Knight After Night (8 page)

“It’s a picture. Like those paintings of your ancestors.”

“They paint…men? Naked men?”

She snorted. He flinched at how wondrous the surge of reaction felt as it raced through him, lifting every hair on his body in a whisper of anticipation. He wanted to warn her not to react so again. He didn’t think he could control the response, and he was certain he didn’t want to.

“No. They showed pictures. And had…drawings. Why am I embarrassed over sex education in school? Don’t they teach you Scots anything?”

“I doona’ ken the term use. What is this sex education?” he asked.

“Oh. Good thing I’ve studied Medieval Lit, with as little as you comprehend modern language. It’s a course in…uh…copulating. And why am I embarrassed?”

“What kind of world is this anymore?” Thoran pulled his head back.

“It’s been a part of the curriculum for years, Thoran. Maybe if you got out of your castle and lived a little, you’d know it.”

“Why would anyone need education in such a thing?”

“Because Women’s Lib happened. That’s why.”

Thoran puzzled all of that. Let it go. Words weren’t getting him what he wanted. What his body was allowing him to have. After all these years! The elation threatened to drop him for a moment, and his knees trembled with it before he got in under control. Then he was pushing a little harder on her hand, testing the give in her elbow as she tried to support his weight.

“Oh please, lass. Please? I want you. And ‘tis a vicious want.”

“That much is obvious.”

She glanced down for the briefest moment before looking back at him. And then she blushed. Severely.

“Please?”

“I have to think.”

“What can I do? I beg you…!”

“Just let me think!”

“Of what? I’ll be gentle.” That was a lie. He didn’t think he’d be able to control it much longer. Gentle was the least of his troubles. “Please?”

“Thoran, I’m not certain--.”

“What can I say?”

“Don’t say anything, ok? Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything. Just…wait!”

In reply, Thoran stepped back from her, bent his head low and sent out a groan of denied pleasure and aching frustration and male need that vibrated through the air, throbbing for so long and loud and eerily, it was probably heard out on the moors surrounding his estate. And then he curled his hands into fists and started pacing; circling her and picking his heart rate from the one pounding through her veins. Breathing harsh and quick. Just as she was. And focusing, without turning his head from her. Silvering his eyes to send possession. Power. Feeling it radiate out from him to encircle and surround her. Force her. Encase her.

“All right. All right! Talk about male machismo. Just because I asked you for a bit of time. Time, Thoran! You don’t have to wake the dead just because you think I’m denying you.”

She wasn’t affected by his power? Thoran slowed his steps and blinked at the proof in front of his eyes as she sputtered at him, looking like an angered cat as she lectured him; berated and argued with him. And then he noticed her fingers, taking each button of her cardigan out of their holes. She was undressing, sliding the buttons free, still mouthing words at him that buzzed past his ears with the effect of butterfly wings. She pulled the cardigan off, hung it neatly atop a chair, then put both hands on her shirt hem. To lift it? Thoran licked his lips as she pulled it free of her jeans.

She turned her back on him, denying him the view as she yanked the top over her head, bringing her hair out with the move. Thoran’s knees sagged minutely before he caught it and forced his legs to continue holding him upright.

“Acting like every woman is supposed to just up and welcome you, without one little bit of foreplay. I may not know much, Thoran, your bloody Grace MacKettryck. But I do know a woman needs a little caressing. Touching. Loving. Sweet words. I don’t know what I was thinking….”

He was behind her, pulling her back into him; lifting with one arm at the back of her head to swivel her, grazing his lips against hers, opening skin with his teeth, giving and receiving blood with the contact…and then he yanked back with a cry of pure agony as fire branded his lower belly. Right near where he’d just begun to feel alive again.

Thoran shoved back from her in a bend of limbs, absorbing pain and working to diffuse it into as many paths as possible from the spot of contact. Using techniques gleaned from his far-away past to absorb trauma. Tolerate agony. Endure torment. He focused on sending the pain to as many parts of him as he claimed; the tips of his fingers and bottoms of his feet. Focusing until it got bearable. Until the brand of a Celtic cross on his groin went to a throb of hurt he could ignore. He watched as it healed and then disappeared. That’s when he turned completely vacant and mirrored eyes to his injurer. His Jolie.

His mate.

o0o

“Oh, Thoran. I’m sorry. I know I should’ve worn my warm-up suit, but I wanted to look semi-civilized. And these jeans are like an old friend. I forget how the zipper sticks. I never would have worn them if I’d known they’d catch your….uh… Well. It never occurred to me that I’d actually
be
here…like…doing this. And um. It’s just been a really long day, ok? I didn’t get a thing done with my research because words were leaping off the page at me. I swear I could see the fibers on the pages. It was surreal. You know what I mean? And then there’s my hearing. Do you know how hard it is to concentrate when you can hear everything? Everywhere. From all around me. I was about ready to book an appointment with a counselor when the Dean’s office summoned me. Then I had to put up with the crap that old guy was shoveling at me. I never would have done anything to hurt you. It would be like vandalizing a Michelangelo. Or—or a Leonardo. You’re like a work of art. I swear. You’re way more than I can handle. I would never hurt you. I swear. Damn this zipper!”

Jolie kept talking to the wounded god just outside the firelight. And he just kept watching her. With unblinking reflective eyes that didn’t give her anything.

“I know it was stupid, but those guys had me actually thinking you were—! Stupid. It was more than stupid, and I should’ve known better. But he was kind-a believable when he wasn’t spouting nonsense. I knew the truth when I saw you again. Out in the sunlight. That Lord General Beethan fellow should be charged with slander and unlawful prosecution. And coercion. And…oh, I don’t know. Someone should toss the book at him. Except he’d probably keel over before he ever went to trial. There!”

The zipper finally broke free. Jolie slid the pants to her ankles, revealing the black lace thong she’d worn as a sexual revolt against repression, and because she’d secretly been hoping to run across Thoran again. And maybe she’d wanted to entice him just a little. If she got to be exactly where she now was. Except he’d have her in his arms and not be glaring at her because she’d caught his flesh in her zipper.

“I swear to you I didn’t mean it, Thoran. Really. I’m sorry. I know it probably hurts like the devil, but I can’t undo it. I can kiss it and make it better if you want.”

Nothing. Not a word from him, although he did blink. Once. Jolie took a huge sigh and looked down at where the Celtic cross was scraping her belly button piercing.

“If you’re going to be all wounded pride, then you might as well just say so. I’ll pick up my clothes, get dressed and go back to my tiny little bed in my tiny little dorm room. All you have to do is say the word. Or order it. Or at least say something! I mean, I’ve never been in this position. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or say. I didn’t mean to hurt you and if you’re going to carry a big grudge about it, then maybe you deserve to be called a baby.”

“Take it off.”

His voice was gruff and low, sending messages to her entire body that she instinctively heard. Thrilled to. Vibrated over.

“You’re…not angry?”

“Now. Take it off. I canna’ approach unless you take it off.”

“I can see why you don’t have many dates, Thoran. You’re a tad over-macho. You want me naked, too? Fine. I’m just glad I’m near the fire, since I feel like an exhibition.”

Jolie slid the panties to her ankles and stepped out of them. She turned sideways to him, subconsciously soaking up fire glow and warmth, since nothing about Thoran’s side of the room was anything but unwelcome and cold.

“I said…take it off.”

“Look, Your Grace. I’ve taken everything—.” Jolie looked down at the cross thing those old guys had given her before pulling it over her head. She held it over the pile of discarded clothes on the floor before dropping it on them.

The next moment she was in Thoran’s arms, stumbling with the force of his arrival as he caught her to him. And then she was lifted against his chest, wrapped in his arms, straddling his belly in a cling of provocation. Then she was whirling, rising into a column of desire and yearning and lust that had Thoran mandating it. With lips against hers, his heartbeat thudding loud in her ears, beating exactly with hers. His breath came as quick and harsh as her own, while his lips devoured her. Exactly as she was him.

Jolie pricked her tongue on a tooth, felt the instant pain and then the tremor that scored the massive male wrapped all about her. A groan pulsed through her hearing, sent without sound, while the arms and legs imprisoning her trembled. Then he moved his mouth to her ear, sucked along the edge, putting shivers into existence that flowed all over her in rivulets of excitement.

“I need you, Jolie lass.” The whisper was low. Rasped. Pleading.

“You got me,” she replied.

“I need all of you.”

Her heart heard that one and went to a swoop of thudding blows emanating from the pit of her belly. Or somewhere akin to that. They were at the bed, cocooned within a canopy aglow with firelight, sculpting the god in her arms into a mass of masculine perfection and beauty filmed with a sheen that shadowed and defined every nuance. Every muscle. Every bit of sinew and striation. Thoran stretched his full frame atop her, sliding his shaft along her belly before spearing it between her legs. Again and again. Over and over. Taunting and toying and orchestrating realms of wanton, visceral, heated, anticipatory pleasure. Each time dipping her further and further into sheets of linen and lace, until she was fully beneath him, weighed down with brawn, while every nerve in her body screamed for more.

“Yes,” Jolie whispered into his ear, nipping minutely at the lobe.

Thoran went into a bow of frame, silhouetted in the flickering light and poised while his mouth sucked pure fire all along her neck.

“I need your fluid.”

“Yes!” She said again, arching up to fit against him, and raking her hands along his sides where she could reach. “Yes!”

“I need permission… Fully….”

Nothing on her said no, and her mouth was saying yes, and yet still he asked? Then it hit her. He didn’t have a condom.

“Grant me your fluid, lass. Accept mine.”

She should have thought of it. But how could she do that? She didn’t have one. There wasn’t any way she’d ask a pharmacist in this country for condoms. She was embarrassed enough just at the thought.

“Say it!”

It sounded like an order, but it had a sobbed sound at the end of it. Jolie gasped at the solid feel of pressure and size and bulk and heat, right where he was still begging permission.

“Thoran--”

“I beg you! Please, lass! Say it!”

The words were guttural and full of anguish. Jolie slit her eyes to watch the trembling mass of man hovering atop her, already poised to fill her. Begging. Thrumming in place with a vibration that moved from him right into her open and eager flesh.

“Please, Jolie! I beg you! Please!” Each word came with a semi-shove and retraction, while wetness tracked along her neck where he alternately sucked, licked, and then tormented with the air of his words.

“Yes, Thoran! For the love of—”

Full agony raced from her core to match that at her neck, crashing together near her heart at the same instant, holding that vacillating muscle in a grip of iron. Each beat was fast, and harsh, and loud, filling her existence with a pounding that matched the rhythm of his body; shoving into hers. Pulling back out. Gleaning pain and spreading fire. Again. And again. And then he was lifting his mouth from the torment of her throat, and whispering all kinds of Gaelic words, ending and beginning with ‘
A Chroi
’.

My love…

Thoran shifted up, jarring torn flesh in the process. All the while dominating and controlling a pace that matched her heart rate. Shoving in. Pulling out. Again. And again. Until something actually muted the pain. A bare hint of sensation threaded through the hurt, catching at her. He shoved himself up onto an arm, balancing and moving, in order to rake a hand across his upper chest, opening four cuts in his pecs that immediately welled blood, dripping onto her chin, her throat.

“Drink…”

She was going to gag. That’s what she was going to do. And then words came again, filtering through her consciousness, spilling over onto the pain and reverberating through her mind. Her senses.

“Drink my love.
A Chroi
… My only love….”

Jolie opened her mouth and at the first taste wanted more. Craved more. It was vicious immediate and intense. It was ambrosia to her senses and nirvana to her quest. Jolie came clear off the mattress in order to latch onto his flesh and suck more and harder. Need consumed her. Whirling vistas of wonder opened right in front of her tightly clenched-shut eyes. Caverns of the blackest black. Summits of the brightest hues. Clouds of fairy-land pinks and yellows. Oceans of waves; wet and wild and savage. Altering her existence and changing any hint of pain into complete and absolute ecstasy. Bliss.