Lir's Lady

by Rebecca Rivard

  She blinked.

  This was not the Lir she remembered. That Lir had been young, easily led. Tough and cocky as hell, yes, but no match for a woman of her years.

  This man was fully mature. Hot and dark and way more dangerous. But those sexy threats and that long, knowing finger had her inner thighs clenching.

  “Do you?” she murmured. “Dream about us? Because I do, too.”

  His nostrils flared and he released her. What had she said?

  But his hand was on the small of her back, urging her toward the stairs. “Upstairs. Now.”

  1:47 AM

  Lir followed Isleen up the stairs, his gaze on her round bottom twitching to-and-fro under that little red excuse of a nightgown. He was so hard for her it hurt. He’d been aching for her for months, and the ride here hadn’t helped. It had been a special kind of torture, having her so close, half-naked and with those strong thighs gripping his back.

  She stopped at the top of the stairs and said, “Oh.”

  Just that single syllable, “Oh,” but it made all the work that had gone into planning this worthwhile.

  When he’d left for America, he’d sworn he would never come back, but somehow, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to sell this place. Not even in those first lean years when he’d been desperate for cash as he set up his stables and began to build a reputation as a horse whisperer and best damn eye for horseflesh in the Southwest.

  America suited him, especially New Mexico with its wide plains and sere, beautiful mountains, but he hadn’t been able to cut this last connection to Isleen. So when he’d decided to return, he’d set himself to creating an abode worthy of a sun fae lady.

  The second floor was a loft divided into a single large bedroom and a bathroom you could spend an entire day in: a soaking tub, a pedestal sink, a bidet and a walk-in shower. One whole wall of the bathroom was built of glass blocks, and, knowing how important sunlight was to Isleen, he’d also had the contractor place skylights throughout the loft.

  The bedroom was done in the colors of Ireland on a sunny day: grass-green walls and a sky-blue ceiling, a big blue sofa splashed with white clouds, and a huge oak bed topped by a white comforter with a yellow sun in the center. Earlier that evening, his housekeeper had set fae lights everywhere and then left for the house he’d built her elsewhere on the property. The bed was framed on either side by gold candles on tall columns, tiny white lights outlined the rustic wood headboard, and near the ceiling, gold and silver stars danced like fireflies.

  Lir flicked his fingers and a fire whooshed into being in the fireplace at the far end of the room. “Be welcome, love.” He spoke the formal words of welcome a second time because they seemed even more appropriate now that he had her in his bedroom.

  Isleen turned to face him. “This is—perfect,” she said, biting her lip. “Just perfect.” She cupped his face and kissed him.

  He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her back. By the gods, he wanted her. Some small part of him recalled that he’d had a plan, but he ignored it to jerk the red slip-thing off Isleen before pulling her back into his arms.

  She twined a leg around his hip and met him kiss for kiss. A tidal wave of longing and love rose up in him. He dragged in a breath and walked her backward until the backs of her thighs hit the bed.

  She smiled and touched his cheek, her smoky green eyes hazy with passion.

  He smiled back, slow and dangerous. Damn, he liked having her like this. To hell with returning her to her island by dawn. He might just keep her for the next few years.

  Then his heart clenched. Because there was just this one night. He’d promised, and he wouldn’t break a promise to Isleen, even if it wouldn’t have made him violently sick. Once she returned to her clan, there would be all the pushing and pulling and jockeying for position that had gone on last time.

  He understood that Isleen was the clan ruler, but he had to come first with her. He wasn’t going to accept any position other than that of mate. Either she accepted the bond, or they were through. It was just too painful otherwise.

  He pulled down the comforter, set her on the soft white sheets, and crawled on top of her. Taking her wrists, he pinned them to the mattress on either side of her head.

  “Lir?” She moistened her full red lips. “Are you going to do any of those things you—?”

  “That depends.” He brushed his mouth over hers. “Do you want me to?”

  Her throat worked. “Maybe.”

  “Because if you want me to”—he nipped the soft skin at the base of her collarbone—“then I won’t. And if you don’t want me to”—he kissed the mark he’d made—“then I will.”

  “Bloody tease,” she muttered.

  He raised his head to grin down at her. “I’m a púca, love. You’ve heard the stories. We’re the bad faeries. You never know what we’re going to do next. And if you cross us, we can be very…vindictive.”

  He swooped lower and sucked one hard, aroused nipple into his mouth, but she still managed to say, “Then I’ll just have to let you guess.”

  The woman could still talk? He clearly needed to try harder. He increased the suction. She gasped and then whimpered. He pulled even more strongly, keeping her on the edge between pleasure and pain.

  She worked her hands free and brought them to his head to draw him closer, but he removed them and pressed them to the mattress again. “Keep them there,” he said and waited until she moaned her agreement before releasing them.

  He slid his hands beneath her back, lifting her so her soft, full breasts were arched up to him, and latched onto her nipple again. He sucked and tongued it for long moments, loving the sexy sounds she made, and then moved on to the other one. When both nipples were wet and rosy, he kissed his way up to the hollow of her neck.

  Sun fae came in every skin tone from light to dark, but whatever their base color, they all had a golden sheen. Isleen’s own skin was a beautiful cream with a touch of gold that made him think of angels or storybook fairies, but somehow, it was her freckles that he’d missed the most.

  Just a few tiny copper dots scattered across the upper curve of her breasts and the tops of her shoulders, but damn if he didn’t want to taste them, one by one. As he trailed kisses over the pretty little spots, he recalled the night he’d counted them—slowly and with much laughter on both their parts. And then he’d bent her over a chair and…

  Her breath sighed out, and he knew she was recalling that night, too, and yet she didn’t say anything.

  But the mate bond pulsed. A single hard beat like the thump of a heart.

  He gave her a forceful, almost angry kiss, because he could guess why she was resisting him. Highborn ladies like her didn’t mate with lesser beings like shifters, no matter that Queen Cleia had taken a fada mate.

  His brother had warned him from the beginning that she’d use him and break his heart, but he’d told his brother to fuck himself and stormed off.

  When he lifted his head, Isleen was panting. He didn’t give her time to recover, just continued down her body, trailing kisses between her breasts, sucking each of her nipples to hardness again, swirling his tongue around her navel.

  He reached the dark red curls of her mound. He pursed his lips and directed a warm stream of air at her clitoris.

  She gasped and brought her knees up on either side of his head.

  He pressed her thighs back down. “Keep them there.”

  She jerked her head in acknowledgement and obediently kept herself spread open, but he could feel her muscles tightening and untightening beneath his palms.

  He raised himself up so he could see her face. “I think we need to make sure you aren’t tempted to disobey me.”

  Her gasp this time was outraged, but he just chuckled and left the bed to get a silk scarf. When he turned around, she was on her forearms watching him. He straddled her thighs and pushed her back down onto the mattress.

  “Say it’s all right, Isleen.” He took her wrists in one hand and
showed her the scarf. “I won’t do it unless you ask me to.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll take you back to the island. Right now.” His voice was harsh because it wasn’t easy to say.

  But he meant it.

  This was all about breaking through her defenses. Tonight, when she was at her most vulnerable, he was gambling everything he had that she’d finally recognize they were mates.

  Her teeth worried her lower lip. “No tricks?”

  “No tricks.”

  She nodded. “All right, then.”

  Keeping his grip on her wrists, he bent to kiss her. “Thank you,” he said against her mouth.

  He could tell she didn’t fully understand, but to him it was huge. Isleen was the ruler of a large, wealthy clan, and a powerful fae in her own right. She didn’t easily give up control to anyone, lover or not. In allowing Lir to bind her, she was saying she trusted him, even more than her agreement to come with him tonight had demonstrated.

  He wound the scarf around her wrists a couple of times, and then muttered a spell to bind the scarf, just tight enough so that it wouldn’t leave a mark. Her wrists would remain secured until he—and only he—released her.

  Isleen tested the knot. Wariness flickered across her face—and then she gave him a slow smile that made his whole body clench. “I think I’m going to like this game.”

  “Oh, I’m counting on it, love.”

  He gave her a hard kiss and then roughly kneed her legs apart. He could scent her excitement. He rumbled approval and after another hard, deep kiss, moved down her body.

  When he’d finally come back to himself as a man, he’d told himself he was over Isleen—and proved it by sexing woman after woman, so many that their faces ran together.

  But all he’d proved was that he couldn’t get over her. Because always, always, there was Isleen, the woman against whom he measured all the rest. Isleen and her lush, sexy body. Isleen and her enigmatic green eyes and bright hair. Isleen and her quick wit and the way she had of embracing life with both arms and a throaty chuckle.

  Last February, he’d realized that he hadn’t had a woman in over a year. He knew then it was time to go home to Ireland and Isleen. He had to settle this thing, once and for all, or he was never going to be at peace.

  But it wasn’t until the midsummer festival that it had hit him. She was his mate, the one woman with whom he could form the mystical, soul-deep bond.

  The mate bond had been growing all that time, slowly, inexorably, until it was too powerful to ignore.

  She’d felt it, too. It had been the height of the festival and she’d been dancing with another man, but she’d glanced around, her silky brows drawn together. He’d quickly faded back into the crowd. He’d already cast a glamour to make himself blend into the crowd, just another lesser fae that you wouldn’t look at twice. But just in case, he left a few minutes later. When he made himself known to Isleen, it would be at a time and place that he controlled.

  Now he set his mouth to Isleen’s center and swiped his tongue up through her warm, salty spice. Slowly and deliberately. Then again, and again.

  She moved her hips restlessly, seeking more, but he held her thighs down so that she had to lie still and take what he gave her. Her bound hands came to his head, pulling him closer. He allowed it, but only because her fingers in his hair felt so damn good.

  He teased her with his tongue for long minutes. One thing he’d learned from all those lovers was patience. And when she was practically sobbing with need, he slid two fingers into her tight, wet core and sucked deeply on her clit until she arched her back and came, pulsing around his fingers.

  He waited until she subsided to the bed with a satisfied sigh and then crawled back up her body, placing kisses as he went: the soft curve of her belly, the underside of each breast, her throat, her mouth and finally her closed eyelids.

  Her hands had ended up on her chest. He took them and stretched them over her head again. Earlier that evening, he’d placed a pitcher of white flowers on the night table—orchids and roses in tight, creamy buds, fat hydrangeas and some spiky flowers he couldn’t name. Now he took a single cream-colored rose and touched it to her lips.

  She inhaled deeply and opened her eyes, giving him a happy, open smile that made her look about eighteen. “You always were the best lover, Lir.”

  He swallowed and set the rose on the night table. “Turn over, Isleen.”

  She lifted her head to kiss him and then gracefully obeyed, coming onto all fours on the mattress.

  He drew a slow breath. Great Goddess, she was beautiful. She was on her forearms, her bound hands before her, her smooth, perfect bottom raised to him. Her wavy copper-and-gold hair fell over one shoulder in a shimmering waterfall.

  She glanced back at him, her green gaze glinting with humor. “What are you waiting for, púca?”

  He smacked her ass. A couple of hard swats. She dropped her head, but he could tell she liked it.

  Darkness rose in him. In that moment, he was more animal than not. She was his. The mate—and he was aching to take her. He smacked her ass again, then fisted his hand in her hair and pulled her head back. “You’re mine, Isleen, aren’t you? Tell me. I can do anything I want.”

  “Yes,” she said, the word a moan. “Anything, Lir.”

  He gave her another hard swat, then knelt behind her and grasped his cock. “Take this,” he gritted, and thrust inside.

  “Yes,” she said and tightened on him.

  He groaned with pleasure. She felt so damn good. Such a hot, wet grip that black spots danced behind his eyes. He clutched her hips and let himself go, pounding into her hard and wild.

  She arched her bottom up to take him. He heard her panting and he stopped, afraid he was hurting her. “You all right, love?”

  She cast a wild-eyed glance over her shoulder. “Very. All right.”

  “Good.” But he slowed his pace anyway. He wanted to squeeze every last ounce of enjoyment from this woman, and this night. Because if he couldn’t get through to her heart, it might be all he ever had.

  He bent forward, covering her with his body, and played with her breasts, her clit. She was making those sexy little sounds again. He pinched her nipples and she whimpered and clenched around him, sending a punch of sensation straight to his balls.

  He continued taking her at a slow, deliberate pace.

  She squirmed. “Harder, Lir. I need…”

  “Patience,” he said against her neck. “I know what you need.”

  “Lir.” The word was more a pant than anything else. “You. Bastard.”

  He smiled against her back and stroked a finger over her hot little nubbin. “I promised no tricks, but I didn’t say anything about playing games. You like games, don’t you, love?”

  “Sometimes,” she muttered.

  “Wrong answer.” He pinched her clit and she moaned and wriggled her ass in a way that had him sucking in a long breath. He rubbed her lightly with his finger. “Say please, Isleen.”

  She growled and he chuckled, but when he flicked her clit in warning, she said, “Please, damn you. Please, please, please.”

  “That’s more like it.” He smiled again. Call him a bastard, but it was damn nice hearing her beg. It was probably all the payback he was ever going to get—and that was fine with him—but ah, it was sweet.

  And then he forgot all about revenge and sexual tricks and concentrated his whole self on pleasing his lady.

  Time slowed. He was thinking in colors and sensations now, not words. The curve of her breast. The shimmer of her skin. The way her breath caught when he touched her—there.

  A tingle went up his inner thighs and his balls drew tight. He picked up the pace, thrusting into her fast and deep. She was touching herself and he put his hand over hers, pressing her fingers against her sex. She let out a small scream and her muscles fisted around his cock.

  He groaned out her name and they climaxed together, hard and so good that
he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.

  They collapsed face down on the bed, him covering her partway. He pressed a kiss to her cheek and, lifting himself off her, turned onto his back and pulled her into his arms. She cuddled next to him, her body warm and lax with satiation.

  Her wrists were still bound. He touched the fabric and murmured the counterspell. The scarf loosened and he pulled it off and tossed it onto the floor.

  She scrutinized him from beneath her lashes but didn’t say anything. He brought her closer and stroked her hair, sifting his fingers through the silky strands.

  “Mm.” She rubbed her head against his hand like a cat. “Why did we wait so long?”

  “I swore I was never coming back.”

  “Why did you?” she asked against his chest.

  He ached to tell her. He even opened his mouth, but his vocal cords locked. She had to come to the answer herself. It was the special curse of the púca; the mate couldn’t be told about the bond. They had to open to it on their own, or it would never flower fully.

  “I was there last summer,” he told her instead. “At the midsummer festival in America. I used a glamour to stay anonymous.”

  She tensed. “Then you saw me with—”

  “Those other men? Yes.”

  “I didn’t do anything.” She threaded her fingers through the wiry black hair on his chest. “I want you to know that.”

  “I know. But why? You’re a free woman. You can fuck any man you want.” His voice was harder than he meant it to be. But it was true, as much as he wanted it to be otherwise.

  She moved a shoulder. “I just wanted you to know that it’s been a while.”

  He felt a spark of hope but all he said was, “Then let’s stop wasting time.”

  He tipped her face up to him and brought his mouth down on hers. After that, the hours passed like a dream. He was insatiable, taking her again and again. Knowing he was being an animal, but not giving a damn.

  At least she’d remember he’d been there—for a few days, at least.