Inked Destiny (10 page)

He released his cock in favor of stripping her out of jeans and panties. She splayed her thighs and he was riveted by the sight of her flushed cunt and erect clit. He caught himself leaning down, drawn by the scent of aroused woman, by the craving to taste, to stab his tongue into the hot wet place his fingers had been, an interim fuck before his cock filled and stretched her.

A feminine hand arrived, interrupting one view and giving him another. An artist’s fingers stroking, parting, pleasuring.

“Borderline cheating, Etaín.” He nearly panted. Jesus. What she did to him. But he didn’t tell her to stop touching herself, didn’t protest when her hips began jerking upward, the movements quickening with impending orgasm.

He waited until her sharp cry marked it, and then he lowered his face, unable to deny himself. Inhaling, lips pressed to flushed folds, sucking, tongue lapping, penetrating, consuming.

His hand returned to his cock, not to stroke but to clamp down on it in a vise-grip of restraint. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to her, the promise of good behavior forgotten.

He brought her with his mouth, her second cry and the flood of hot arousal against his tongue very nearly causing him to come.

Once again he straightened, his voice husky when he said, “Definitely cheating.”

“Maybe just a little. Cabana boys probably expect it. But I wouldn’t want you to feel put out.”

She slid from the bed and onto her knees with feline grace, her palms settling on his thighs, her glance sloe-eyed and sultry. “You still want me to be good?”

He guided his cock to her mouth. “Oh yeah, Etaín, I want you to be good.”

Ecstasy. There was no other word to describe it. Tongue and lips working in concert. She took him shallow and deep. Shallow and deep. Swallowing on him, her hands on his thighs preventing him from taking control.

White noise filled his head. White heat filled his cock and he thought he might have begged but couldn’t care as his world shrank to the searing pleasure of release.

They made it onto the bed, probably because they were right next to it. He gathered her close, felt her smile against his neck. “I think I’ll keep you in my employ,” she teased. “Maybe even buy some massage oil for you to work with.”

“Mmmm, maybe I’ll buy you a French maid’s costume.”

She laughed, the tightening of her arms an unconscious shift to things serious. “How’d it go with the captain?”

“About how you’d expect. Your father said if I really loved you I’d get out of your life and stay out.”

“And you told him that wasn’t going to happen.”

His cock began to harden as though to emphasize the existence of the supernatural. He was more comfortable on some level with
subtext, especially when it came to the risky. She dodged the question he was really asking, or didn’t recognize it.

He hated the neediness that came out of nowhere. No. Not nowhere, but from seeing her on the hospital floor, dead because she was an Elf changeling who’d used her gift. From insecurity at what it might mean to be a human in the world Eamon had revealed to them.

“In fewer words, but yeah, that’s what I told him. Etaín—”

“Yes,” she whispered against his lips, the soft quality of it bathing him in liquid sunshine. “You’re wondering if this is love. It is for me.”

“Me too.”

She laughed. Parted lips and the tease of her tongue allowed him to escape actually saying the words
I love you
, neither of them comfortable with them, by the promises they implied for the future.

He lost himself in kissing her, in the scent of her, conversational intentions sidetracked, his will further eroded by the scrape of her nails across his chest to zero in on his nipples.

He managed to leave her mouth but didn’t go far. “I swung by to see my father afterward, to tell him I meant to marry you.”

“How’d he take it?”

“He offered to get rid of Eamon as a wedding gift.”

“I’ll just assume you declined.”

“I was tempted, for a split second.”

“It wouldn’t go well for your dad. Does this mean Eamon is no longer a banned topic?”

His mouth slammed down on hers in answer, his tongue thrusting, rubbing against hers in sensual prelude as he rolled her onto her back, his thighs parting hers, his cock entering her, Etaín’s muffled laugh and eager willingness making his heart sing.

Eight

T
he dense fog was shades lighter than Eamon’s mood after a sleepless night. He’d lost control of the situation with Etaín,
again
, and it had nearly cost her life for the second time in a single day. Perhaps now she’d begin to shun involvement in the human world.

Eamon grimaced. He was not a man to engage in whimsy or to purposely delude himself. When Liam had called to report Etaín’s nearly dying at the hospital, it had taken everything in him not to rush to Cathal’s home and demand entry. He’d refrained, barely, and only because there was wisdom in Etaín’s so-called breathing room.

Today he intended no such restraint. He had no recourse other than to join Etaín in her folly, despite the risk to all of them if his presence caused her existence to be discovered by Elven spies or other supernaturals.

He’d given them a night together. A night to calm and consider the things he’d revealed though he harbored no illusions they’d return to his estate unless the situation were truly dire.

He closed his eyes against the pain that thought brought with it, stabbing him with the rejection implied by her actions. She was important, not just to him personally but to those he ruled.

The wet embrace of fog against his skin as the speedboat moved
through the dense gray of seeming nothingness soothed him. Courtship was not a seamless dance even among Elves.

He would see to this task and then he would go to Etaín. He’d erred, numerous times, but there had also been hours of enjoyment in each other’s company, unparalleled pleasure as well. He began hardening in anticipation of being with her, fantasy assuaging the ache in his chest caused by the emotional distance between Etaín and him.

The reprieve lasted until reality intruded with a deeply drawn breath, the scent of ocean and fish and diesel causing him to open his eyes. Seconds later voices sounded in the fog and the outline of a fishing vessel came into view.

In the driver’s seat Heath adjusted their course, the deep red of his aura a strike of bold color against the unrelenting grayness. “It’s a fifty-six-footer by the look of her. That’d make the captain Garret.”

Familiar tension filled Eamon. Of all his duties, this one, monitoring and passing judgment on those who were changeling, was the one that left him feeling powerless despite having immense power.

Fear for Etaín clawed its way into his heart again and he fought against curling his fingers into fists, though he would gladly use them to strike out physically at any danger that couldn’t be battled with knowledge or magic. Had she started hearing voices? Or would magic’s will simply manifest as it had when she’d lost control of her limbs, the eyes on her palms seeking Parker’s bare skin to feed on memories that would increase the appetite for them rather than sate it? Or would magic strike as it had done in that moment of weakness at orgasm, when she’d grabbed at his power without any awareness of it?

Thoughts of the damage she might do prior to his reaching her, and worse, the guilt she’d feel because of it, flooded his veins with ice, nearly paralyzing him with one of water’s deadly aspects. He
combatted it with fiery determination. He could do nothing until he saw to this responsibility, and then he would go to Etaín and remain with her.

He stood as Heath maneuvered the speedboat to the rear of the fishing vessel, easing alongside a ladder extending down to the water. When they were close enough, Myk, his fourth, standing guard in Liam’s place, climbed upward, his waist-length hair the same dark color of ancient trees.

Impatient to get to Etaín, Eamon followed, though he knew Myk would have preferred him to wait until he could verify there was no threat. The boat’s captain waited, offering a slight bow of his head when Eamon stepped onto the fishing vessel, murmuring, “Lord,” in greeting.

“The ocean is treating you well today, Garret?”

“I believe it will be a satisfied group that’ll step onto the dock when we get back.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Eamon scanned the deck. There were easily thirty men, women, and children onboard, no small number of them watching, curious about the arrival of visitors.

He needed no permission, but he asked anyway. “May I move about the vessel and speak to your guests and crew?”

Worry filtered into Garret’s expression. He glanced toward the opposite end of the boat, where his changeling son, Farrell, worked at a bait bar.

“Of course, Lord,” he said, knowing Eamon was there to judge how well Farrell was dealing with the magic.

Eamon didn’t go directly to the changeling. Those brief moments at yesterday’s fund-raising event notwithstanding, it was rare for him be out among humans who were ignorant of the supernatural world. While it was true that en masse he had no love for them, individually they weren’t objectionable. Over the course of his life he had even found some of them to be interesting.

Amusement rippled through him. Cathal might yet fall into that category.

Eamon paused at a family group with five children, the youngest little more than six. “Did you catch anything?”

The girl ducked her head shyly. Her older sister answered, “She caught a striped bass but it was too small so we threw it back. I caught a halibut that’s twenty-six inches long.”

Their three brothers chimed in, bragging about their catches and softening Eamon’s smile. It was hard not to react to the young. Among Elves, children weren’t easily conceived, making each of them a treasure.

He felt a tug in the vicinity of his heart as one of the boys excitedly began reeling in a fish. It would please him to have a son—or a daughter. A small copy of Etaín—or completely differing in looks, it wouldn’t matter.

He moved on, stopping next to an elderly couple. The woman was bundled up but shivering, the rod in her hand shaking.

“Can I have the captain get you a cup of tea or coffee?” he asked, placing his fingertips lightly on her shoulder and subtly tracing the sigils of a warming spell.

Her trembling stilled. She sighed in relief. “I’m fine, thank you. That’s the trouble with getting old, the cold creeps up on you more often and bites harder.”

Eamon looked at her age-lined face and suppressed a shiver of his own. Humans might breed easily, but their lives passed quickly and at the end they were often reduced to the helplessness of their first years.

He didn’t envy them, despite their control of this world.

He continued on, aware Farrell watched his approach though he pretended not to. The boy was twelve, small for his age but wiry, and like all changelings at the beginning of the process, the aura surrounding him was more humanlike than Elf. Thin color instead
of deep, rich tones, the predominant hues of blue and purple indicating a connection to water.

The bait bar was near a father with two boys who looked to be about fifteen or sixteen. Sullenness radiated from one boy, a surly demeanor that didn’t change with the tug on his line.

He drew his line in as Eamon neared. A small silver body coming over the railing as Eamon was footsteps away.

With no warning the boy shouted, “This trip is fucking lame!” and swung the fish, slamming it down on the deck with a force that sent scales and fish guts flying.

Debris landed on Eamon’s pant legs as magic pounded against his senses. A wild, raging mass of it possessing Farrell’s form as the changeling leapt from his position and attacked the boy.

Against a changeling’s strength and fury, the larger boy didn’t have a chance. Fists and kicks drove him backward, knocking over coolers and sending ice and fish along the deck so both boys went down.

A toss into the ocean and the sullen teen would drown before any of them could reach him. That was the power of magic, the danger of water.

Eamon entered the fray along with the human boy’s father, emerging a moment later with Farrell in his grip, though the changeling continued to thrash and kick, controlled by elemental magic until Eamon shielded him from the water’s voice with a spell.

Farrell sagged like a puppet with cut strings. He kept his head bowed, trembling, the contact transferring more scales and guts and water to Eamon’s clothing.

This was the hope Eamon believed Etaín might offer his people, that with her ink she could quiet the dangerous voice of magic, possibly even rechanneling it, making the relationship between it and the Elven in this world parallel to the one in Elfhome.

Garret arrived, fear on his face at how Eamon might judge his son.

“Lord,” Garret said in a voice that wouldn’t carry to the humans. “There was provocation and just cause.”

The human boy’s father said, “I apologize for my son. His behavior was inexcusable. Farrell can’t be blamed for reacting to it.”

“Not for reacting,” Eamon agreed, “but for his actions he will be held accountable.”