by Jaci Burton
She’d never given herself the luxury of hope in such a thing, with its unacceptable and often disappointing truth. But perhaps Sleeping Beauty had seen in her prince’s eyes what she saw in Lucas’s now as he slowly entered her once again, keeping his gaze locked on hers as her lips parted, tender body arching to accept him again. Something that wasn’t disappointing, something she knew was worth working for, getting up off the princess’s dais and following him into a whole new world of possibilities.
When Lucas bent, bringing his mouth to hers in a kiss that melted her, that she suspected always would, she met it. Lifting her head, putting her hands on either side of his neck, she dug into the silky short hair at his nape, finding the rough line of his jaw under her thumbs, feeling his hard body stretched all along her softer one. She gave way before truth again and gloried in it. His.
“I’m going to lose that bet,” he muttered against her lips.
“What bet?”
He shook his head, taking her head back to the pillow, his forehead resting on it. “Tighten on me, sweetheart. The bet doesn’t matter. You’re what matters. Tell me again you’re mine.”
She smiled and kissed him, but didn’t answer. Taking Savannah’s words to heart, especially in their current position, she decided she wanted him to work for it. All night, and then some.
And then she’d ask for those bracelets back.
Joey W. Hill is a bestselling Ellora’s Cave and Heat author. She lives in Southport, North Carolina, near Wilmington and Myrtle Beach. Visit her website at www.storywitch.com.
Don’t miss her exciting new novel, A Witch’s Beauty, coming in January 2009 from Berkley Sensation. Turn to the back of the book for a sneak preview.
Rubies and Black Velvet
DENISE ROSSETTI
One
HOLDERCROFT ON THE CRESSY PLAINS, PALIMPSEST
When the thunder came again and again, rolling around the tall heads of the mountains, the good folk of Holdercroft village shuddered. “They’m at it again,” they said, shaking their heads. But the tavern on the plain was warm and snug, the doors and windows shuttered against the fierce driving rain.
“’Tis the dragon djinn,” grunted old Griddle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“And the sorceress,” whispered his wife. She made the two-handed sign of the Sibling Moons. “Brother and Sister preserve us.”
“Seen ’er once.” Griddle held out his tankard for a refill. “Ridin’ a storm cloud, the night the big tree came down, ye remember?”
“Ye were drunk,” scoffed his wife.
“Naked as a bebbe she were. All pale and long.” Griddle’s rheumy eyes took on a faraway look. “Hair down to ’er waist, flyin’ like whips o’ black silk. And when she looked at me, ’twas like starin’ hell in the eye. So dark, so deep . . .” He buried his long nose in his ale.
“Ye stupid old sot.” Griddle’s wife poked his shoulder with a bony finger. “Why would a sorceress look at ye?”
Griddle subsided, grumbling into his ale. “She did,” he muttered, almost too low to hear. “Like she wanted to chew me up and spit me out. Like she hated me for livin’.” Abruptly, he banged his empty jug down on the bar. “Gimme another!”
At evening’s end, his wife had to call for the blacksmith’s boys to carry him home through the rain on a plank.
Out in the barn behind the Mackie place, John knelt at Meg’s feet, grumbling as she toweled his hair. “Give over, Meggie. You’re not my bloody mother.”
But Meg only laughed, that deep delicious chuckle that never failed to make something inside him flutter. She pulled his head down between her generous breasts and rubbed harder. Giving up, John pushed his nose deep into the warm, fragrant depths of her cleavage and inhaled with tremendous satisfaction.
Meg. His Steady Meggie.
Even at nineteen, he had no doubts. The gods had made Margaret May Mackie just for him. His center, his refuge, when the emotional tempests at home got too much. They wore a man down, his family. Between Ma and Da and his ten brawling siblings, there were times John couldn’t think straight unless he held Meggie’s hand in his.
He stroked a broad, callused palm over the luscious curve of her rump. The only girl in the Cressy Plains who could match him. Five foot eleven inches in her sturdy bare feet, Meg’s cushiony body fitted perfectly against his huge frame, her long legs and smoothly muscled thighs a comfortable cradle for his eager weight.
John fumbled a hand down to rearrange his aching cock. He wasn’t embarrassed. With Meg, everything was natural, easy. She knew him, better than he did himself, he thought sometimes. He hadn’t got inside her yet, though it was all he’d been able to think about through the long, golden summer, the pink musky flesh between her pale thighs. They’d done just about everything else, though. Grinning, he traced the crescent of freckles on the inner curve of one breast with his tongue. Then he blew on the damp, creamy flesh.
Meg yelped and tweaked his ear.
One day . . . He leaned forward to rub his cheek against the softness of her belly through the fabric of her sensible nightgown. One day, Steady Meggie would swell with his child. They’d make their own family, one without fists and fury and slamming doors. If they were fortunate, her frail widowed father would live long enough to spoil his grandchildren. And before he passed to the gods, he’d see the land he’d loved well tended.
And John would be Meggie’s too. For the rest of their lives.
It gave him such pleasure to think of it. His life in her steady, capable hands.
He glanced up, watching her sweet round face as she smoothed the rebellious spikes of his damp hair. He’d slipped out the window of the room he shared with Nathan, Topher, Danerel, and Zem and ridden through the storm to see her. His brothers wouldn’t tell. Not that he cared, not when he could have this.
As Meg’s hair streamed over her shoulders in a cloud of reddish gold, he had the fancy she glowed in the lamplight, as if her flesh was illuminated from within. John knew he wasn’t much of a one for stories or clever words, but it crossed his mind that the freckles scattered across her nose looked like flecks of gold floating in a cream jug. His cheeks heated. He was a farmer, not a fucking poet.
“What’s wrong?” asked Meg. “You’re frowning.”
“Nothing.” John smoothed his palms up the back of her thighs, under the nightgown. “Ah, Meggie, you’re beautiful.” He filled his hands with the soft, resilient flesh of her bare bottom.
She smiled, showing an endearingly crooked tooth at the front. “No, I’m not, but I like that you think so.” Her blue-gray eyes very bright, she leaned over him, fingertips caressing the back of his neck. “John, I don’t want to wait. I brought a blanket.”
John’s cock reared like an unruly colt, even as his heart tried to climb out his throat. “Sweetheart, are you sure?” He couldn’t continue.
“Oh yes,” said Meg placidly, though her cheeks flushed with shy color. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Like the healthy young animals they were, they’d spent the summer in heady, sensual exploration, all with increasing daring and delight. John had never imagined a woman would whimper when he kissed the inside of her elbow, or nibbled the soft flesh behind her ear, but Meggie did. On the other hand, he hadn’t been surprised that she gasped when he slid a finger into her wet heat or that her mouth opened on a strangled scream when he bent his head, parted her pink folds, and licked cautiously up and down her slit. The smell of her, the strange earthy-salty taste, had sped straight to the most primitive part of his brain. Then it sizzled down his spine in a blinding rush to that other most primitive part—and he’d spurted ferociously, unable even to find the breath to swear, the feeling was so intense.
That had made him flush and look away, but it hadn’t turned out too badly in the end, because after a bit of coaxing, Meggie had let him watch as she brought herself off, his fascinated gaze on her busy fingers, memorizing every motion. And he adored
the high, helpless noises she made as she reached her peak. When her back had bowed up in a splendid, fierce arch, she’d gasped his name over and over, as if it was an invocation. The rush of emotion had nearly choked him.
Meg stepped away to spread the blanket over the heap of clean straw in an empty stall, and it occurred to John he’d never seen her waste a motion or appear less than graceful. Brother’s balls, she was a miracle. His miracle.
Godsdammit, what if he hurt her? Rising, he glanced down his rangy body. Flat belly, long, brawny thighs, huge feet in heavy boots. As for his cock . . . Gods!
Tall as she was for a woman, he was so much bigger. Big-boned, his chest and shoulders dense with the muscle of hard labor, day after day. His mother complained he was still growing, but she’d find a smile for him as she heaped a second serving of dumplings on his plate.
John unlaced his trews and sighed with relief as his organ slapped straight up against his belly. He didn’t think it was possible for his balls to get tighter, but the motion pulled his scrotum up hard into his body and his cock rippled as if Meg had brushed her lips against the head.
“What if—?” he said. “If I . . . if you . . . you know. Not that I’d mind, but it’s too soon.”
She sank gracefully to her knees on the blanket. “Stop worrying. I’ve been drinking mothermeknot tea every morning since I turned thirteen. Everyone does. It’s good for the female parts and no babies.” Her smile turned luminous. “Not until we’re ready.”
John gripped his cock and squeezed, brutally hard. He’d never felt so thick, so turgid. He’d been brought up on a farm, so he knew he’d fit eventually, but oh gods, she was untried. Tight. His head spun and the next words came out in a croak. “I’ll hurt you.”
Meg’s gaze dropped, the sensation so tangible it was as if she’d reached out and stroked him from root to crown. When she wet her lips with the point of a pink tongue, he choked back a groan. “Come here,” she said, rising. Then she grasped the nightgown at the hem and ripped it off over her head.
He would never see anything more lovely. Not in all the days of his life.
Outside, the wind doubled in force, howling, and the barn rocked under the lash of the rain. But inside it was warm, scented with the thick, musty smell of animals, the milkbeasts shifting in the stalls, John’s horse blowing its content, hooves like dinner plates scuffling in the straw.
Some strange presentiment lifted the hair on the back of his neck, so that instead of lunging forward and throwing her down to ram himself deep, John could only stand like a block, gripping a sturdy wooden post as if he would crush it to kindling. He stared, fixing her image in his mind, all plump, smooth curves, painted in cream and gold. Her lips were parted, shining a soft berry pink, the tips of her full, heavy breasts already furled and dusky. Waiting for him, for his big rough hands and impatient mouth.
“We both know what to expect.” Meg’s whisper hung in the dusty, lamp-lit air of the barn. Her smile went a little awry. “I’m a virgin. So are you. But it will only hurt this one time. After that . . .” She hauled in a breath, her breasts lifting. The soft curves of her belly went taut.
John lurched forward a step, fumbling with the laces of his shirt. “Ah, love.”
Meg brushed his shaking hands aside and did it herself, pushing the garment off his shoulders. “I trust you,” she said, while he drowned in her eyes, clear and soft as a summer’s dusk. “With my life, now and forever.”
Suddenly, she grinned, impish with happiness. “But I’m not doing it with a man who’s still got his boots on.”
The tension broke. John chuckled and everything was easy again. Hopping from foot to foot, he pulled his boots off, while Meg nipped at his chest, humming deep in her throat. When he kicked his trews away, she lay back on the blanket, drawing him down with her, her thighs falling open beneath him like the promise of paradise. One knee rose high over his hip and the sensitive head of his cock slid thrillingly across a slick warm surface.
Meg’s lids fluttered down, her neck arching in a beautiful curve, and a surge of greed took John by the balls and shoved him forward, notching his throbbing tip at the small sucking entrance to her body. Bending his head, he ravaged her throat with open-mouthed kisses while her luscious heat tugged at him and their blood beat together. “Love you, Meggie,” he muttered, incoherent with need. “So much, so much.”
Meg caught his face between her palms and held him steady so she could gaze deep into his eyes. Her fingers felt rough, raspy against his stubble. There wasn’t anything around the farm she couldn’t do as well as her father’s men, had been doing for years. “I’m yours,” she said. “Always.” She kissed him tenderly.
John clenched his teeth, caught somewhere between tears and driving lust, and grossly uncomfortable. His balls were going to explode. He wasn’t going to last. He’d disappoint her, hurt her.
It was the hardest thing he’d done in his life, but he backed off enough to fumble a hand between them, furrowing the tips of his fingers through her curls, feathering over her folds. The lighter his touch, the more likely she was to climax. John prided himself on being a quick learner. Shaking with the effort of restraint, he used two fingers to bracket the tiny prow of flesh at the apex of her sex. Then he bent his head to devour a nipple like a crinkled velvety bud, pulling it up against his hard palate, knowing from their summer’s experience that the combination would send her tumbling over the edge in a few minutes. She came for him so easily, his darling Meggie.
But not this time. “John.” Strong feminine fingers gripped his hair and pulled his head up. Meg glared into his face, panting, her face suffused with color. “I want you. Make me yours. Fuck me.” She tilted her hips and clasped her long legs over his buttocks, her heels pressing into the small of his back.
John made a garbled sound that might have passed for assent. The dimly lit barn swung around him, then steadied. He set his jaw. He could do this right, he would do it. For his Meggie.
He pulled back, grasping Meg’s thighs and splaying her wide, all pink and puffy and ruffled. “Watch us, Meggie,” he said hoarsely. “Watch me go in.”
Her breasts bobbling with her rapid breath, Meg came up on her elbows.
Gritting his teeth, John guided his cock to the space where he fit, a key for a lock, the gods’ gift to humanity. Gently, he pushed, butting against her virgin barrier, his heart thundering as he strove for control.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, Meggie. You feel so damn good.”
“Don’t stop.”
He shifted, rubbing a little up and down again, the smooth slipperiness making his head reel. Utterly delicious.
“Do it.” Meg slid a hand down, wrapped her fingers firmly around his girth and lodged him where he longed to go. “There.”
Shaking like a tree in a gale, John fought for breath.
“Meggie . . .”
The luster of her smile blinded him. Before he could recover, she’d planted her feet on the floor and shoved upward with her strong hips. Her thin shriek traveled past his ear, but he barely heard it, preoccupied with the intensely luscious sensations assaulting the sensitive skin of his cock from base to tip. He’d had no idea she would be so hot inside, or so strong. His balls cramped, pressed right up against her in a glorious ache.
“Won’t last,” he groaned. “Got to, to . . .” Helplessly, he began to thrust. “You . . . all right?”
Meg blinked, her eyes wide with wonder. “Stings . . . a bit.” When he changed the angle to slide deeper, her fingers clawed at his shoulders and she choked. “Sweet Sister, do that again.”
So he did. Again and again. Until Meg was making those formless noises of pleasure, her cheeks flying scarlet flags of color.
The seed boiled at the broad root of his cock, a flood he could no longer gainsay. “Going to . . . sorry, love, sorry . . .”
Meg wrapped her arms and legs around him and clung, her face buried against his chest, her breath hot and moist against his nipple. John
hunched over her and his buttocks flexed hard. Gone, he was gone, lost in the long ecstatic rush from balls to cock, pouring endlessly inside her, his world made of heat and light and his Steady Meggie.
When his vision cleared and he could catch his breath, he was appalled to see her eyes swimming with tears, though she smiled bravely enough. As gently as he could, he withdrew and reached for the cloth she’d set aside. So practical.
He dabbed at the blood on her thighs and then wiped himself down, trying to think of what to say. Meg lay and let him do it, absently stroking his arm. It was no use asking if he’d hurt her. He knew he had. In the end, he said the thing that was in his heart and prayed it would be enough. “Thank you.”
Tossing the cloth aside, he cupped her cheek in one big palm. “You gave me a beautiful gift, Meggie. I love you. I’m sorry I made you cry.”
“Fool.” Meg struck his biceps with her clenched fist, but lightly. “I’m happy.” Her lips trembled as she smiled and she scrubbed at the tears like a child. “It was wonderful, feeling you inside me, so close . . . I’ve never been so happy, truly.”
“Really? But . . .” John frowned. “It hurt, didn’t it?”
“Only a little.”
“But you didn’t—? Did you?”
“Not quite,” she said tranquilly. Then she grinned. “Make it up to me next time.” Tugging him down beside her, she burrowed into his shoulder. “Hold me,” she whispered.
Gratefully, John relaxed onto the blanket, feeling a little dizzy. He’d never felt so much, as if his soul wasn’t big enough to take it all—a soaring joy, a sense of completion, and underlying all that, a sense of his own mortality, of the fragility of life. He wanted to laugh aloud and he needed to cry. Turning his head, he buried his nose in Meg’s hair, holding on to her so tightly that she wriggled in protest.
She reached up to stroke his jaw. “You can stay ’til dawn, can’t you?”
When he nodded, she said, “Go to sleep, love.”