Mists of Velvet

by Sophie Renwick

  “Do you know the Sidhe king?”

  She paused and looked up at him. Then she nodded slowly, which led him to believe she knew of Bran, even if she didn’t know him.

  “Can you take me to him?”

  She shook her head violently, then pointed to his chest.

  “I’m better. Thanks to you. But I need to get to Bran.”

  Again she shook her head, and Rhys reached for her wrist. “I can’t stay here. I need to leave.”

  Rising up, she twisted her wrist, freeing herself from his weakened grip.

  “If you won’t take me, I’ll go searching myself.”

  She shoved him back down, then promptly left him on the floor. Damn if the woman wasn’t stubborn.

  “I’m healed,” he called after her as she walked out the door of the cottage. Damn it, he hoped he hadn’t offended her. It probably wasn’t the right thing to do with a goddess who had just saved your ass.

  Slowly Rhys stood up and smoothed his hands over his face. The food had given him strength, and the medicine that covered his chest was tingling nicely, cooling the fire of his skin. In all, he felt pretty good for nearly being a human sacrifice. And he owed it all to the woman who had just left him—again.

  Rhys made his way to the door and opened it, prepared to step out and see where she was. But the snarling sound made him freeze. Before him was the white wolf, and its teeth were not something Rhys particularly cared to experience digging into his leg.

  “All right,” he muttered, stepping back. The wolf moved forward, forcing Rhys back into the cottage. Rhys didn’t know whether to put his hands in the air in surrender or to cover his genitals, which were pretty much eye level with the wolf. Damn it, he really needed some jeans.

  The wolf forced him back until Rhys was standing in the spot by the fire. Their gazes were locked, and Rhys reminded himself not to make any sudden moves.

  Lowering his tall body onto the fur pallets, Rhys slowly brought his arms down. “All right, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  The wolf whimpered and immediately sat back on its haunches. Rhys suddenly saw the intricate blue design on its left hind leg. He went to touch it, but the wolf snapped. A warning only—its teeth weren’t anywhere near his skin, but the sound of clamping jaws had the intended effect. Rhys backed off.

  “Where did she go, huh?” he asked the wolf. It cocked its head and studied him. Its eyes were gorgeous; so icy blue—a lot like the color of his goddess’ eyes, he thought.

  The animal let him put his palm on its head and rub between its ears. “There, see, I’m not going to hurt you. But I do need to get to the Sidhe king.”

  “Soon . . .”

  He heard the word, whispered in a woman’s voice. He jumped, afraid it was Cailleach, but as he looked around the cottage, he realized no one was there besides him and the wolf.

  As he stared into the animal’s blue eyes, Rhys began to feel sleepy. His exertions had cost him, and now he was feeling weak and exhausted. Pansy-ass mortal.

  Even though he didn’t want to show his weakness, he couldn’t help but recline on his side. The furs felt good beneath him. The animal followed, curving its body into Rhys’ front.

  “Don’t you leave me, too,” he mumbled as he let his arm drape over the wolf. “And don’t decide to rip out my throat when I fall asleep.”

  The last thing he saw before sleep claimed him was the wolf’s eyes. They really did remind him of the goddess’ baby blues. Man, he thought with disgust, he was really fucking losing it.

  When Rhys was asleep, Bronwnn slowly rose. His arm was still draped across her body, and she was loath to move it. It felt good. He felt good. But she knew she must.

  The change into her woman’s form was swift and painless. She stood beside him now, gazing down upon him. He was so handsome, and his voice was the color of the night, black and sultry. It washed over and made her skin prickle with awareness. Perhaps she found his voice so arousing because she no longer had one of her own. He hadn’t appeared to be disappointed by her not speaking to him. She had fleetingly wondered if he would. They were to be mated, after all. They would have a lifetime spent together. And if she didn’t talk . . .

  Bronwnn’s gaze roved along his hard body. There were other things to do than talk, she thought.

  Turning, she went back to the table and set about her task. She had wanted to bathe him, to soothe the ache that must have settled into his body after lying on the hard floor all day, but then he had fallen asleep.

  She would take care of him now. Taking the cloth and bowl of water, she returned to his side and kneeled. The water was warm, and she dredged the cloth through it, wetting it, then brought it to his face. Carefully she washed him. He sighed but did not wake.

  The thorn-apple was a powerful drug. The lethargy and mental fatigue he was suffering could last for days.

  She had wanted to continue hearing his voice, to study his beautiful violet eyes, but this was nice, too—the quiet and being able to watch him unguarded and asleep. She could peruse his body and allow her gaze to linger on parts she hadn’t dared to stare at while he had been talking to her.

  His body, so hard and big, was a work of art. Bronwnn let her fingertips trail along the contoured ridge of his thigh. He was as hard as granite, but warm. She continued washing him—his arms, then his legs. She avoided his chest, allowing the witch hazel ointment to work.

  She had no idea how long she kneeled beside him in the pretense of bathing him. His body was clean, and the water had cooled. She was done. But she could not force her hand to stop touching him. She wanted more—to straddle him and feel his body beneath hers. She wanted to touch him intimately, to take his staff and feel it grow in her hand.

  She was a virgin, but she was not innocent of sex. She was the goddess of sexuality and fertility. She knew the ways of pleasure. They were instinctual to her. Sex was nothing to be ashamed of or to fear. She embraced it—would embrace it with him.

  Boldly, her fingertips left his thigh and trailed over to his hip, then to his cock. She had heard many species use this word to refer to that part of themselves. She liked the sound of it; she wanted to hear it uttered in the man’s deep voice.

  Her finger traced the length of it, and the man moaned, and she watched as it grew, thickened. She reached out and curled her fingers around it, feeling its satiny smoothness and thick veins. He was broad and long, and the need to smell and taste was overpowering.

  She held him, feeling it pulse in her hand. He was warm, the veins growing, filling. And then she jumped as she felt his fingers curl over hers.

  “Yes,” he purred sleepily.

  Using his hand, he pumped up and down, and she listened to his moans of pleasure as she studied the rhythm he liked. His skin was flushed, and his abdomen was tense and rigid. His free hand moved to cup the sac between his legs. He rolled it and squeezed as the pressure of his hand on hers increased, encouraging her to quicken her strokes.

  His breathing was fast, his cheeks stained red. His cock was now so thick, her fingers could no longer curl around the staff. The musky scent of his body aroused her, and she felt her nipples bead and her thighs quiver. Her mouth actually moistened as she studied the way he looked in her hand.

  Then, he was reaching for her, his strong fingers wrapped gently around her nape, and he brought her down, till the wet tip of his cock brushed against her mouth.

  He tasted of salt, sweat, and the unidentifiable scent that aroused her so much.

  “Take it in your mouth.”

  Her body felt hot, alive. His voice was even more arousing when heated with pleasure. His voice in the quiet made her wet, reckless.

  She was innocent; yet instinct guided her where inexperience could not. In all her dreams of him, she had not done this, but as she had watched over him last night—their first night together, staring at his body, touching it—she had wanted to taste him.

  She lowered her head and sucked him deep, listening to his low
groan. She took pleasure in the way he fisted his hand in her hair—just as he had in her vision, when he had been rough and primal. The animal in her stirred, recognizing its mate. The animal was not gentle, and it overtook the woman in her.

  Sucking him, she pleasured him with the tip of her tongue. First, she used tiny flicks; then, deeply she drew him in, sucking him and tasting his skin.

  “If this is heaven, then thank God for death,” he whispered as he bucked his hips forward. He grew thicker in her mouth, and she used her tongue to lave the smooth skin, then the wrinkled edges of his shaft. As he moaned and grew more forceful, she felt her body turn soft and her thighs grow slick.

  Moving her hand between them, she discovered her core was wet and aching. Then her hand was brushed aside, replaced with his hot, hard palm.

  “Wet and waiting,” he murmured huskily. “You want me.”

  She whimpered, the only sound she permitted herself, and it turned him into something more feral—something to match the animal in her.

  Before she knew it, before she could understand his intent, or how he had the strength, he removed his shaft from her mouth and pulled her body on top of his until her thighs straddled his hips. His hand sought her folds, the stroking and rubbing of his fingers making her want to scream in pleasure.

  He watched her; she felt his beautiful violet eyes roving along her nakedness. His eyes darkened as his gaze fixed on her breasts. He licked his lips, and she pressed forward, allowing her breasts to dangle before him.

  “Nice,” he whispered. “Now let me taste them.”

  Bronwnn brushed her nipples across his lips, teasing him. He captured one, bit gently down, then circled the hard tip with his tongue. His hand was now clutching her, kneading her bottom. She arched, tossing her head back so that her breasts were fully before him and his hand was squeezing her.

  “You have the finest tits and ass I’ve ever seen.”

  The words aroused her, even though she didn’t quite understand them. She knew they were said to arouse, and they did. She was wet, and she was rubbing herself against his swollen shaft.

  “Come,” he commanded. His hands fixed on her hips, and anchoring them on either side of her, he flexed up, meeting her, connecting with her wet sex.

  “Rub on me,” he whispered as he brought her down and kissed her cheek. His breath was moist against her, his words hot in her ear. “Let me feel your cunt.”

  Her whole body was quivering now, and he held her tighter as he rubbed his cock against her, the length of him sliding between her slick folds. She was moving faster now, and his breathing was quicker as it whispered against her.

  “Fuck, I want to be inside you.”

  She wanted that, too, but it was too late. She was shuddering on top of him, mindless of anything but the pleasure that centered deep in her sex and spread out to her limbs. She would have cried out, but she was mute, her body fractured from her mind. And then she collapsed against him, her breasts pressed against the hard wall of his chest.

  His fingers ran along her spine, soothing her. His touch was soft, reverent. He kissed her cheek, then the crook of her neck.

  “That was better than my dreams,” he whispered, and Bronwnn nodded her agreement.

  Her dreams had been nothing like this. Nothing could have prepared her for the exquisite feel of his hand, his hard body, the primitive need she felt binding them.

  “Mo bandia,” he murmured, before kissing her.

  My goddess.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I’ve dreamed of you, you know.”

  Rhys gazed down into the face of the woman lying in his arms. She was beautiful, especially now, her skin flushed in the afterglow of passion.

  “For weeks you’ve come to me.” Her blue eyes peered up at him. “Has it been the same for you?”

  She nodded, and a sense of relief and elation flooded him. She had dreamed of him, too.

  “We’re connected. Fated.” His hand grazed along her back, and she shivered. He held her closer, basking in the feel of her. “You’re mine.”

  She agreed. He might be a mortal, but Rhys knew how things worked in the Otherworld. He had mingled with immortals all his life. He knew of their ways, their beliefs. Dreams figured heavily in their culture, and Rhys knew that he and this woman were now deeply intertwined.

  “That’s how you knew to find me.”

  She nodded, then kissed his chin, using her fingertips to trace the outline of the torc. He had forgotten he was wearing it. He smiled, thinking of the wolf head at either end of it—a fitting animal. Somehow Daegan had known he’d make this journey. He had also known a wolf was in his future.

  “I have to get to Bran,” he murmured as he nuzzled her hair with his lips. “I’ve seen things I must tell him. It’s important.”

  She shook her head and held him tighter. She wasn’t letting him go. While he appreciated her concern, Rhys knew he couldn’t stay in this cottage forever. It wasn’t his nature to hide and be idle. He needed to do something. And that he had firsthand information on the Dark Mage was vital. No one had been so close to the killer and lived to tell about it.

  She was still clutching him, and he held her close, reveling in the newfound softness inside him. He hadn’t even been inside her, and already there was a connection between them. He felt it, coursing through him. He would protect her with his dying breath. She was his, and he would keep her safe—and satiated.

  “If you’re not going to let me leave, then what are we going to do?”

  The hunger in her eyes made him instantly hard. This was a woman who could satisfy all his needs. She was lusty and eager, and he liked that. She was also strong and independent, and capable of keeping him in check when he didn’t want to admit he was too weak to do something.

  He kissed her, a soft and lingering kiss, and when he pulled back, her eyes were still closed. He smiled, then lowered his head once more to kiss her again. This time he used the tip of his tongue to brush along the seam of her lips. She gasped, and he clutched her tighter.

  He wanted to make this right, to cement their bond. He was going to be inside her this time when she came.

  “I don’t even know your name,” he murmured against her mouth. It obviously didn’t matter to her, because she pressed up against him and deepened the kiss.

  He wanted her. Badly. But Rhys couldn’t help but slow things down. This was what he wanted, to be inside her, to make love to her. Except he wanted to make certain his beliefs were what she believed.

  “I’ve dreamed of you, and you’ve dreamed of me. I believe you’re mine. That we’re destined to be together. Is that what you believe?”

  She pulled back just enough so she could gaze up into his face. Her slow nod made his body light up.

  “Then you agree to this? You . . .” He swallowed hard. “You accept me as your mate?”

  Her smile was big and warm. He gathered her close and began kissing her, but not with the slow, lazy kisses he had teased her with before. Now he was kissing her hard, his mouth open over hers and his tongue delving deep into her mouth.

  Rolling on top of her, Rhys rested his weight on his elbows and allowed his fingers to curl into her hair. It felt like silk, and she smelled so damned good to him.

  She was restless beneath him, her voluptuous body curved into his hard one. Jesus, he was the luckiest bastard in the world to be able to claim a woman like this. She was beautiful and responsive, and she was his . . .

  Something he couldn’t recognize snapped into place inside him. All of a sudden, his feelings were stronger, more acute. He felt possessive, but something else? Love? Was it even possible? Had he started to care for her in his dreams?

  Shit, this feeling was so foreign to him. Maybe it was just a hard-core case of lust. But when his hands left her hair so his thumbs could brush along the bounding of her pulse, he knew it was something much stronger and more long-lived than a simple case of a hard-on and a willing woman.

  Her heart w
as beating fast, but so was his. Her pale skin was flushed pink with sexual excitement, and her breathing was rapid, irregular—aroused.

  Lifting up from her body, he gazed down at her. She was gorgeous, her breasts full and pink tipped—perfect. Cupping her breasts, Rhys ran the pads of his thumbs over her nipples, watching as they beaded. She moaned then, the first sound she had made. It was beautiful, and he fell onto her like a starving man.

  He suckled her, blew hot air across her nipples, nibbled at them, while her legs slid over his ass and her fingers clawed at his hair. Her pussy was wet; he could feel the slickness of her folds against his cock. He wanted to penetrate her, but he wanted to taste her, too.

  Sliding down her body, he spread her sex and licked. She cried out and reached for his shoulders, lifting her hips to meet his mouth. He took his time licking, tonguing her. She was wet, sweet, and he brought her up slowly, making her burn.

  When she was ready, when he felt her fingers in his hair pulling him up, he loomed over her, caught her gaze, and slowly rubbed his cock against her.

  “Do you want this?” His breathing was heavy and his words gruff with passion. She reached for his ass and gripped him, lifting herself to him.

  He teased her by circling the tip of his cock against her clit; she purred, the sound like some wild animal. It made him feel primal, and he slipped into her, stretching her wide.

  She was tight, and he was careful. He knew she would be a virgin. Goddesses who wore white were chaste. After they had taken a mate, they wore various colors. This goddess, he thought with satisfaction, would know only him, and soon she would no longer be chaste, but his.

  Plunging deep, he broke her, forging through her and stretching her to fit him. She did not cry out but clung to him, nipped his neck, and bucked her hips back against his, taking him deep.

  Slowly he rocked against her as their chests rubbed together, and they looked deeply into each other’s eyes. Never had he felt anything so damned good. He’d had sex—lots of it—but never with a woman he knew was to be his, and never alone. Keir had always been there, either in form or shadow, feeding off Rhys’ energy. It had never been just Rhys alone with a woman he desired.