Charlotte Boyett-Compo- WIND VERSE- Pleasure's Foehn (14 page)

“I believe my mother has been at it again,” he told her.

“Doing what, milord?”

Cair sighed. “She dabbles in magick and I believe the old biddy has cast a spell on me.”

“What kind of spell?”

“One I don’t believe I will ever be able to break,” he replied. “Nor do I think I want to try.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the same spell she’s cast on me.”

“It could be. How do you feel about that?”

Davan considered the question for a moment then shrugged. “I’m not sure. I have this feeling that confuses me.”

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“I imagine it’s the same feeling I’m experiencing.”

Whether it was sweetness of the moment or the fact the two of them needed the other, they reached out to touch and to caress one another. His finger traced the hollow at the base of her throat—stroking with infinite care. Her palm soothed over his shoulder—squeezing gently now and again. His leg moved against her, their toes touched, arched, ran along the sides of each other’s feet—his bare flesh dueling with her sock-clad instep. Her lips briefly touched the top of his head, placing a light kiss on his hair. He shifted closer to her, easing his leg over hers. She ran her fingers along his jaw and smiled at the prickly fabric of his unshaven face.

“I would like you to shave me one day,” he said.

“Really?”

“I’ve always thought that was a sensuous thing.”

“You trust me with a razor?” she said, humor in her voice.

“I’ve seen you operate, Healer. I know your skill.”

She hummed her answer. “I have always wanted to have a man wash my hair.”

“Aye,” he said on a long breath. “That, too, I’ve always thought very sexual in nature.”

She wound a thick curl of his dark hair around her middle finger. It was like a weighty strand of silk and the feel of it was sumptuous against her skin.

“Foot massage,” he stated.

“Yours or mine?”

“Yours,” he replied. “Women’s feet are so delicate and so smooth.”

“Not all of them,” she said with a grunt. “Sometimes my heels—”

“I will take each toe and tenderly warm it,” he said, cutting her off. “I will run my fingers between them slowly then cup them in my palm and gently twist them in a small circle, flexing your foot with one hand while I massage your heel with the other.”

“Don’t forget the instep,” she said with a loud sigh.

“Never. I will take your foot between each of my hands and work my thumbs very slowly but firmly from ball to instep in little circles.”

“My toes are curling as you’re doing that,” she told him.

“Well, we wouldn’t want to neglect them, now would we?” he asked. “I’ll just slip them into my mouth and suckle them while I stroke your heel.”

“My calloused heel,” she warned.

“Wench,” he warned with a growl.

“Stroke away, warrior,” she said. “Stroke away.”

“Perhaps I’ll move up to your ankle and caress it.”

“That would work.”

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“I will drag the tips of my fingers up your shin and around the sweet softness at the back of your knee then slide them down to your ankle once more.”

“You are making me shiver, milord.”

“Then I should gently squeeze your calf to calm you.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Tiny, soft little squeezes from your ankle to your knee. Up and down your calf until the muscle is relaxed and pliant.”

“What am I doing while you’re doing all this?”

“Just lying there and accepting my gift to you,” he said in a low, husky voice. His foot ran up and down her calf, his toes bunching up the fabric of her uniform pants to reach bare skin. “Lying still as I worship you in my own special way.”

“I can do that,” she said with a sigh.

“And when I work my way to your knee—” he reached down to touch her there and even through the obstruction of fabric, his touch was hot, “—I will circle it slowly with the tips of my fingers, sliding them into the crook where the flesh is as soft as a baby’s.” When she said nothing, he lifted his head and looked up at her. “You still with me, wench?”

“Just lying here and accepting, milord,” she mumbled.

Cair laid his head back on her breast.

“Then with just the pads of my fingers I’ll stroke along your thigh from knee to the crease of your leg then trail the backs of my fingers down to the knee again.”

As he spoke, he demonstrated—his hand moving up and down her trouser-clad thigh with the most delicate of strokes.

“Is it getting warm in here?” she asked.

With the tip of his index finger, he traced a broad semicircle over her pubic mound—once, twice, three times.

“Aye,” she answered herself. “It’s getting damned warm in here.”

“I will move up to this sweet little indention,” he said and spiraled a line to her navel, and began to circle it lazily with his short fingernail, “and pay it homage for a while.”

“Not too long, I hope,” she said, squirming beneath his onslaught. Cair placed the flat of his hand on her belly and pressed lightly, silently commanding her to lie still. His fingers flexed on her flesh, gently kneading her flat abdomen.

“How many bratlings will we have, wench?” he asked as he massaged her belly. She felt her heart skip a beat. The question surprised her for children were not something she had ever considered since as far as she had known, marriage had been in her distant future. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip.

“How many do you want, milord?” she countered.

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“Two,” he stated. “A boy. A girl.”

“In that order?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Preferably.”

“So in your mind, your mother’s decree is a done deal?” she asked.

“I learned long ago not to balk that determined old biddy, though I’ve tried.”

“The Joining will take place, then?”

“Aye,” he said softly. “Our Joining will take place.”

“Even though you don’t want to marry?”

“Wench,” he said, “I have changed my mind.”

She smiled. “There’s a lot of that going around, Captain.”

He was quiet for a moment then his hand moved up a bit to slide beneath her tunic and touch bare flesh. Then he dipped his middle finger into the well of her navel. Softly he probed the deep indention. “This,” he said, “is what connects mother and child. It is a wondrous piece of flesh.”

Davan felt a shiver go through her. His words were soft, low and filled with wonder as he touched her there. The heat of his hand radiated through her abdomen, creating curls of desire. She was disappointed when he pulled his hand from beneath her tunic and streaked a slow finger up the center of her chest, between her breasts, to once more stroke the hollow of her throat.

His heavily muscled arm was crooked around her right breast, his elbow touching her rib cage, the firm weight of his forearm making her feel as though she already belonged to him. They were both clothed—she in her uniform and he in the sickbay pajamas in which the corpsmen had dressed him.

As though that knowledge had suddenly penetrated his thoughts, his fingers slid to the zipper of her tunic and began to lower it.

“What are you about, milord?” she whispered.

“Nine inches at last measure,” he replied and pressed against her hips, allowing her to feel the solidity to which he referred.

Davan pulled her head to one side so she could look down into his face. When he lifted his to meet her gaze, he was amused to see her eyebrow raised in what he hoped was appreciation and not disbelief. As he held her intent look, he pulled her zipper all the way down to the retainer box then slipped free the insertion pin so the two halves of the tunic lay open. With precise care, he folded the two sides back so he could view the lacy bra that held her breasts.

“And what are you about, wench?” he asked, lifting a brow in imitation.

“Thirty-eight inches at last measure,” she replied and reached out to draw his hand up to her breast, molding the strong fingers around the lace, idly running her palm along the back of his wrist.

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He squeezed her gently a few times then nodded. “Aye, I’d say that’s about right.”

Pushing up on his left elbow, he was hovering over her as he curled his fingers under the top edge of her bra and pulled it slowly downward.

Davan held his eyes as his fingernails lightly scraped over her nipple when he lowered the bra cup to expose her.

“It has a front closure, you know,” she said and watched him glance down at her bra.

“Well, so it does,” he drawled and his fingers trailed to the hook and eye tape and with expertise flicked it open.

Her lush breasts free of restriction, Davan exhaled softly. She was bared to his view and he was taking in the scenery with studied care.

“
Ta tu go halainn
,” he whispered in Amhantarean.

“What does that mean?”

“You are beautiful,” he told her.

When his hand slid over one full mound, a low groan pushed from her throat. “Like that, do you?” he asked as he gently massaged her heated flesh.

“It’s better than a sharp poke in the eye,” she agreed.

He actually laughed and for the first time since she had lay down beside him, she felt his body completely relax. The abiding grief had fled his gaze and there was fire in his golden eyes—smoldering heat blazing from beneath half-closed lids.

“I want you,” he stated and his thumb fanned across her nipple, hardening it to a throbbing nub.

“Do you now?” she countered and reached up to place the palm of her left hand along his lean jaw.

“With every fiber of my being, wench,” he responded.

She smiled. “Hard to do with your PJ bottoms on, though, don’t you think?”

He covered her hand with his then moved it down to his crotch.

“They have a front closure, you know,” he said in a husky voice. Davan’s fingers slid into the fly and when she encountered the heavy warmth of his flesh, stroked the side slowly.

“Nine inches, eh?” she inquired.

“Give or take,” he replied, drawing in his breath as she closed her fingers around him.

“Aye,” she said, running her tongue along her upper lip. “I’d say that’s about right.”

He was stone-hard in her hand, that huge cock throbbing beneath her fingers. His breathing was shallow, coming faster than it had and when he slid his arm under hers, thrust his hand down the top of her trousers, beneath the elastic waistband of her panties and cupped her sex, she could see flames leaping in his amber gaze. 82

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“Let’s see if it will fit this,” he said and slipped his middle finger into her warmth. Davan let go of his cock, pulling her hand out of the front of his pajamas to grasp the sheet on which she lay. She arched her hips up, needing the penetration of his finger and Cair obliged, probing as deeply as his hand would allow, his index finger joining the middle one as he pushed into her, slowly withdrew and then went in again. She grabbed his upper arm and pulled, wanting him over her, in her, all around her. Her fingers plucked at his shirt and he raised up long enough to yank the restrictive material from his broad back and over his head, tossing it away before holding out his hand to help her sit.

She took his hand and he flipped her tunic over her shoulders and dragged the sleeves down her arms when she held them behind her. The bra followed then he moved further down in the bed and took hold of her trousers. Davan lifted her hips, giving him all the help he needed to pull the uniform trousers off, grunting as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and peeled them away, taking her socks with them.

He looked up at her then, took one of her feet into his hand and began the ritual he had described to her earlier, beginning with each sensitive little toe and working his way up her leg.

Davan flopped back to the bed, her arms thrown to either side of her—a willing victim to his ministrations. Her flesh was tingling where his fingers touched, his lips traveled. The moistness of his tongue dragging over the flesh of her thigh sent her into spasms of pants as he neared the apex of her thighs and when that wicked, moist muscle touched her clit, she reared up, grabbed his arms and yanked him down atop her.

“I want you inside me, Ghrian!” she growled, fumbling between them to free his cock from the barrier of his pajamas.

Cair brushed her hands aside. “Your wish is my command, wench,” he said. He drove into her with a heat and power that took her breath away. She brought her legs up and hooked them around his hips, lashing them together at the ankles as he rode her hard, thrusting deep and pulling nearly out before slamming into her again. Her fingers were like claws digging into his sweaty back, gripping him to her as though she would never allow him his freedom.

Hot and slick, the muscles of her cunt sliding along his straining shaft, Cair drove his hands under her ass and lifted her to him, capturing her lowering body as he would take a regiment of enemies.

Their eyes were locked on one another, their lips parted, their breath in unison as she rose up to meet his thrusts and he pushed upward into her willing body with all the ferocity from which his reputation as a warrior had sprang. Mindless of anything save the relief they sought from one another’s bodies, they strained, they plunged, they slammed against heated flesh, and when they came, the 83

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release of their union was in perfect synchronization with the other, and mutual cries of achievement rang out in harmony.

Davan went still as her vagina rippled over his cock for the last time and he fell limp atop her—spent, his heart thundering in rhythm with hers. She sagged beneath him—as depleted as he in energy and more satiated than she had ever been. So complete was her satisfaction, so total the pleasure, she knew in her heart of hearts that this man was her fated mate, the possessor of her soul, the master of her being. For nearly an hour they lay entangled, the tip of his relaxed cock just inside the sweetness of her warmth. Their fingers were threaded around one another and his cheek was between her breasts. They might have slept but neither ever thought they did. They were both at peace and contented, completely at ease with one another, and beginning to realize what they had discovered had been destined long before they met.