bedsponge and his arms flexed as if he'd throw her on that soft mattress. "Wait, gotta kiss you."
Not in the poem, but she liked the notion. He brought her close and she wrapped her legs around him, angled her hips so her throbbing point of need could be against his hard body. They both shuddered, then his mouth met hers and she felt the plush of his lips against her own passion swollen ones.
Mouth to mouth, then their lips opened and they were breath to breath, and tongue to tongue. The flavor of him exploded through her, just right. Perfect. She stopped rubbing her tongue against his, dueling with him so intimately, to suck in his lower lip and nibble.
Another groan ripped from him, she felt the vibration of it in her mouth. She moved against him, teasing her breasts and her sex to heightened sensuality those points of her own. Her bare arms brushed against his slightly perspiring chest and shoulders.
"No!" he snapped. "I will do this right." He pulled her limbs away from him, placed her on her feet. Her mind spun and her knees wobbled.
She couldn't focus until his ruddy face, wide eyes, entered her vision. His mouth lifted at the corner and eyes narrowed. "Now for the very best of that damn poem." He took her wrists, pushed them behind her and manacled them in one strong hand. That steadied her balance but she found herself arching toward him.
A smile edged his lips. Gently, he squeezed her left nipple with the fingers of his other hand. Whimpers of need escaped her lips . . . His hand moved to the tip of her other breast, plucked it, and she felt her cheeks heat with the delight of lust flowing through her body.
The hand that held her wrists touched the curve of her derriere. He cleared his throat, and when phrases came again they sounded raw and ragged:
License my roving hands, and let them go,
Behind, before, above, between, below.
And he touched her like that, little strokes that caused tension to spiral up, tighten inside her. With "behind," his free hand curved over her bottom, barely traced the cleft.
"Before." He grazed his hand over her breasts until her nipples poked heavily against the fabric of her breastband.
"Above." The pad of his thumb swept along her mouth, her darting tongue quick enough to lick it and she tasted salt.
"Between." Yes, his voice deepened on that word, and his fingers slid under the waistband of her pantlettes and down to the very top of her sex, stopped with no more than a fingertip parting her. Yes, between. He must have felt her dampness.
"Below." A hoarse whisper. His face had flushed. His features seemed more blunt. More masculine. More of a man, a lover, ready to take his woman and she ached to be taken. His large finger glided downward, feathering the nub of sensation and she trembled, then he continued onward to the opening of her body. Yes.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
He withdrew from her, his hands from her body, took a pace back. Stared at her as she trembled before him and the poem rushed from him and she could barely hear the cadence of it, understand the lines:
O my . . . new-found-land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man man'd,
My mine of precious stones: my emperie,
How blest am I in this discovering thee!
His tone changed slightly as he said, "How blessed I am in discovering you today." He touched one of the remaining ribbons that had bound them together, a licorice red, that was wrapped around his wrist gave her the next line:
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
She nodded. When he remained too far away from her, out of reach, she touched the green ribbon on her left wrist, one prettily engraved in gold with a large Celtic knot in the shape of a four leaf Clover. And she repeated that line back to him: "To enter in these bonds, is to be free." Certainly her heart soared, and her spirit expanded. She felt freer than ever before. With him.
He grinned, his expression so full of happiness, and at wedding her that her chest constricted in awe. One long pace forward and his smile changed to pure masculine intensity. A brawny arm settled like a bar behind her back and once more his hand went under her pantlettes, this time between her thighs until the length and width of it covered her sex.
"'Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be," he murmured.
Full passion pounded within her and she closed her eyes. Her entire body had become one sensitive organ. She hungered for him to thrust inside her, seal them together. A long minute passed with her enjoying the embrace before she realized he waited for something from her. So she said aloud the only
words that floated to her mind. "Yes, husband. Yes, Barton. Yes, let's make love."
"I will do this right." It sounded like a vow. She noticed sweat at his temples.
"You are doing this right. Everything you've done today has been right," she whispered.
He closed his eyes, and his face tightened. Slowly he removed his hand from between her legs and she made a lost sound as he withdrew.
“’Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee, As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth'd must be,
To taste whole joyes.
To teach thee I am naked first,’" he panted.
Then he dipped his head. "To show you I am as vulnerable as you, my dearest Enata." A Word had his clothes falling from him and he stood, nude. Clothes hid the true beauty of the man, his contoured muscles, well outlined with the sheen of perspiration.
Of course her stare went to his erection. Magnificent. Her breath came so fast her mind went dizzy, then she tensed her jaw. He had given her exquisite foreplay. She could only do the same. With a wave of fingers she sent her bespelled breastband and pantlettes to the cleanser, then lifted her arms to wrap them around his neck. His pupils widened as her flushed and plumped breasts lifted, her nipples tight. She shivered as she stepped closer, his erection pressing into her abdomen, hot, thick, ready.
Her own sex pulsed, ready for him. She leaned close and kissed his chin, licked the faint stubble of his beard, marshaled the last line of the poem so she could modify it, say it, then let her body rule. "Why, then . . ." She stopped, her voice must be stronger, full of the passion and the desire and the knowledge that this man was her man and she claimed him as he claimed her:
"’Why, then,
What needest I to have more covering than a man?’"
He groaned. This time he did pick her up and toss her onto the bedsponge and followed her down. His body came over hers, she opened her legs wide, wide so he found his place between them and thrust heavily into her, the feel of him filling her, fulfilling her, freeing her.
Chapter 8
Barton felt Enata clench around him in her orgasm. He gritted his teeth and tried to hold back his own completion, skate on the edge of fabulous pleasure and exquisite need. She gasped, angled her hips, grabbed him around the shoulders, and he was lost.
He'd been semi-erect the whole damn day and he couldn't practice one more instant of patience. He let fierce need blast away his control. He thrust into her once, twice, and climaxed.
Just before he collapsed on his slender new wife, he rolled them to their sides . . . on a too damn small bedsponge. He needed a bigger bed. No, they needed a bigger bed, bedroom, house.
A small sigh escaped her, and he studied her, her fine-boned face, the pale, near translucent skin so delicate he could see pale blue veins in her temple. She seemed to consider her body as a housing for her mind.
His body was his best tool, cared for and honed as a matter of security . . . and, yes, pride.
Her eyes had closed and he sensed her drifting to sleep as the busyness of her mind faded into occasional thoughts. She, too, must have been tried by the unexpected events of the day. He frowned, lifted a finger to trace her high cheekbone. She appeared strung too tightly, was too thin, and her mind held a heaviness of coping with recent trauma. What?
He knew too little about her and her of him, but instinctively he drew her into his arms, against him so he could protect her.
She snuggled and gave that last exhale before sleep.
His whole body loosened, and not just because of the most incredible sex he'd ever had.
He'd done it! He'd claimed his woman right.
When he'd been left alone with her, with no extraordinary events carrying them along, he'd realized that he must cement their bond. It had started as a tendril spinning between them due to potions and initial attraction. He had to make it solid and real.
Enata's father's earlier derisive comments, barely noticed at the time, had worked on Barton. The Clovers, though a rising Family, were recently ennobled. Only Walker, Barton's half-brother resulting from a fling with a highly Flaired noblewoman, had enough psi power to raise them up, though the younger generations would be more powerful. Especially those of the Clovers who married into other Families with potent Flair. Like Walker. Like their cuz Trif.
Like Barton himself. During the long preparations of that day, he'd been informed that the Licorice Family, and, more importantly, the PublicLibrary the Licorices tended, had been founded within the first half-decade of the colonists’ landing. Over four hundred and fifteen years before.
Barton couldn't match his new lady in Flair. He didn't even have enough power to teleport. She was at the top of her profession.
As he was with his own, but that was due to physical skill and dedicated training.
Yeah, he'd felt that strand stretching between them had been too fragile, since they came from two very different worlds. And he'd wanted her from the moment he'd seen her. Did love her from that instant, knew in his gut and the marrow of his bones that she was the right woman for him.
He'd seen her eyes widen, felt pleasure spurt through that tiny bond when he'd quoted poetry, so he damn well kept it up. Would keep it up. A few lines had worked on women before, but the effect on Enata — her heart and spirit opening to him — had been significant. At least in that particular he knew what she liked and he'd make sure he'd give it to her, along with loving.
She needed love, to be surrounded by love. Pretty obvious her Family prized the cool and logical and didn't go in for displays of affection. His Family would help with that. As sleep tempted, he fumbled for his mind link with Walker, shot his brother a thought, My wife needs loving Family.
We got that, Walker replied. My HeartM—, my wife knows Enata. We'll be hands on with Enata.
Good, Walker sent back sleepily, smiled. Yeah, his Family was good. Walker had stopped from saying "HeartMate," since Barton had no HeartMate.
He gathered his wonderful, beautiful, amazing wife closer still. And her hand dropped to his sex.
She knew what he liked, and he was sure she'd give it to him.
* * *
A septhour before dawn they woke, starving. They'd made love several times in the night, more than Enata had ever done, advantages to having a very physical man, though she understood it would be necessary for her to become more physical herself. She definitely needed more stamina and, judging by the way he'd tossed her around earlier, some more mass, too. And muscles.
She'd never have the muscles he did, but she should be able to hold her own more than she had, though she could, of course, counter his muscles with the strength of her Flair.
Their last bout had taken place in the waterfall, one smaller than she thought this master suite should have. She grinned and put a sashay into her short walk to the no-time, hoping Barton couldn't hear her stomach grumbling.
He groaned and she heard the flop of him as he fell from sitting to the bedsponge. "Don't tempt me, woman! I need food before we celebrate our marriage again!"
Stopping at the low no-time, she glanced over her shoulder, found him staring avidly at her and appearing more interested in another round of sex than his words indicated. "Is it a celebration, this marriage?" She sounded more doubtful than she wanted.
"Absolutely, yes," he answered immediately. He sat back up with impressive ease.
"Good," she said, examining the contents of the no-time for food easy to eat naked, nothing too hot, cold or needing a lot of utensils. She settled on a large fruit and cheese platter and bent down to take out the plate.
Barton moaned again. "Foood . . .maybe. Maybe sex—"
"Food," she stated, throwing a cover over him and sitting next to him, ready to share a meal. Neither of them had touched the large wedding banquet. They’d danced instead. "What sounds best, fruit or cheese?"
"Fruit," he said. She popped a dark grape into his mouth.
"The selection of cheeses is wonderful!" she said. Before she spoke the last
word, he plunked a cube of nutty-flavored cheese in her mouth. She swiped his finger with her tongue, pleased when he shuddered.
"I'm glad," she said, actually speaking before she thought, just letting a feeling out.
"About what?" he mumbled around a slice of fruit. He swallowed. "Specifically."
She found herself grinning. "Right now that we're eating a meal together."
He grunted. "Another good activity for couples." He put his hand under her chin and nudged her to kiss him. "I have sweetness on my mouth and want a taste of my tart lady."
Leaning toward him she slid the tip of her tongue between his lips. "And I want to taste my sweet, sweet man."
He scowled at her, but she trailed her tongue across his mouth and the juice from fruit mixed with the savory of the cheeses she'd sampled, exploding in flavor. With a gasp, she pulled back, realized she'd closed her eyes and couldn't see his face, and raised her lashes. She caught a look of tenderness that made her ache with happiness. Refusing to censor herself, she said, "With you I experience the true richness of every sensation."
He jerked back, took her hands in his own, ignoring her sticky fingers. "I am glad." He opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it and looked out the window, a lighter gray rectangle against the wall, then back at her. "It's been a magical day and night. I don't want it to end." A slow smile curved his lips. "They'll let us stay here, in my house — our house — in our bed all day." He jiggled his eyebrows in question.
Oh, yes, she wished for more sensational moments. Giddy irresponsibility flowed through her, along with the equally devil-may-care feeling shooting along their bond from Barton, accompanied by a look that touched her heart.
"Lets!" she agreed.
"All right, we'll continue this celebration. Is there any chilled fizz-wine in there?" He nodded to the no-time.
Lost Heart: A Celta Novella (Celta HeartMate Series) Page 6
