“It sounds like hell ta me,” Glenn said, his blue eyes glittering.
Tristin slapped the man on his good shoulder. “It sounds like heaven to me.”
After another half hour of well-meaning taunts and raucous laughter, Tristin quit the room and headed toward the stairs, his heart in his throat. When he’d left Bell Heather, he’d just admitted that he didn’t know if joining the Homme du Sang had been worth it. Now he knew it had been. The men, the brothers, he’d met and bled with, they were reason enough to be proud of what he’d accomplished. Nay, he couldn’t say he’d enjoyed the killing—even if it had been for the Church—but at least he could hang up his sword knowing he’d creating something lasting…a legacy.
At the door to Bell Heather’s room, he paused again, as he had before. This time, though, his anxiousness had nothing to do with whether Bell Heather wanted to be with him. It had everything to do with how much he wanted to be with her. How it had become the beat of his heart and the breath from his chest. Nervous, he tapped on the door, suddenly aware that she might have fallen asleep.
“Come,” a timid voice called from the other side. Letting out a slow breath, he pressed the latch and opened the door.
His nervousness fled in an instant at the sight that greeted him. Bell Heather, dressed in nothing more than air and shimmers, standing beside the roaring fireplace. Gobsmacked, he took a lumbering step forward, then another, then closed the door behind him. Locking it. If any man dared to interrupt them, he would draw his sword once more…
“You look…” he began then swallowed. He tried again, “You look beautiful.”
A becoming flush dressed her cheeks in a pink that only enhanced the dark pink that peeked out from the lacy roses covering her breasts.
His gaze, slowly, took her in; the swell of her breasts, the delicate length of her neck, the narrowness of her waist, the lush flare of her hips, the length and perfection of her legs. Finally, his ravenous gaze landed on the treasure the sheer fabric did nothing to hide. The curls there looked soft, inviting, and more than anything he wanted to touch her there…taste her there.
“Are ye…pleased?” she asked, her voice husky. She peered at him from beneath the fan of her lashes, her uncertainty as plain as the yearning in her eyes.
He stalked forward, his eyes never leaving hers. He stopped just before her and leaned in, brushing his lips over hers. She exhaled.
“Nay,” he said, and her shoulders fell and she tried pulling away. He wrapped his hands around her waist, holding her in place. He brushed another kiss over her mouth. “I am enraptured.” He took her mouth fully then, pressing her chest against his. The point of her nipples rubbed him through his tunic, and he groaned. He released her mouth and she leaned into him, her breathing as ragged as his.
“Thank God I had Elric help me remove the armor. I do not think I could stand not feeling you against me,” he murmured then took her mouth again. He cupped her face gently, cherishing the softness of her skin, the warmth and scent of her. Heather.
A laugh spilled out.
She started then blinked up at him.
“I have to admit something to you,” he said as she gazed up at him expectantly. “I found the bar of soap you left behind at the waterfall…”
Confusion registered just before realization dawned. “Is that why I spell it on ye?” She grinned up at him.
“Yes. I so enjoyed your scent that I wanted it with me.”
Her grin faltered. “Tis strange to want the scent of a woman ye had only just met—nay, spied on,” she teased.
He chuckled, brushing his lips over her forehead. It felt so good to be able to do something as simple yet intimate as that. “I was not spying on you. I had come to the river because I needed to refill the leather bottle. Finding you there was a pleasurable happenstance…”
He spun her around and pinned her back to his chest with an arm around her waist. She didn’t struggle, she leaned back, seeming to melt into him. Tristin bent his head and nibbled her just behind her ear and she shuddered, moaning. His shaft shot upward, filling with blood, thickening at the promise of what was to come.
The very air around them seemed charged, as if a storm was brewing between them. With his right hand, he cupped her breast. She arched into his palm, the bead at the tip straining against the soft fabric. He lifted the breast as if weighing it. The perfect weight. With his forefinger and thumb, he pinched the nipple. She gasped.
“Tristin…” she moaned, making his manhood jump. He did it again, but this time, he trailed a finger around the nipple first.
“I remember coming upon you at the waterfall…” He slid the fabric of the sheer tunic from her shoulder, then kissed the scented flesh there. “You were a vision, straight from my fantasies…” He let the fabric fall further, gathering just over her breast. He tugged and the fabric slid over her breast, her nipple, and stopped at her waist. She was bared to him.
She shuddered. “I was only there to bathe…” she murmured.
He kissed her shoulder again then slid his lips up to her neck, where he kissed her again. He nipped her, then took possession of her breast again, squeezing it.
“Nay, you were there to taunt me with your beauty,” he drawled as he pressed his other palm against the flat of her belly. He slowly slid his hand down. He could see the gooseflesh rise over her skin. Lord, but what this woman was doing to him…
“I was only bathing, Tristin,” she argued without and real force.
“Nay,” he argued back, sliding his hand beneath the fabric gathered at her waist. She hitched her breath, her whole body waiting, and as he slid his fingers into treasure curls, she moaned. “You were touching yourself…” He slid his fingers into the hot, wet center of her, luxuriating in how ready she was for him. “Just like this.” He slid two fingers in and rubbed at the bud there, pinching it between his fingers and making slow circles.
“Tristin,” Bell Heather cried out. “It was wicked…wrong…” she breathed, her legs shaking.
He continued his work, bringing her to the edge with his fingers. With his left hand, he cupped her breast, flicking the nipple. And with his right he stroked the pearl of her womanhood.
“It was beautiful.” He slid his fingers into her channel, invading her body, and she cried out, the walls of her channel squeezing his fingers, hungry for his shaft but thankful for the pleasure.
“Tristin,” she whispered, panting. “What have ye done to me?”
He chuckled, removing his fingers only to cup her curls with his palm. Mine.
“Done? I have only just begun.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bell Heather drew slow circles on Tristin’s chest with the tips of her fingers, and he made slow circles on her back, and she’d never known such peace before. She ached everywhere, but it was a wonderful ache, the ache of being well-loved. Heat rushed through her at the memory of what they’d just done, and a new kind of ache began in her belly. She was beginning to realize what that ache was: a desire for the man even now cuddled against her.
“What are you thinking about?” his deep voice came out of the darkness. He sounded as content as she was. “If you need help getting to sleep, you only had to say so,” he drawled, his other hand coming up to palm her hip.
She giggled, swatting at his hand. He grunted. “Nay, I have no need of your help for that…I am only thinking how happy I am in this moment.” She knew it was dangerous, being so open and vulnerable with him, but she’d just shared her most intimate self with him. If she couldn’t share what was inside, the outside meant nothing.
She held her breath, waiting for him to speak, and when he finally did, it was something she wasn’t expecting.
“I wrote to my father,” he said, and she could feel the weight of his words lift from his chest.
“And what did ye tell him?” Would he have admitted to his father that he’d broken his vows? What would his father say? Would Tristin bear the burden of his father’s displ
easure and disappointment?
“I told him that I have finally found what I am meant to do. That I have discovered my own way to bring our family honor…”
She swallowed, pulling away from his chest to look up at him. The waning full moon cast ethereal blue light over his face. He was captivating; his black eyes staring down at her with unrestrained desire, his dark hair spread over the pillow, his sharp features the perfection of masculinity, his lips swollen from their kissing. For as long as she lived—however long that would be—she would remember him like this. Being with him like this.
“What have ye discovered?” she finally had the strength to ask.
“That I am meant for something else…” She waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn’t, she sat up.
“I take it that something else has something to do with tomorrow,” she snapped.
His gaze drifted from her face to her naked chest, then back up to her face. “It does.”
Suddenly angry, and not knowing why, she tried to pull away, to slip from the bed, but he launched himself at her, grabbing her and flipping her onto her back. The weight of him pressed her into the bed.
“I still have not finished with you, my Bell,” he purred and she snorted, wriggling her legs uselessly. His strength was no match for hers.
“Well, I have finished with ye,” she snapped turning her face away when he bent to kiss her.
He grasped her chin, pulling her around to face him, then he crushed her mouth with the force of his kiss. She gasped and he took advantage, diving into her mouth and spearing her with his hot tongue. Despite her ire, she was shocked at her own eager response to his kiss.
Her body, in need of him, melted, and she moaned into his mouth. He deepened this kiss, ravishing her senses until all she could feel was elation.
Tristin tore his mouth from hers and they panted together as he gazed down at her, his black eyes blazing with onyx flames.
“I find that I am jealous…” he said, reaching between them, sliding his hand down her belly to finger her curls.
“Jealous?” she asked, nearly delirious.
“Aye…jealous of my fingers.”
Confused, she almost leapt from the bed when he slid down her body, only to trap her thighs and buttocks in place with the weight and strength of his hands.
“My fingers have learned the secrets of your lusty, wet heat…” He rose to his knees, positioning his head at her navel.
She sucked in a breath and held it, uncertain she understood him correctly. “Ye mean to—”
“Aye,” he said, right before he buried his face between her legs. She bucked, shocked at the slide of his tongue along her folds. He lapped at her, like a man starving, and she could only hold on. She grasped his head, her fingers twisting into the strands of his thick hair. She didn’t know whether to pull his head away or push it down, deeper.
“Tristin,” she called, stars blinking to life behind her eyes. “This is…this is…”
He raised his face, her wetness glinting over his cheeks. “This is delicious,” he growled, then began lapping at her again. His tongue circled her bud, then he sucked it into his mouth, drawing on it. He moaned, the vibration sending ever more pleasure through her.
The tension in her body built, thrumming through her, and she thought she would explode, but he pulled away just as she stumbled to the edge, her body a mess of muscles and sensations.
Tristin crawled up her body and claimed her mouth, just as he’d claimed her womanhood, and she could taste herself on his tongue.
“You taste amazing, I knew it would be sweet and creamy,” he said, growling as he kissed her again. She looped her arms around his head, splaying her hands over the back of his head, pushing him down to get closer, kiss him deeper, harder.
His hands, still down at her hips, still held her in place, but there was nowhere else she wanted to be. He broke their kiss and reared up. He knelt again, wedging himself between her legs. He grasped his thickness in his hand and stroked it once. She watched, fascinated, as a single bead of his seed spilled from the tip.
“See what you do to me?” he croaked, his throat working to swallow.
“Aye,” she whispered. “I want to feel it…” she murmured, reaching for him, her body burning up. “Please.”
He skimmed her entrance with the head of his shaft, teasing her, but not for long. He pressed forward, sliding into her—but only the head. He held back.
“Do not dare tease me right now, Tristin!” she shrilled, desperate. He chuckled, then thrust home, filling her aching center with the whole of his passion.
“God…perfect. So perfect,” he babbled, slowly pulling out then sliding in again.
“Aye,” she agreed, wrapping her legs around his waist, eager to feel the full force of his lovemaking.
He continued, slowly. She peered up at him, and he was peering down at her. There was a hardness to his expression, as if he were holding back—his arms shook from the strength it took.
“Tristin,” she purred, running her fingers down his back to bury her nails in his hard, perfect arse. “Love me!”
“I do!” he roared then thrust into her again, harder. He pounded into her like a madman, his chest heaved with the motion, the muscles in his arms, back, and belly bulging and twitching. By Dagda, he was a beast of a man. Her man.
A mewling sound escaped her lips and she thrashed, unable to contain the amount of pleasure spilling into her. He was grunting with each thrust, and the sounds of their bodies slamming together filled the room. It was the most beautiful music she’d ever heard, the music of one man and one woman pleasuring one another, sharing in their desire for one another.
He took a nipple into his mouth, suckling it, nibbling on it, and she arched up to feed him more of it. He opened his mouth wider, taking more of her breast into the warmth, and she cried out.
Mindless, she scratched at his back, desperate for something, anything to rid her of the ache Tristin was building in her. No manner of arching or rising to meet his thrusts was working, it was only building the ache further, stripping her of more sanity.
Shuddering breaths shook her body, and she groaned, and he groaned, and she flew into the heavens, her soul leaving her body on an explosion of pure bliss. The glittering stars behind her eyes burst into bright lights, blinding her. She screamed, her throat tightening around the sound, as she let out all that had culminated within her.
Bell Heather, lay there, her body floating, as Tristin continued over her, his movements becoming harder, more frantic. His grunts became guttural growls. His arms shook from the work of holding himself above her. He was magnificent. She slid her hands over his chest and leaned up to nip at his neck as he’d done to her. He moaned, and something deep inside her hitched. She was doing this to him, she was driving him to this frenzy. She grinned, reveling in her power.
Tristin sped up and she could only hold on, then, with one last bed shaking thrust, he bellowed into the ceiling, and she could feel his scorching seed spill into her. He collapsed on top of her, his weight welcomed. She wrapped her arms around him to hold him there, in her embrace. Close to her heart. For just a bit longer.
She knew what tomorrow would bring and, though she could hope that some greater power was watching over her, she had little faith that she would be on her way back to Clarendon before sunset.
Do ye even want to go back? Aye, of course she did! It was her home, the only home she’d ever known. What else was there for her?
Tristin shifted, pressing his lips to the sweaty flesh of her shoulder. She sighed, content, thrumming with an emotion she didn’t dare say aloud. He slid from her body and she immediately felt empty, but the moist evidence of their lovemaking slid down her arse.
She must’ve grimaced at the sensation because Tristin chuckled and, with one last kiss, drew from the bed.
“I will have you cleaned up in a thrice.” Despite her insistence on doing it herself, Tristin washed her, thoroughly, with ge
ntle, attentive hands. She refused to think of it as a death rite; the washing of the deceased in preparation for burial. It was the man she loved, delicately ministering to her. It was what her father would have done for her mother.
So, this is what it feels like to be cared for, to have someone else care for me…
It was a heady feeling, one she wanted to know every day, but one she knew was foolish. Once she was clean, Tristin lay down again and drew her into his arms. She lay there, her back to him, listening to him sleep, her heart beating out a sad song, only she could hear.
***
Bell Heather had been nearly silent all morning, barely casting him a single glance. He knew she was troubled, that she was anxious about what lay before them, and there was nothing he could say to assuage that fear that he hadn’t already said.
“Might I make a suggestion,” Glenn said as he drew Sluagh to a stop beside Tristin, who was staring across the inn yard at Bell Heather as she picked purple flowers.
Sighing, and not quite in the mood for any of Glenn’s shenanigans, Tristin said, “Will I regret saying yes?”
Glenn grinned broadly, the rogue. “Aye.”
Tristin narrowed his eyes at Glenn but then returned his gaze to Bell Heather. He found he could not spend more than a few moments without looking at her or for her or thinking about her. She’d consumed him.
“What is it?” Tristin finally muttered.
Glenn leaned down as if about to impart secret wisdom. “If I were ye, once ye and the lass are wed, I would build yer cottage far outside the village…”
Perplexed, Tristin turned back to gaze at Glenn again, whose blue eyes were shining in dastardly humor.
“What are you talking about?”
“We couldna help but hear ye last night…” The breath left Tristin in a whoosh, and he cursed. The arse was telling him that he—and probably all the rest of the men—had heard Tristin and Bell Heather in the throes of their passions.
“I would thank you to keep that to yourself. There is no need to embarrass her with that information,” Tristin said, leveling a commanding glare.
The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1) Page 31