Journey of the Wind

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by Charlotte Boyett-Compo




  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Journey of the Wind

  ISBN 9781419905759

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Journey of the Wind Copyright © 2007 Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Edited by Mary Moran.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Electronic book Publication July 2007

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written

  permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-

  3502.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales

  is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Content Advisory:

  S – ENSUOUS

  E – ROTIC

  X

  –

  TREME

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-

  rotic), and X (X-treme).

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been

  rated S-ensuous.

  S- ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E- rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall

  word count. E-rated titles might contain material that some readers find objectionable—in other words,

  almost anything goes, sexually. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry in terms of both sexual

  language and descriptiveness in these works of literature.

  X- treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Stories designated

  with the letter X tend to contain difficult or controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  JOURNEY OF THE WIND

  Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Author’s Note

  The Six of Swords

  This card signifies changing locations, taking a journey, entering a new phase of life

  but it is also known as the Slough of Despond. A slough is a depression into which one

  may fall and that is why this card often represents a feeling of sadness, listlessness and

  functioning at a level that just barely keeps one’s head above water. Nothing is truly

  wrong but things are not necessarily right either. The boatman appears to be trudging

  through the water in a state of low-level sadness, but at least he—and his passengers—

  are moving forward. The card points the seeker toward a more positive place, a place

  where he or she can pick up the pieces of their life and start anew. The water on the

  right of the card is turbulent—signifying bad times—but the boat is moving away from

  those bad times and into calmer waters where the future looks abundant as evidenced

  by the tree in the distance.

  In its reversed and negative state, the card suggests insurmountable problems,

  obstacles and deliberate lies, verbal outbursts that will embarrass the seeker and make

  him or her even more depressed.

  As this card was read for the hero of Journey Of The Wind, it advises him to realize

  there is a problem in his life and that he must take steps to correct it if he is to live in

  peace and find happiness. He must undertake a journey to find not only himself but his

  destiny.

  Journey of the Wind

  Prologue

  Dipping his fingers into the honeyed heat of his lover’s body, Alsandair Farrell

  twisted them gently to get all three inside her, seeking that elusive special place where

  his touch would give the woman lying beside him the greatest of pleasures. Hooking

  his fingers upward, he felt the slight series of ridges and stroked her vaginal wall,

  knowing he’d reached his destination.

  “Oh yes!” Rylee McCourtland moaned and wriggled her shapely butt on the sheet.

  She was panting with her eyes closed, her hands gripping the iron posts of his

  headboard.

  “Easy, wench,” he said. “We’ve all night.”

  Rylee whimpered. He was already turning her inside out with his knowing hands.

  She doubted she’d last until morning at this rate. She let go of the headboard and

  snaked out a hand to clutch at his shoulder—digging her fingernails into the fabric of

  his shirt. “Sandair, please!” she begged.

  Alsandair grinned. “Please what? Please don’t do this?” He pressed his fingers

  deeper inside her. “Or this?”

  Bucking beneath his assault, Rylee slammed both hands down on his wrist to hold

  him immobile inside her. Her vibrant green eyes fused with his dark brown gaze and

  the first tremor of release shook her.

  He licked his lips for her hot channel was milking his fingers—tugging, squeezing,

  vibrating around them and oozing juices. When the last pulse left her and her hands fell

  away from his wrist, he slowly withdrew his fingers from her, pulled his hand out from

  under her skirt and brought them to his mouth.

  Pure, unadulterated lust drove straight to Rylee’s belly to make her womb leap as

  she watched her lover licking her juices from his flesh. Her heart was pounding and her

  blood rushing in her ears as he splayed his three fingers to lick between them.

  “Sandair,” she moaned. “You are killing me here.”

  He was leaning on his left elbow on the bed—facing her—and when she sat up and

  tugged at the hem of his shirt, he cocked a dark eyebrow. “What is it you want,

  milady?”

  Rylee’s eyes darkened with passion. “I want you and well you know it!” She started

  jerking his shirt upward.

  “All right,” he said on a long sigh and sat up. He allowed her to tug the shirt over

  his head, obediently lifting his arms for her to undress him.

  As it always did, the sight of her lover’s muscular body drove Rylee McCourtland

  to higher heights of desire. With his broad shoulders, thick mat of crisp, dark hair

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  Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  between his chiseled pectorals and dipping down past an abdomen as tightly ridged as

  a washboard, he was one hell of a male specimen. If one discounted the sheer male

  beauty of his face—cinnamon brown eyes, long sooty eyelashes, perfect nose, full lips

  simply begging to be kissed and twin dimples that gave him a mischievous look—the

  viewer still had to contend with thick, sleek black hair falling in waves to his shoulders

  and a body made by the gods for a woman to stroke.

  And stroke him she did.

  Rylee ran her hands over the taut expanse of his chest, threaded her fingers through

  his chest hair, massaged the rock-hard pecs with the hardened little nubbins that were

  his nipples and then smoothed her palm over the steely muscles around his deeply

  indented bellybutton.

  “I never tire of touching you,” she whispered. “Do you know that?”

  “I never tire of you touching me,” he replied, “but you are entirely too covered,

  wench.”

  It took but a few moments to divest her of her long cotton skirt and drawstring

&nbs
p; blouse she wore when she came to visit him. Dressed more like a peasant than the

  daughter of a lord that she was, her attire added to her allure. Often barefoot, she

  brought with her an earthy quality he knew damned well she hadn’t been taught in her

  mother’s house. Tonight—because the weather had turned cold—she had worn slippers

  and they were the last things he removed, bringing her small foot up to brace it upon

  his shoulder. He massaged her shapely calf, his eyes on hers.

  “Do you have any idea what looking at you lying there naked does to me, Rylee

  McCourtland?” he asked. He lifted her foot to nibble at her toes.

  “I know you are being unfair to me,” she said with a pout. “You have your britches

  on still.”

  He was kneeling down at the foot of the bed with the top button of his britches

  undone, his feet bare—his boots and stockings having already been removed from him

  by the delectable morsel reclining on his bed when she first arrived. He shifted his

  body, feeling the strain of his cock against the tight fabric. As she writhed on the bed,

  his balls drew up and felt as though they were about to explode.

  “Then take me, you sorry wretch,” she said. “I don’t have all night to tarry with

  you. I have other customers, you know.”

  Her saucy playacting never failed to spur Alsandair to action and he dropped her

  foot, spreading her legs wide as he stretched out atop her, sliding his chest over the hot

  apex of her thighs before letting his full weight press her down into the mattress.

  “Other customers, is it?” he growled, and lowered his mouth to her neck, nipping at

  the succulent flesh. His hands molded to her breasts, squeezing lightly.

  “Paying customers at that,” she said, and spiked her fingers through his thick

  waves. She smiled when he growled low in his throat and moved his lips from her neck

  to her shoulder to the soft rise of her breast. Her hand in his hair tensed as his teeth

  grazed over one straining nipple.

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  Journey of the Wind

  “You are a witch,” he said as he began suckling her.

  His mouth was hot and wet, and his teeth sent spirals of sheer delight coursing

  through her as he took her nipple between them.

  “But I am your witch, Commander,” she reminded him.

  Without answering, he worked his way down her lush body while he still kept

  possession of her breasts—running his thumbs over the swollen tips. He paid homage

  to her bellybutton with tiny little flicks of his tongue and a deep kiss that made her

  wiggle beneath him. By the time his lips slid over the wiry red curls at the top of her

  fiery triangle, she had grabbed hold of the sheet to either side of her and was twisting it.

  The man had a sinful mouth, she thought as he dragged his tongue around and

  around her mound. With each circuit he went lower until one such trip had him graze

  her clit and she arched up as though poked with a hot stick.

  “Ah-ha!” he said with a grunt. “Methinks I’ve found your goody spot, wench!”

  A wicked laugh escaped him and he hooked his thumbs under her knees and

  pushed her legs up and apart, leaving her completely vulnerable and open to his view.

  He met her gaze and she shivered as one dark brow slowly moved upward. “Shall I

  torture you now I’ve discovered it?” he asked.

  Reaching up behind her, Rylee took hold of the iron bars of the head post once

  more and held on as though for dear life. From the moment his tongue touched the base

  of her slit and lapped upward, she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the absolute

  delight he wielded.

  Licking her over and over again with the broad expanse of his tongue, he could feel

  her juices flowing ever freer. The taste of her was like pure, warm honey and he never

  seemed to be able to get enough. Even though he paused to stab his tongue into that

  honeypot, he couldn’t get as much of that sublime taste as he would have liked.

  Sometimes, he thought as he latched his lips upon her clit, he wished he could climb

  inside her and feast until he was gorged.

  “Sandair,” he heard her purr, and drove his fingers into her again.

  Rylee tensed and felt the stirrings of release pushing at her lower belly. Her blood

  was pumping quicker there and settling in that region. She wanted her lover in her,

  wanted to be impaled on his large cock when the next wave of orgasm struck.

  “Sandair, hurry,” she warned, writhing as he fingered her, his mouth toying with

  her clit.

  He heard—and understood—the urgency in her voice and moved so he could lower

  his zipper enough to free his erection. It sprang out of his britches and unerringly

  nudged at the entrance of her channel. He often wondered if the blasted thing didn’t

  have a mind of its own where Rylee was concerned. Like a homing pigeon, it flew

  straight up her sheath and he grunted as it came to roost at the very core of her being.

  Throwing her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist, Rylee rode

  him, meeting him thrust for thrust as she arched her hips up for his penetration. Both

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  Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  their bodies were soon slick with sweat and the sound of his balls slapping against her

  buttocks made her cry out with enjoyment.

  Pushing into her as hard as he could—for she would have it no other way—

  Alsandair could feel his climax galloping on steely hooves. Hot sparks arced through

  his balls and his cock was one long, sensitive spike encased in hot silk. Each thrust now

  made him grunt with the force of it and he knew his ribs would be bruised come

  morning for Rylee’s knees were pressed so tightly against him.

  The first ripple began in her velvet softness and with it his release poured out like

  hot cream. They clung to one another and pounded their bodies together until the last

  pulse faded away and he collapsed atop her—spent and drained.

  Rylee held him to her, feeling his warm breath fanning over her naked breast as he

  lay there with his head on her chest. She could feel the runaway beat of his heart

  slamming against her own and the sound of his labored breathing made her very

  protective, very caring of this man and her arms tightened around him.

  Alsandair was half asleep as her hand touched the sore spot on his back and he

  didn’t have enough energy not to flinch. He had been lying there with his eyes closed

  but now they flew open and he frowned, holding his breath as her fingertips slid over

  the wound.

  “What is this?” she asked, gingerly fingering the puckered injury.

  “It’s nothing,” he lied.

  For a moment she said nothing but—as she always did—she uncovered the untruth

  in his tone. “Let me see,” she ordered, pushing at his shoulders.

  “Rylee…” he began, lifting his body off her.

  “Let me see,” she repeated, and this time her voice brooked no argument as she slid

  out from under him.

  Alsandair could do no more than lie there on his belly as she sat up beside him. He

  heard her gasp then speak his name in that tone that always made him wince.

  “Alsandair!”

  He sighed deeply then turned over to his back, looking up at her stormy eyes with

  apology. “It doesn’t even hurt now, Ry,” he said.
r />   “Liar,” she named him. “You flinched when I touched it.”

  “Aye,” he said in a reasonable way, sitting up. “When you poke at it, it still has

  touchiness to it.”

  “Touchiness, my ass,” she said through clenched teeth. “Who did that to you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Tears entered Rylee’s eyes. To him, the wound was nothing. To her, it was another

  foul scar on his beautiful body and it hurt her very heart to see it.

  “Ah, don’t do that,” he begged, seeing the tears forming. “I’m here and—”

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  Journey of the Wind

  “One of these days they’ll bring you back on your shield!” she accused, flinging

  herself off the bed. She snatched up her skirt, stepping into it with furious jerks of her

  legs. “I’ll be a widow ever before I’m even a bride!”

  Alsandair hung his head—not out of shame but out of weariness. They’d had this

  conversation too many times over the years and he didn’t want to have it again tonight.

  He looked up as she jerked her blouse over her breasts. “Rylee, please don’t—”

  “We’ve been betrothed for five years, Alsandair Farrell,” she said. “Five years!

  Every year adds another scar or two to your body and every year I worry that that scar

  might be your last.”

  “I am careful, Ry,” he defended, his warrior pride stung by her words.

  “Aye, you’re careful, all right,” she said, eyes narrowed. “Is that how you got that

  wound? By being careful?”

  He held his hand out to her. “Come here, sweeting.”

  “No,” she said, snatching up her shawl to throw around her shoulders. “I can’t take

  any more of this.”

  Fear wriggled into his heart. “What do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean!” she threw at him as she stooped down to retrieve

  her slippers. She stood there with them in her hand.

  His anger surfaced to quell the fear. “You knew I was a soldier when we first met,

  Rylee. You knew what it was I did for a living.”

  “Aye, and I know you told me that you’d not be a soldier until the day you died,”

 

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