Darque was bored to tears as he listened to a candle maker complaining about being overcharged by the beekeeper for his wax. He wanted to yawn but that would have been impolite. Instead, he nodded from time to time as he was given useless information about candle making. He glanced at his mother—who found it all very amusing as she sat in her chair and did her needlepoint—and wished he could turn the matter over to her. What did he know—or care—about candles? In the grand scheme of life, what importance did the damned things hold?
How he wished he was with Aisling. She was still in the infirmary with Healer Quinn, doing something she found interesting and informative. She was using her gods’ given talent to do something constructive for today was a clinic day and those needing to be healed were visiting the infirmary.
That scared him. Unbeknownst to her, he had stationed guards all around the infirmary and outside its doors to study every person who went inside. He wanted his lady-wife safe and that was the best way he knew to make sure of it. Now if only the gods would keep her from catching anything her patients might have…
“Milord, do you agree?” his mother asked.
Mentally shaking himself, he realized he didn’t have a clue what had just been said. He looked helplessly to his mother. She wasn’t looking at him but rather pulling the thread through the mesh in her hand.
“If you don’t mind me putting in my two cents worth…” she said as she stuck the needle into the mesh.
“Of course not, Máthair,” he replied quickly.
“I believe Master Reynaud should offer Master Jonas a slight discount considering the wax did not arrive without the honey being completely removed,” his mother stated. “That seems only fair.”
“Aye,” Darque said, completely at a loss and feeling it. “I agree.” He looked at the men before him and had no idea which was which so he directed his gaze between them. “Master Reynaud I believe a ten percent reduction in your bill would suffice.”
The beekeeper frowned. “As you wish, Taoiseach,” he said in a tone that suggested he wasn’t happy with the decision.
“See the clerk,” Darque ordered.
Both men bowed to him then left to be replaced with two women—both of whom looked angry and very vengeful.
He sighed deeply, looked to his mother—who was ignoring him—as the bailiff read the petition, “Mistress Calhoun represents the dye-makers guild. She is asking for compensation for…”
As the enraged dye-maker began revealing the injustices perpetuated against her by the wool weaver Mistress Riley, Darque zoned out. He was staring at the deep purple skirt the dye-maker was wearing and thinking of Aisling’s beautiful eyes. Along the hem of the skirt were pale, rose-colored crocheted roses, and his thoughts took him to the soft nether lips he had tasted the night before…
****
Supper done, he pushed the rolling table away and sat watching Aisling as she finished off the last of the ale in her goblet. He was fascinated by the way her throat moved as she swallowed the brew.
His cock tightened.
At the way she swept her tongue over her lips to clean away the foam left behind from the ale.
His cock leapt.
At the suppleness of her legs as she left the foot of the bed to put the goblet on the tray with their empty plates.
His entire body clenched with need.
At the way she looked around the infirmary with her brows drawn together.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Where do you intend for me to sleep since you insist I stay here with you,” she replied.
“The bed is big enough for the two of us to share,” he said.
She turned to study the bed then shook her head. “Not comfortably.”
“Then we will go to our chamber,” he said and turned to crook his legs over the edge of the mattress.
“You are sure you can make the climb?” she asked.
“I’m no longer dizzy,” he said. “My ribs hurt still but they are going to do that for a day or so. I would rather sleep in my own bed beneath the stars.”
“Then mayhap I should ask O’Hearn to accompany us in case you need help getting up the stairs,” she said.
“If it pleases you,” he said and got to his feet. He was still a bit wobbly, but didn’t want her to know. The cool stone beneath his bare feet felt good. He loved going barefoot and did so as often as he could. He glanced at her feet and sighed. She should always go barefoot, too.
“It is not a matter of pleasing me, milord,” she told him, drawing his attention back to her lovely face. “It is a matter of someone being able to pick you up should you collapse.”
He made his way toward the bathroom as she went to the door. “Hurry back,” he told her.
“You are sure you are well enough to get out of bed?” she asked, her concern evident on her face.
“Go, Aisling,” he said, waving his hand. “Fetch Tymmie.”
“Please be careful,” she bid. “Don’t overdo.”
She was barely out of sight before he staggered into the bathroom and brought up everything he’d eaten. His head was pounding again and the lights were flickering like fireflies at the backs of his eyes. He clung to the back of the toilet and retched again and again until there was nothing coming out save hot foam. Collapsing against the wall beside him, he closed his eyes and drew ragged breaths past his parted lips—cursing Padraig Dungannon for everything the man was worth.
By the time O’Hearn returned with Aisling, Darque was sitting on the edge of the bed—nay, clinging to it—but he gave them a bright smile.
“Ready?” O’Hearn asked.
He made the mistake of nodding and sincerely wished he hadn’t, for the pain lanced from temple to temple then down his spinal column to lodge in the small of his back. It was all he could do to keep the smile in place, locking his jaws to do so.
“Here. Put this on,” she said. In her hand was a T-shirt.
“Don’t need it,” he replied.
“Put it on,” she insisted. “You don’t need to catch a cold on top of everything else.”
He sighed but did as she ordered. It took some effort to stand, but he did and took Aisling’s hand in his to lead her from the room. O’Hearn was a few steps behind. With supreme willpower he put one foot ahead of the other. Beneath his bare feet the floor was cold and he wished he could lay down on it and press his cheek to the tile.
“Want some slippers?” O’Hearn asked.
Again he shook his head and nearly lost it. He hastily put a hand to his temple.
“Your head is hurting, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Some,” he said, not wanting to lie to her.
She reached into her pocket. “I have some triso,” she said. “Mixed with a touch of vinegar. It has a sharp taste, but it will stop the pain in its tracks.” She handed him a purple glass vial.
He would have taken road kill steeped in castor oil if it would help. He took the vial, uncorked it and poured the contents into his mouth. The taste wasn’t as bad as he expected, but it was bad enough. He grimaced but almost instantly the pain began to fade. Trouble was, his tongue went completely numb.
“Damn,” he mumbled. “That shit really works.”
“What is this triso?” O’Hearn asked.
“You may know it as tenerse,” Aisling told him, but he shook his head. “Mayhap your people have a different name for it. It is made from the poppy plant.”
“Ah,” O’Hearn said, nodding. “Mayhap it is what we call támhshuanach.”
“Whatever it is, it is a godsend,” Darque stated. The pain was almost entirely gone and he felt a hell of a lot better as they reached the grand staircase. His ribs were no longer throbbing and the flickering lights had been extinguished. Climbing the steps didn’t seem so daunting to him. Matter of fact, he thought he could skip up them if given the chance.
O’Hearn walked them all the way to Darque’s chamber door then bowed and left.
“He’s never been inside,” Darque explained as he opened the door and tugged her inside the room. “Very few people have.”
“If you have a problem with Rhianna and Meghan—” she began.
“You need lady’s maids and they’re as good as any,” he assured her although he had reservation about Meghan telling her things he’d just as soon she never know. He made a mental note to talk to the chit.
“Would you like me to run you a bath?” she asked.
He thought of the last time he’d been in the tub—with Madeline—and grimaced. “No, not tonight. A shower would be good though.”
“I’ll take mine after you,” she said.
“Actually, I’m feeling rather weak. Mayhap you should shower with me in case I start feeling bad again.”
He knew she saw right through his ruse for her face turned scarlet red and she ducked her chin. He had yet to see her naked, and that was high on his list of priorities. Bathing her himself was running a close second.
“You are a wicked man,” she muttered.
“I am your husband,” he said and when she raised her head to look at him, he cocked a shoulder. “It is perfectly acceptable for us to shower together. It is an ecological issue, as well.”
“How so?” she asked.
“It conserves water,” he stated.
“Oh,” she said, eyebrows elevated, mouth a little round pucker of mirth. “I am all for conservation, milord.”
“Thought you might be,” he said. “Besides…” He pulled her to him. “If you will wash my back, I will wash yours.” He nuzzled her neck. “And other parts of you that need caressing…ah…washing.”
“Did I say wicked?” she said, her voice slightly breathless. “I meant evil.”
“You have no idea just how evil I can be,” he said and ran his tongue up the side of her neck—laughing when she quivered. Walking backward, he drew her with him toward the bathing chamber. Once inside, he shut the door and locked it behind them.
Aisling eased her hand from his. He could see the vein in the side of her neck pulsing rapidly.
“Undress for me,” he whispered, his voice rough. He held his breath—afraid he would have to coax her, but she reached for the buttons that ran down the front of her gown and his heart stuttered.
“Return the favor, milord,” she said boldly although her cheeks blossomed with color.
He smiled and reached up to drag the T-shirt over his shoulders. He balled it up then tossed it at the hamper and it slide inside. “I’m learning,” he said as he lowered his hands to the waistband of the pajamas.
“There was never any doubt,” she replied as she shifted her shoulders to allow the gown to glide to the floor.
He followed the journey of the garment then sighed as she stepped out of it, for he got a glimpse of her delicious little toes.
“I think there is something truly wrong with me,” he said, raising his eyes to hers.
Her face paled. “Milord…?” she said, reaching out to him. Her gaze wandered over his face, down his bare chest.
“No, no. Not like that,” he was quick to tell her. “It’s your toes.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “My toes?”
“I can’t stop looking at them,” he said. “I want to suck those toes so badly my body aches.”
That must have shocked the hell out of her for color flooded her face and she actually took a step back.
“Is that wrong, milady?” he asked for he’d never said such a thing to a woman and he had certainly never wanted to put their toes in his mouth. “Is that too bizarre?”
She tucked that sweet bottom lip between her teeth then slowly shook her head. “No,” she said. “I suppose not. It’s just…”
“Just what?” he asked.
“It seems a bit…odd,” she finished.
“I know!” he said, the last word going up an octave. “For me too!” He shoved the pajamas down his hips. “Totally odd.”
His lady’s attention had gone straight to his groin and he felt the old boy stir as though it was about to preen.
“Are you…?” She swallowed hard. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes from his crotch.
“Am I what?”
She raised her eyes. “Normal?”
That wasn’t what he thought she was going to ask and it made him laugh. “Normal?” he repeated. “Some would say most definitely not, but I guess it depends on the context. Since you’re looking at my cock, I assume you’re asking if it’s normal.”
Her face turned beet red. “Milord, I meant no offense! I—”
“I’m on the large side,” he said. “Most men are six inches or thereabouts.”
Her eyes widened. “Six inches is normal?” Her gaze dropped to his shaft. “Then…”
“Generally.”
“And you are…” She licked her lips and the old boy shot up like a jack-in-the-box.
“Eleven inches,” he whispered. It was all he could do not to launch himself on her, take her to the floor and rip the chemise from her shapely body.
“Eleven…” She swallowed and those beautiful toes curled.
That did it. He was on her like white on snow—slanting his mouth brutally across hers as he slapped his hands to her buttocks and lifted her up his body. Thankfully she wrapped her legs around his waist as he walked her to the vanity and sat her down on it as he deepened his kiss. He wedged himself between her thighs. Her hands roamed over his bare back. He groaned as she lightly raked him with her nails. He swiveled his hips against her and then tore his mouth free—dropping to his knees in one fevered movement. He shoved the hem of the chemise up her thighs, hooked his fingers in her panties and ripped them from her.
“Darque!” she hissed but it wasn’t anger he heard in her voice. It was pure lust. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as he lowered his head between her legs. The moment his tongue flicked along her silken folds those fingernails spiked into his hair to hold his head.
“Darque!”
He jumped at the harsh tone of his mother’s voice and snapped his head toward her. “What?” he asked, feeling the heat staining his cheeks.
“Mistress Calhoun and Mistress Riley are awaiting your decision,” she said, her lips twitching. Her eyes were filled with amusement as she gazed innocently at him.
“I…” He looked at the two women whose words he had not even heard. He looked back to his mother for help. “I don’t…”
His mother laid the needlepoint in her lap and sighed. “Ladies, I am afraid my son is still suffering from the concussion that incapacitated him yesterday. I think he needs to lie down. Would you be upset if I rendered the decision?”
“Nay, Máistreás,” the women said in unison.
“Mayhap you should go lay down, milord,” his mother advised.
He wanted nothing more than to escape the tedium of the court, but he didn’t dare stand. His cock was as hard as steel but thankfully it was hidden beneath his crossed hands. He shot his mother a sideways look of pleading.
“I should stay so I may weigh in if necessary,” he stated. “But I am grateful you are taking over.”
“For your head is throbbing wickedly,” she said sweetly.
He narrowed his eyes. “Aye, it is.”
She smiled smugly at him then turned her gaze to the two women. “Thank you, ladies. My son has a head…ache,” she said and he heard the smirk in her words.
“Aye,” he said through clamped teeth. “That I do, Máthair.”
“Mayhap you should go to the clinic. I am sure your lady-wife has the cure for that particular ailment,” she said sweetly—batting her eyes at him.
“You, madam, are an evil woman,” he said under his breath.
“And I raised an evil son,” she replied in the same manner. She leaned toward him. “As Taoiseach, you have an obligation to your people to pay attention to their needs and not sit there fantasizing.”
“Stop reading my mind,” he ordered. “You might not like what you find there.”
She laughed and straightened in her chair, returning her interested gaze on Mistresses Calhoun and Riley. “Pray, remind me again, Mistress Riley how much the dye cost you to procure.”
Sighing heavily, Darque pressed his head against the back of his chair and mentally groaned.
****
Aisling dried her hands on the towel then folded it neatly, and laid it on the counter. She put her hands to the small of her back and stretched. In the corner of the room, Healer Quinn was flat on his back on a cot—where he’d been for the last two hours—snoring like a bulldog with distemper. She smiled and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
She was more tired than she could ever remember being, but it was a good tired. She had helped many people, met many new potential friends and been afforded respect that she had never experienced before. In the past, those she had helped had taken that help begrudgingly. Her people had no more affection for her than did her family. They took what she offered, but she could not think of one time when any of them had ever thanked her for her help. Not so at Daingean. Those she had treated had called her Máistreás and bowed to her with deference. They had smiled at her and—to the last one—had taken her hand and kissed it in acknowledgement and with gratitude for what she had done for them.
Despite her aching shoulders and a slight headache, there was a spring in her step as she made her way to the staircase. The smile on her face was genuine and those she passed answered it with ones of their own.
It had been a good day for her.
Until she was halfway up the stairs and looked up to see Maire blocking her way.
“You are a thieving slut,” the teenager said. “A conniving cunt.”
Aisling sighed. She did not need or want a confrontation with the spoiled girl so she turned around and started down the stairs again.
“Don’t you dare turn your back on me, whore!” Maire screamed at her.
The sound of running feet tattooing down the stairs brought Aisling around and she put up a hand to stop the enraged girl. Maire froze in mid-step as the powerful magic Aisling pushed at her took immediate hold. The young woman’s eyes widened, her mouth dropped open, and though she tried to speak, nothing came out but a peep.
“I am not your enemy, Lady Maire,” Aisling told her. “I mean you no harm, but if it is in your mind to hurt me or my husband, such threats will be dealt with swiftly.” She slowly lowered her hand.
Maire’s foot came down hard on the step and she had to scramble to grab the handrail to keep from plunging down the stairs. Her face leached of coloring as Aisling came up the steps toward her.
“He was never yours for me to steal, Lady Maire,” she told the girl as she reached her on the stairs. She stared hard into Maire’s still-wide eyes. “Both he and his mother assured me of it. And I am no slut. The only man I have been with is my lawful husband, Darque Anbhás. I did not connive to get myself taken by his odious warden nor seduce the Taoiseach into asking for my hand in marriage.” She started to pass the girl but stopped and lowered her voice. “I am not that filthy word you called me, but use it again in reference to me—either in my earshot or otherwise—and I will take away your voice permanently.”
Maire winced, tried to speak, and found her voice came out in a squeak. “Y…you’re a w…witch,” she whispered.
“And a very powerful one at that,” Aisling replied and continued on her way up the stairs. “Keep the knowledge to yourself and you will keep your hair.”
She could feel the girl’s stricken eyes staring daggers into her back, but she did not look around. She was tired, her headache was now worse because of the confrontation and the minimal usage of her magic, and all she wanted was to fill the oversized tub and stretch out in the warm water until it cooled.
****
Madeline fell into step beside the spoiled brat that was her lover’s ward and smiled when the obnoxious child gave her a haughty look. Before the girl could berate her for her familiarity, she pulled the primary thought out of the chit’s head and used it to gain her quick attention.
“I want him punished, too,” Madeline told her.
That worked. The hateful teen stopped short and stared at her. “What?”
“As do you, I want him to suffer for taking the an Deisceartian bitch to wife,” Madeline stated.
The girl’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”
“Because I am loyal to the Comhrialtas,” Madeline stated. “I hate all things Chónaidhm, but I hate witches even more.”
“She is a witch!” Madeline said then clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes bulging at the slip she’d made.
Madeline nodded. “As is his mother, so that we cannot use against her.” She lowered her voice. “Or him, but he must be held to account for bringing that viper into our midst.”
“You are speaking sedition,” the girl said. “I could report you.”
“And lose an ally?” Madeline queried. “What advantage to you would that be, milady?” She looked around them as though searching for prying eyes and ears. “And there is another who would join us in seeing things are put to rights. That the witch gets what’s coming to her.”
“Who?”
“Lord Padraig.”
“He certainly has no love of the c…” The brat swallowed. “The witch,” she finished.
“No, he does not, and he will help us rid our people of this threat.”
“How?”
Madeline dug her fingernails into her palms. The girl’s monosyllable questions were wearing thin.
“Leave that to Lord Padraig. He has a plan,” Madeline lied. In fact, it was her plan and she would implant it in the warrior’s mind the next time she encountered him. “Just bide your time and do nothing to further annoy the Taoiseach lest he make good on his threat to send you to Serenia.”
“How do you know—?” the girl started to ask but Madeline cut her off.
“Have faith in Lord Padraig,” she told the brat. “All will work out as it should with him at the helm.”
That said, Madeline hurried away. The longer she spoke to the teenage whore, the more she wanted to work a spell to melt the flesh from her haughty face.
Besides, she had plans to make and everything must be worked out to the finest detail.
****
Despite having tried time and again, Padraig could not get erect. His wife Siobhan made matters worse by telling him such happened to men from time to time. He knew that! He knew it happened, but it had never happened to him. His woman was beautiful, curvaceous with breasts like ripe melons and a mouth that could suck a coconut through a bamboo reed, but none of them gave him even a hint of an arousal. What he wanted was the woman he had ravaged at the creek, had taken so coarsely. All he could think about was the feel of her wrapped like a tight fist around his cock and such thoughts made him sweat though not get hard.
Angry at Darque, hating the bitch to whom his best friend had tied himself, Padraig knew he had to get back to the fortress. He would begin training the new men hard come morning, and though he had no desire to run into Darque, he knew that was inevitable. The Taoiseach always trained with his men—never asking of them what he did not demand of himself.
“Mayhap the concussion will keep him from joining us,” he mumbled.
“Did you say something, husband?” Siobhan asked from the hearth as she stoked the fire.
“Just talking to myself,” Padraig replied.
“The first sign of senility,” she said and that made him think of his cock not working. What was it they called the inability to get an erection?
He shrugged it off, for Vonni was looking at him with her eyebrows drawn together. “No, the first sign of senility is answering yourself,” he said with a smile he had to fake.
His lady laughed and put away the fire poker. She went back into the kitchen where she was preparing their evening meal.
Padraig ground his teeth. He could not get the Meyrick girl—he refused to think of her as Darque’s wife—out of his mind. His hands itched to be around her neck. The dagger at his thigh tingled against his leg with the need to be plunged into her black heart. She would be the ruination of Darque, the cause of untold misery for him.
Padraig.
He jumped for the voice came from inside his head. He shot up from the chair and looked around him fearfully.
Come to me, Padraig. I will ease you.
His cock stirred behind his fly—pressing against the fabric. He put his hand to it.
You want me, Padraig. You want to do to me again what you did at the creek, except rougher. I will let you.
Lust so strong it actually hurt hit him hard in the groin. He could feel the blood racing into his shaft, hardening it.
Come to me, Padraig. Fuck me. Ream me hard.
Slowly he turned his head toward the kitchen. It bothered him that he was cheating on Siobhan for he truly loved her, wanted no other woman but her, but the siren call of the witch would not be silenced.
Come, Padraig. Come now!
“I’m going to the fortress!” he heard himself say and flinched at the lie.
“Be careful,” Siobhan called back. “I love you!”
“I love you too,” he mumbled. He felt as though the hounds of hell nipped at his heels as he hurriedly left the cottage he had shared with his wife for nine years. Guilt rode him savagely as he stomped to the stable to retrieve his horse. As he saddled the brute, his mind was filled with the sight of the woman awaiting him…
“Where?” he asked, his hands stilling on the cinch.
The creek, came the answer.
“Aye,” he muttered and led the animal out of the stable. Vaulting into the saddle, he drummed his heels against the horse—anxious to get to the source of his relief.
Racing his mount across the field, he took the road that led to the forest and away from Daingean. Bent low over the horse’s neck to gain speed, he pictured the mistress of his best friend in his fevered mind.
Red silky hair swung to the small of her back. Eyes as green as emeralds and a complexion as creamy as caramel bespoke her gypsy heritage. Pillowy lips designed to be ravaged. Soft, silken arms and long, svelte legs… She was beautiful beyond measure with a body that was created to be ridden.
And she was calling to him.
To him!
She wanted him!
He had no illusions about why she wanted a man such as he. He did not possess the sheer male beauty and sensuality that Darque did, though they were of the same height and body build. If anything, he was more muscular than his friend, but he had to admit Darque was the better warrior and there was certainly no denying he was handsomer.
She wanted to use him to bring Darque to his knees, and at that moment, Padraig’s agenda coincided perfectly with hers. Sometimes a man deserved to be brought low before he could rise above that which would destroy him. In Darque’s case, it was the witch to whom he was Joined. The bitch had already caused him to be injured in a fight Padraig deeply regretted.
“And you will pay dearly for your part in it you an Deisceartian whore,” he said, his words flung away in the wind rushing past his face.
****
Aisling was unaware she had an audience as she ran the fleecy cloth down her crooked leg from her knee to the juncture of her thigh, then ran the cloth between her legs. When she did, she heard a loud sigh. Looking up, she found her husband leaning against the door jamb with his arms crossed, the sole of one bare foot braced atop the instep of the other. He was standing there bare chested with the top button of his jeans undone and with a look on his face that made her body clinch.
“Did you have a good day?” he asked quietly.
“Aye. And you?” she replied, her mouth watering as she took in the rippled muscles that were stacked down his chest.
He cocked a shoulder. “It could have been worse.”
She smiled shyly. “Would you like to join me? The water is still quite warm.”
He answered her smile with a slow one of his own. He pushed away from the jamb and unfolded his arms. “The water could be ice cold, milady, and I would still join you.” His hands went to the buttons of his jeans.
She smiled as he shucked off his jeans and wiggled her toes. “Would you like to wash my feet for me, milord?”
“I’ll suck the dirt right off ’em,” he said as he threw the jeans in the general direction of the hamper. He missed, but at that moment he didn’t care.
Neither did she.
“Please don’t,” she said with a grimace.
“Gimme,” he said as he slid down into the water and reached for her leg. When she extended it toward him, he took hold of her ankle then brought the sole of her foot to his belly to prop it there. His gaze intent on her wet toes, he sighed contentedly as he stroked the top of her arch with his fingers. “I am in heaven.”
She wiggled her toes and he slowly lifted his head.
“Now that’s just asking for it, milady,” he said, his grin evil and lecherous. He lifted her foot from his chest and tugged—drawing her a little ways down in the tub as he brought her toes to his mouth.
Tucking her bottom lip between her teeth, she watched as he put his lips to the tip of her big toe then slowly, sensuously worked his way to her piggy toe.
“Do you think,” he began as he ran his index finger between each toe, “it would be unwarriorlike if I were to paint these little toesies?”
“No,” she said, “but calling them toesies isn’t warrior like in the least.”
He went back the other way between her toes then ran the pad of his thumb over the nail of her big toe. “Bright crimson I’m thinking,” he said. Slowly he ran his thumb up and down the nail.
“Not my color,” she said. “Copper, mayhap?”
He angled his head as he stared at her toenails then nodded. “That would work.” He opened his mouth, brought her toe between his teeth and closed them over the first knuckle. When he saw her wince, he arched a brow.
“No, you didn’t hurt me. It just isn’t a very comfortable feeling,” she told him.
He pulled his head back. “Uncomfortable in what way, milady?” he asked.
She shrugged a delicate shoulder. “I know you would never do it, milord, but in the back of my mind is the fear of having my toe chomped off.”
His eyes shot up. “Really?” he asked with disbelief.
“I have no explanation for it,” she replied. “It is just uncomfortable.”
“Alright,” he said. “No teeth.”
Instead, he eased her toe into his mouth, flattened his tongue on the pad underneath and moved it up and down. She squirmed. As he tightened his lips and began to suck, she drew in a deep breath.
“That I like,” she said in a husky tone.
He smiled, eased the toe from his mouth and moved to the next one. All the while, his eyes were glittering with an emotion that made her womb quiver.
“Have you done this before?” she asked.
Going to her middle toe, he didn’t answer, just shook his head.
“Never?” she pressed.
“Never wanted to,” he muttered around the obstruction of the next to her last toe.
“Huh,” she said, taking that in and considering it. There was at least one thing he was doing with her that he’d not shared with any other woman. That, in itself, was a triumph of a sort, and it made her feel very special. She could probably add never having held any other woman’s foot in his hands before he’d held hers when he removed the wicked iron band.
“I am in lust with your toes,” he said.
“They are all yours.”
“They certainly are,” he stated.
He took his time with her little toe—swirling his tongue around and around it, flicking it and sucking it very gently.
“I broke that toe once,” she said. “Can’t you tell?”
He pulled the toe from his mouth and looked at it. “There’s a slight hump.” He looked up at her. “How did you break it?”
“I rammed it into the leg of a chair,” she said. “Hurt like hell for days.”
“Poor little piggy,” he said and placed a kiss on the tip. “Daddy will take care of you.” He slid his free hand from her ankle to her instep, then the pad of her foot and began to massage it.
“Oh,” she whispered and laid her head back, closed her eyes. “That I really like.”
She could tell he was grinning even if she wasn’t looking at him and instinct told her he’d never massaged another woman’s foot before now. One more triumph to add to her list.
“Me, too,” he agreed and ran his thumbs into her arch and pressed gently—rotating his thumbs in opposite directions.
She felt boneless, limp. His hands were firm on her foot and it was sheer heavenly delight that he was giving her. He was all but purring—if a werewolf could do that—as he worked her foot. When he gripped her ankle once more then ran his palm firmly up and down the sole of her foot, she opened her eyes.
Her gaze went straight to the thick cock that was straining to keep its broad head above the water. She slid her other foot over so she could flex her toes against his testicles. She might as well have goosed him for he jumped and his mouth flew open. But it was the low, fierce growl that froze her. His eyes turned a piercing amber color and his lips drew back from his teeth. She started to jerk her foot away, but he slammed both hands to the ankle of that leg and held it still.
“Do it again,” he said in a gruff voice. “Do it again, Aisling.”
A bit stunned by his reaction and wary of loosing the beast within him, she arched her toes upward and the nails grazed lightly over the center of the underside of his scrotum.
“Mother of the goddess,” he breathed and she was shocked to see sweat actually pop out on his forehead. His eyes looked glazed and deadly at the same time. “Woman, I like that.” His hand tightened on her ankle. “Do it again.”
Marginally relaxing, she flexed her foot again and this time he quivered. His knees fell apart.
“Again,” he whispered.
“Let go of my foot and I will,” she said. He was gripping her ankle so tightly she knew there would be a bruise come morning.
Reluctantly, he released her foot. He was all but panting as he sat there staring down at his crotch.
“Put your hands on the side of the tub and keep them there,” she ordered.
He looked up, squinted as though he hadn’t understood her, and then obeyed. He splayed his fingers on the edge of the tiles encasing the copper tub. The moment he returned his stare to his groin, she slipped her left foot under his testicles so they rested atop her arch then used her right foot to gently press down his straining cock so she could rub the soul of her foot up and down it.
“Sweet Merciful Morrigunia,” he said on a long, shuddery breath. He ground his ass against the tub bottom.
“Sit still or I will stop,” she warned him.
He snapped his head up, shook it, and then went utterly immobile. His tongue came out to sweep across his upper lip, curl over his bottom lip then looked back down into the tub.
Slowly, gently but with firm pressure, she rubbed his cock. Beneath her arch it was as hard as titanium but silky smooth. She kept flexing the toes of her left foot—up and down against his balls with her nails lightly prickling his flesh—until she could hear the rapid breaths coming from his parted lips.
“If you…” He swallowed and tried again. “If you keep that up, I’m going to do something in this water neither one of us will like,” he cautioned.
“Then what are you going to do about it?” she asked.
Once more he brought his head up with a snap. His amber eyes were glowing and she wondered at the physical color change in the bright orbs. Did those beautiful eyes turn blood red when he attacked prey? Even as the thought entered her mind, he sprang at her—pushing her legs apart and gliding across the tub until he was over her with his stiff cock pressing urgently at her core.
“This,” he said and rammed into her.
Aisling cried out. Not because he had hurt her, but because the length of him, the breadth of him filled her so sensuously her body became nothing more than a bundle of firing synapses. Her womb reacted and heat pooled low and tight between her legs. Her mind felt electric, her body was focused entirely on the pleasure his hard cock was pumping into it and her skin tingled where his body touched hers. His hips were pounding into her. The water splashed over the side of the tub. With his hands shoved under her ass, he lifted her for deeper, harder penetration then lowered his head to sink his fangs into that sensitive place where shoulder met neck.
“Darque!” she screamed and her fingernails dug into his back, his waist, his ass. She clawed at him as he rode her—rode her hard—and release began to boil like lava in her lower belly.
She felt him jerk then he was pouring into her. His grunts with each strong thrust as he came took her right over the edge. She clung to him as every last drop was wrung from him and he collapsed atop her—breathing hard with his chest heaving—his teeth still penetrating her flesh.
It didn’t hurt. If anything it was highly erotic and did things to her body she could never hope to explain. She throbbed from head to heel and everywhere in between was tingling sharply.
After a long moment, he retracted his fangs. There was a light sting then he swept his tongue over the punctures to seal them. He lapped at the slender thread of warmth that ran down her chest.
“Love….” He gasped. “Love. You.”
Her mind heard the words but her heart drew them in. It was too soon to tell him how she felt—she, herself, wasn’t really sure if what she was feeling was love—so all she could do was wrap him in her arms and hold him.
“I love you, Aisling,” he said, told her.
“The water is getting cold,” she said, unable to think of anything else to say.
He lifted his head, looked into her eyes—searched them for a long moment—then slowly pushed away from her.
“Aye,” he said. He got to his feet and reached his hand down to her.
She slipped her palm into his, he levered her to a standing position then released her hand. She watched him step out of the tub then turn to help her out—his hand out again. Once she was standing beside him, she eased her hand from his and placed it tenderly on his lean jaw.
“Give me time,” she said, using her eyes to plead with him.
He nodded then stepped back. He walked over to where he had tossed his jeans and bent over to retrieve them. Stepping into them, he tugged up the zipper but left the button at his waist undone.
“I need a drink,” he said. “Want anything?”
She shook her head, knowing instinctively that she had hurt him. As he walked to the bathing chamber door, his shoulders were slumped. Wrapping a towel around her nakedness, she wondered why she wished the floor would open up and swallow her.
Because you hurt him, a voice whispered in her mind.
“Darque?” she called and he turned. “Are you angry with me?”
“No, sweeting,” he said with a long sigh. “I could never be angry at you.”
He turned back around and left the room.
She stood there wondering why she felt so terrible at having wounded him. Intellectually she questioned whether it was possible for a man and woman to fall in love in such a short period of time—especially a man as hard and dangerous as her husband. Such tender emotions seemed out of place for him. True, he had a wonderful sense of the ridiculous, more than his share of wicked humor and he had been very kind and gentle with her.
He had also yelled at her and frightened her. Intimidated her. Had her abducted and locked in a room for hours on end.
And now he professed love for her?
“Too soon,” she said. “Much too soon.”
Yet, as she dressed for supper and he still had not returned, she began to feel an ache in the region of her heart.