BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn (27 page)

“Tell me you don’t want to be with me,” she said, “and I’ll do what Brian says. I’ll leave you alone.”

He was silent for so long, she pulled away and looked up at him.

“Aidan?” she questioned.

He shook his head. “I can’t tell you because I would be lying.”

Her heartbeat quickened. She threw caution to the wind. “Come home with me.

Stay with me tonight.”

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Cree stared into her eyes, as if searching for answers to questions he needed settled.

When she touched his cheek then stood on tiptoes to place a light kiss on his mouth, the growl from deep in his throat excited her.

“The hell with Brian and his warnings,” he snarled, taking her hand.

Ralph trotted behind the human and her Reaper as they hurried back to the condo.

He stopped only once to lift his leg against a bush before rushing to catch up with his master.

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Ralph trotted over to Brownie’s wicker dog bed, sniffed the corduroy cover then wedged his big body inside. He turned around and around until finally content he was positioned where he could see both the front door as well as the hallway down which his master and his master’s lady had hurried. He settled with a grunt of pleasure, dropped his head to the rim of the bed and snorted. His eyes shifted across the room, taking in every shadow the lights did not reach. His ears were pricked for any sound that was out of the ordinary and his nostrils twitched, taking in the scents that seemed normal to him. No bad odor permeated the room, so the chances of the Amazeen slut being nearby were slim. Snorting again, Ralph licked his chops and—satisfied all was as it should be—closed his eyes with another groan and went to sleep.

* * * * *

Bronwyn led Cree into her bedroom, his hand clutched in hers. She turned on the bedside lamp, casting the room in a warm, aureate glow.

Cree looked at the coverlet and matching pillows shams. “Sage green gingham and mauve roses. It suits you.”

“I’ve always loved gingham.”

“I remember,” he said, and could have bitten his tongue when she gave him a quizzical look. He covered his blunder. “Dorrie mentioned it.”

He hooked his finger under her chin and lifted her face so he could look into her eyes. “Don’t be afraid, little one.”

“I’m not,” she said, her lips quirking. “I’ve waited for this a lifetime.”

The Viraidan part of him winced, for that part desired her as much as the renegade who shared his body and was jealous of the one straining to break free and overshadow him. Keeping a tight rein on Sean Cullen was proving to be more difficult than he could have imagined.

Taking a deep breath, Cree lifted his hands and cupped Bronwyn’s cheeks. She covered his hands with hers and smiled. Lowering his head, he kissed her as gently as a feather floating on the wind—his mouth no more insistent than that ephemeral weight—then pulled back to search her eyes.

“Help me to go slowly, milady. It has been centuries since this warrior has lain with a woman. I could hurt you if we’re not careful.”

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Without speaking, Bronwyn moved against him and put her cheek on his chest. So loud and strong was his heartbeat, he was certain it drowned out all other sound in her ears as she slid her arms around his waist and held him.

Cree closed his eyes, willing the steel of his erection not to ruin the moment. His arms were tight around her back and hips, molding her to him. He hurt as he had not hurt in many years, and the tumescence that strained against his jeans was a force he had not reckoned with for a long time. Not even Ski’Ah’s intrusion into his shower had brought about such a need.

How long they stood there, he would never know. Time did not lessen his hardness nor, from what he sensed, decrease the desire building within her. When he could not bear the torment any longer, he moved back.

Driving his hand down his shirt, he palmed the medallion around his neck, pulled it over his head and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. He yanked the black T-shirt from his jeans, crossed his arms over his chest and peeled the garment from his body as though it was a second skin, tossing it to the foot of the bed. He was breathing so raggedly now, his chest heaved. When Bronwyn’s eyes lowered to his bare flesh, he groaned.

Bronwyn’s gaze lifted to his as she reached for the buttons of her blouse. He pushed her hands aside, tugged the silken fabric from the waistband of her skirt and made slow work of the buttons, taking great delight as each one came free of its buttonhole. When the last button was undone, he slipped his hands under the fabric at her shoulder and folded it away from her body, allowing the blouse to fall behind her.

The décolletage revealed in the deep V of her white lace bra mesmerized him. With trembling hands, he ran the backs of his fingers along the soft swell of her breasts. Then he turned his hands and gently, reverently, pressed his palms against the mounds.

Bronwyn drew in a breath, her knees threatening to buckle. It had been years since Sean had touched her—the only man to do so—and she had longed for this wondrous feeling for so long, believing she would never again know the excitement and passion that was flooding her lower body. Her lips parted so she could draw breath easier, unaware of what her soft panting was doing to the man standing before her.

She was on fire with a need that was building at a faster rate than she could control.

She longed for his muscular thighs to part her legs, to wedge his strong body against her. She ached to feel the weight of his body pressing her down to the bed, the hardness of his manhood seated deep within her, his hungry mouth devouring hers. She needed the thrust of him, the flow of his juices, the total possession of his ride as he took her with him to a place she had once shared with Sean so long ago.

“Please!” she whispered.

He smiled, then reached behind her to unbutton and unzip her skirt. The gray gabardine fell in a pool at her feet. He eased her back, picked up the garment and draped it on the footboard of her brass bed.

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“You’re going to drive me crazy,” she said.

Cree did not answer. He simply put his hands on her hips and—bending his knees as he went—began lowering her half-slip to her ankles, his palms sliding sensuously over the bare flesh of her legs. He wrapped his hot hands around her left ankle, lifted her foot, removed her shoe then moved over to her other foot. As he hunkered there, massaging her instep, he looked up at her, his gaze as hot as the depths of a molten fire.

She threaded her fingers through his thick black hair and drew his head to her. As he slid his hands up her back and pressed his cheek against her belly, she released a long, contented sigh, reveling in the warmth of his breath against the waistband of her silk panties.

“You smell like cinnamon,” she said.

“You smell like gardenias,” he replied, pressing a kiss on her navel.

When his tongue darted into the deep indention, a shudder went through Bronwyn’s body. “Much more of that and we won’t need the bed.”

“I realize that,” he replied huskily, climbing to his feet. His hands went to the front hook of her bra and parted it, giving neither of them a chance to say another word.

Bronwyn heard his long exhalation and watched as he stared avidly at her unbound bosom. She wanted nothing more than to have him lower his mouth to either of the turgid nipples that strained toward him and was only partly appeased as he covered each breast with his palms.

“Beautiful,” he said in a low, throaty tone as he plied her flesh, lifting, molding and lightly kneading the swollen mounds. “So soft. As soft as silk.”

She wanted to scream at him, to demand he touch her nipples, and even as her need manifested itself in her mind, she knew he had heard her silent wishes, for his thumbs moved over the sensitive nubs.

“Oh, God!” she moaned, her legs quivering. “I can’t take much more!”

One moment her panties were still riding low on her hips, the next they were torn scraps of pale blue against the sage green carpet. Cree swung her up into his brawny arms and placed her none too gently upon the bed.

Bronwyn lay shivering, staring at the man looming beside her. He snarled as he jerked open his belt buckle. He ground his teeth as he kicked off his sneakers and stripped off his socks. He panted as he snagged down his zipper and pushed the jeans from his slim hips in nearly one motion. She was surprised to find he wore no underwear.

But it was the sight of his unrestrained manhood that caught and held her undivided attention. Bronwyn looked up at him, almost unaware she was licking her upper lip. Her eyes widened, for an unholy light filled Cree’s face that would have frightened any woman.

“Help me to go slowly,” he grated, his hands clenched tightly into fists at his side.

“Else, so strong is my desire for you, I will hurt you.”

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She swallowed hard, opened her lips to answer but her mouth was so dry she could not speak. She swallowed again then moved over, patting the place beside her.

Cree was obviously struggling to refrain from throwing himself on her. It seemed to take every ounce of his control to put one knee on the mattress.

“L-lie down,” Bronwyn managed to say. “On your stomach.”

He looked at her quizzically, but did as she commanded. He was as tense and rigid as an oak branch, his legs slightly parted, his hands clutching the pillow.

“Relax,” she whispered, putting her hand on his back. She felt him shudder, and watched the muscles along his flanks bunch and hold. She repeated her whisper, gently stroking his shoulder blade. Gradually, she felt the tension dissolve under his flesh.

Without speaking, she straddled him, settling her body atop his firm buttocks.

“What are you doing?” he gasped, lifting his head to look at her.

“You’ve never had a massage?”

He shook his head.

“Well, you are about to get one,” she said firmly, and pushed his head back to the pillow.

Cree was on fire with a passion that was consuming him. It was painful to lie on his erection, but the pressure against the mattress eased the ache somewhat. He made himself lay there, holding his breath as she moved her hands to his tight shoulders and began kneading. The feel of her applications as she worked the muscles was a sensation he found immeasurably satisfying.

“You like that?” she asked as she plied the length of his left arm then his right, giving one time to relax before moving to the other.

“I like that,” he sighed deeply, closing his eyes and giving in to her manipulations.

Her hands moved down his back, pressed expertly into the area over his kidneys, shifted firmly along his sides and with enough pressure to make him groan with pleasure. As she rose up and moved down his legs, sitting gingerly on his calves, he made no protest, though his hands still clutched the pillow.

“Stop punishing the foam rubber, Aidan,” she said with a light laugh.

He released his grip on the pillow but clutched it again, wadding it beneath his cheek, for her hands were now on his buttocks and he had stopped breathing again.

When she remained paused, her hands not moving, he realized she was waiting for him to relax. It took some effort, but he let the muscles loosen and let out a shuddery breath.

She gave his firm cheeks a deep-tissue massage for quite a length of time, sighing at every grunt of pleasure forced from his throat. When she moved down to his upper thighs, he groaned in protest.

“Spread your legs,” she ordered.

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Cree lifted his head and looked around at her. “Are you going to do something I’m going to find not so pleasant?”

She slapped him lightly on the ass. “Do as you’re told and you’ll find out.”

He hesitated then shifted himself, tensing as tight as a coiled spring when she positioned herself between his opened legs. He forced himself to lie down again, though his eyes stayed open and wary as her hands moved to his thighs. Soon, he was relaxed again as her deep massage worked each taut thigh then slid down to repeat the process on his calves.

“You have beautifully proportioned legs,” she said as her fingers plied his flesh.

“I’ve never paid any attention to my legs.”

“And elegant feet.” She lifted his leg so she could massage his toes.

“Ah,” he sighed, then groaned in gratification.

“The feet are an erogenous zone on most people.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. I may start humping the mattress if you’re not careful.”

She laughed. “That I’d like to see.”

He sucked in a sharp breath as the bed dipped between his legs and her hands were once more on his backside. But it was not her hands that pressed into his flesh—it was her nails, dragging in lazy circles over his flesh, sending prickles of intense sensation down his legs and through his groin.

“By the gods, Bronwyn! You are torturing me, woman!”

“Lie still or I might stick my finger—”

“No!” he exploded, grabbing the brass bars of her headboard.

Bronwyn slapped him on the rump—not as lightly this time—and ordered him to turn over.

He reluctantly obeyed, wanting more of her hands on his ass, but realizing as he turned over and she shifted her position between his open legs, another part of his anatomy would be easily within her reach. That part of him leapt to the same conclusion.

“My, my, my,” she said. “Aren’t we happy to see Bronnie?”

Before he could answer, her warm hands wrapped around his turgid flesh and he once again gripped the headboard above him, his eyes squeezed shut to keep from unmanning himself in her hands. He began panting, feeling her touch to the very core of him.

“Look at me, Aidan,” she said softly, and in a tone of voice that brooked no argument.

His eyelids fluttered open. He looked up at her as she braced one hand on the bed and leaned over him, her breasts lightly touching his chest, her other hand firmly grasping his manhood.