Longing's Levant (24 page)

“Do not tease me, Cainer!” she protested.

He chuckled around the delicacy upon which he drew and eased his finger inside her.

“Ah!” his lady sighed, and quivered from head to toe.

He drew back, abandoning her swollen nipple and slid his free hand around her hip, turned it palm up and cupped her dewy sex, his thumb resting along the crease of her leg where thigh met love mound. Lightly he squeezed and felt moisture oozing on his palm.

“You are a wicked man, Cainer Cree,” she accused.

“You think so?” he crooned then arched his hand so the middle finger slipped gently into her vagina.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, and quivered once more.

Impaled on both his middle fingers, she leaned against him, laying her head on his shoulder.

“’Tis no fair, Cainer. You are clothed and I am not,” she pouted.

“That can easily be remedied, Aisling,” he told her.

Withdrawing his fingers, grinning at her groan of objection, he moved back from her and ripped open his shirt. The black pearl buttons of his uniform scattered upon the blanket. Pulling the shirt from his britches, he shrugged out of the torn material and made quick work of his belt and the closing at his waist.

Sitting down, he pulled off his black boots and tossed them aside. In a graceful, assured move that brought a gleam of pride to Aisling’s sea-colored eyes, he stood up and rid himself of his britches. As he made to kneel down, she put her hands on his muscled thighs to prevent him.

“I see something that interests me greatly, Cainer,” she said. “And being the student of research I am, I would like to investigate this anomaly further.”

She took his swollen staff into her hands and leaned close, studying the thick veins that pulsed beneath the thin flesh. With the tip of her tongue poking from the side of her mouth as she engaged in deep concentration, she used her other hand to cup and weigh the ridged pouches that dangled behind his fleshy weapon.

“Fascinating,” she commented, as she stroked his hard rod. She gently grazed her fingernails along that firm length and ran the tip of her index finger into the tiny slit. Almost immediately, a pearly drop oozed from that opening and she caught it on the underside of her fingernail.

With her eyes locked on his, she brought her finger to her tongue and tasted his essence.

“Aisling, for the love of the gods!” he groaned. Already his cock was throbbing, aching with desire for the woman kneeling at his feet.

“For the love of Cainer,” she returned, and leaned forward to draw that pulsing rod between her lips.

He had been unprepared for the immediate response of her lips sliding along his member. He had not anticipated her virginal response to be so exacting. As she took his entire rod into her mouth and she drew on his aching flesh, he grabbed her head, thrusting his fingers through her golden curls and brought her face closer to the juncture of his thighs.

He had not meant to be so unseemly. Like an untried youth, he had exploded, pulsing his juices into her eager mouth. He was lost as she suckled him, swallowed his cum as though it were the most natural thing in the world. She was laving him with her tongue, flicking it teasingly into the slit of cock and massaging his balls as though to coax from him the very last drop.

When at last she allowed him to fall to the blanket—exhausted and sated—she lay down beside him and nestled her head on his sweaty shoulder.

“Maeve instructed me quite well, wouldn’t you say?” she whispered.

He should have known. Maeve was her older sister, and the woman was a professional. A Priestess in the Love Centers of Ghaoithe’s capitol at Ghaoth Aduaidh, there was nothing the woman did not know about satisfying a man. That she had dared teach Aisling both angered and delighted the warrior.

“For shame, Aisling,” he said. “What would your mother say?” His voice took on a strained tone. “What would your father say?”

“Father would say I had made an informed decision to perform as best I could learn to, and Mother would want to know how big your cock is.”

Face flaming, Cainer denied such a thing would happen. He would have chastised her for her wayward tongue, but she placed her fingers upon his lips. He groaned, inhaling the scent of his love juice on her hand.

“Are you going to leave me wanting, warrior?” she asked, sliding her hand down his heavily pelted chest to the equally heavily pelted realm that so delighted her. She cupped him. “Will you let it be said General Cainer Cree cares only for his own pleasure and not that of his betrothed?”

Aisling’s eyes grew wide as she took in the wicked glint that pierced her lover’s eyes. Her mouth opened into a shocked “O” only a second before he had her on her back and her legs wrapped around his neck.

“I’m hungry,” he said in a throaty voice.

Cainer Cree had become a legend to his people because his hand on a laser war sword could cut a swathe through the enemy like a harvester through a wheat field. Steady and sure, unbelievably brave, the warrior had gained an unblemished reputation and was feared far and wide. His word was his bond and to have his friendship was an accomplishment many warriors actively sought.

The man who lowered his face to Aisling’s cunt was therefore a man of steady purpose and single-minded devotion to duty.

He was also as highly trained in the art of lovemaking as his future sister-in-law Maeve was an expert in hers.

Aisling writhed beneath the assault. She arched her hips up and wrapped her fingers around her warrior’s rock-hard biceps. Reveling in the strength of those strong arms, knowing well how lethal that flesh could be, she shuddered.

“Make me a woman, my beloved,” she whispered, her breasts heaving in the excitement rushing through her body. “Make me your woman.”

The words thrilled Cainer and spurred his tongue on to quicker stabs into the velvety lips of her cunt. He lapped her juices, smacking his lips like a man dining on food that had not been set before him for weeks.

He was ravenous.

He was on fire with a need that had turned his cock into a rigid, pulsing, ready war engine that would soon batter down her virginal defenses.

He slid his tongue up her belly, tasted the sweat droplet that had puddled in her deep belly button, and then tasted once more the delights of her breasts as he settled his lower body between her trembling thighs.

Positioning her legs more securely over his shoulders, he bid her lock her ankles in place. Hearing only her grunt of acceptance of his request, he poised his tool at the core of her dripping box.

“Relax, my love,” he instructed. He was trembling, striving to hold back the climax that was rapidly approaching.

“Relax, hell,” Aisling disagreed. “Fuck me, warrior!”

Her words were like a red-hot prod against his ass, and he drove into her with far less gentleness than he had intended. Once inside, he could not stop the battering ram of his cock striking at the wall of her hymen. He broke through that flimsy barrier and thrust his weapon into the inner bailey of her dripping keep and stilled, holding that tool as deep in her as he could go.

The first ripple of her release traveled along his cock and as it moved—gripping and releasing his staff in strong little pulses—the dam burst upon the rigid hold he was striving to maintain and his cum came thick and strong into his lady’s waiting receptacle.

“Aisling!” he shouted, filling her with all he had to give.

His lady dug her short fingernails into the bunched muscles of his back, scoring the tanned flesh and leaving little half moons.

“Cainer!” she returned.

When the last squeeze faded from her vaginal walls and the last pulse shot from his penis, he collapsed atop her—sweaty and spent, her arms now where her legs had been. She hugged him to her, refusing to allow him to remove the heavy weight of his body atop hers that so thrilled her. He lay with his chin braced on her soft shoulder.

“I love you,” she told him, and placed her lips upon the still-throbbing hollow at the base of his throat.

“I would die for you,” he vowed.

“I will die with you,” she swore.

As he had for many years, Cainer woke from his wet dream to sit bolt upright upon the monkish bed he had chosen for his rest. The wetness did not come from the arousal of his staff but from the tears that had drenched his pillow.

Plowing his hand through his tousled hair, he swung his bare legs from the bed and sat there on the side, staring listlessly at the floor. His heart was hurting with the old familiar pain. His body still ached for a release he would not allow. The fragments of his dream, the sights and sounds, slowly faded—as did Aisling’s dear, beautiful face—only to be replaced with awareness that he was no longer alone on his primitive prison island.

He cocked his head to one side and “listened” to the conversation coming from the two visitors headed his way. Though he had been expecting the men, knew they were coming, he had mixed emotions about their arrival.

Coming wearily to his feet, he reached for his britches and stepped into them. Since becoming trapped in his hellish jail, he had taken to sleeping in the nude. He knew it now amused Morrigunia, but for a century or two, it had only added to her frustration. As he thought of the goddess berating him for boldly displaying his wares for her to see, a slight smile tugged at the corners of the warrior’s mouth.

Dressed in his black britches, he went to the door of his little hut and opened it. The night before had been a bit chilled and he had closed the portal he normally left open. Standing with his hands braced on the lintels, he waited for the two men who were making their way up the winding oyster-shell pathway to his home. When they were twenty or so feet away, he lowered his hands and went out to meet them.

As they approached the Reaper, Evann-Sin had to admit the man was as good-looking as Master Jabali had indicated. A warrior at the prime of his physical prowess with chiseled pectoral muscles, a flat belly powerfully ridged, a slender waist with not an ounce of spare flesh clinging to it and biceps that were half again as large as Evann-Sin’s own. Cainer Cree was a soldier with whom he would not care to swap hits. Looking down at the Reaper’s hands, he figured they were strong enough to take most any man in a fair fight.

“I don’t always fight fair, Riel,” the Reaper said. He stopped about five feet away from them and crossed his arms over his bare chest. “Do you?”

Evann-Sin shrugged. “Not always.”

“Nor do I,” Kaibyn quipped. “You do what you have to.”

Cainer Cree’s amber eyes slid to the demon. “Aye,” he agreed. “You do.”

Kaibyn surprised Evann-Sin by stepping forward and putting out a hand to the Reaper. “I am Kaibyn Zafeyr,” he said.

Slapping his palm to underside of the demon’s forearm in the ages-old custom of warrior to warrior, Cainer accepted the greeting then turned to Evann-Sin and repeated the gesture.

“I would invite you inside,” the Reaper said, “but there is but a small cot, one rickety chair and a table large enough for a plate and cup. It is about as comfortable as a monk’s cell.” He released Evann-Sin’s arm. “I spend ninety percent of my time outside.”

Kaibyn looked toward the horizon where a storm was brewing. “Even in the rain?”

“Especially in the rain.”

“Does it rain here often?” Evann-Sin inquired.

“Every day. Chale is known for its rain and fog.”

Almost as though nature planned it that way, a light mist fell from the heavens and gently peppered the leaves overhead. So thick was the foliage, no moisture found its way to the men.

The Reaper led them to a greensward behind the cot where a sheltering tree rustled softly in the light breeze. Scattered around the lush green grass were several rocks that had been hollowed out to form what looked like chairs.

“They are comfortable enough,” Cainer told them, sweeping a hand toward the rocks.

Evann-Sin sat down and was pleasantly surprised at the relative comfort of the rocks. “Did nature do this or was it your doing?” He wriggled around in the hollow of the rock until he was at ease.

Cainer smiled slightly. He took a seat on the ground, drew his knees up and circled them within the perimeter of his arms. “A little of both,” he replied. “When I was first here, I admit I took my frustrations out on the poor rocks. I was like a man possessed—using one rock to pound another. I pretended it was Morrigunia’s head I was bashing in.”

“The warrior told me about that one. I can see why you’d want to beat out her brains,” Kaibyn said. He shifted on the stone chair and patted it with his hand. “This isn’t bad at all.”

The men were quiet for a moment, their attention going to the ocean where lightning was stitching across the firmament. The breeze had become a steady wind that tousled their hair.

“How long have you been here?” Evann-Sin finally asked.