His hands under her hips lifted her tenderly. Liandra felt the gentlest probing, the tip of his flesh begging entry. Smiling against his mouth, she opened herself in welcome. Tenderly, he thrust forward, his searing penetration branding her as forever his. His mouth stifled her cry of pleasure and pain.
Slowly, so slowly, retreating and returning, savoring inch by slow inch, he finally rested deep inside her. As his hips rotated gently, her body spasmed against his, sending waves of pure delight through him. “Beloved,” he whispered huskily.
Resting on his elbows, he cradled her head in his hands, his fingers entwining with the silver silk of her hair. “My sweet beloved."
She opened her eyes to see his triumphant smile. Holding her gaze captive, he undulated against her, his long slow strokes teasing, retreating and returning, a languid thrust and drag. His tongue darted inside her mouth, mimicking the rhythm of his body in hers.
She rested her palms on his hips, her fingers fanning over his taut buttocks. Muscles flexed and contracted beneath her hands as he loved her.
His pace quickened, becoming more urgent with every thrust. She matched his speed, the tempo binding them together. Enjoined, faster and faster they climbed to that peak where reality became suspended in a painfully sweet explosion...
Liandra came to consciousness to hear him whispering her name against her ear. She lay atop him, his arms about her, one of his legs curled across the back of her thighs, cradling her to him. She reached out a trembling hand to brush away the strands of matted hair from his face.
“You were crying. Why, beloved? Are you all right?” Connal asked.
“I'm wonderful."
Grinning crookedly at her, his hands feathered over her body. Liandra moaned and wriggled against him. “Con! Con. Please don't stop!"
His witch wanted him again, he could read it in her eyes. And he wanted her, too. Never an easy man to satisfy, now so quickly after the first, he was again quaking with almost uncontrollable expectation and need. He shuddered and groaned in anticipation, as she ran her hand down the length of his body. At her touch his every nerve tingled.
“Do not stop, Liandra!"
“You like this?"
“Aye, oh aye!"
“And this?"
Connal moaned a response. Smiling down at him, Liandra straddled his body. His hands cupped her hips, raising her, seeking, guiding them both. She arched her body and Connal held her waist, hands fanning over her back to cleave her to him, in one swift, sweet stroke.
Gently, he tugged her down, so that she lay against his chest still intimately united with him.
“Much better,” Connal said.
“I was lonely, too,” Liandra whispered.
“I was just thinking that, witch. I wanted you against me. It almost seems as if I am not entirely myself."
Liandra caressed his cheek with her tongue. “It's a legacy of our joining, Con. I can't help it. For a time we are going to be closely attuned. We may sometimes think the same thoughts. It—it will pass, have no fear."
“I am not afraid of you."
“Perhaps you should be!"
“Of a skinny witch? I think not!"
He laughed and nudged her over and once again they neared that pinnacle before he teasingly halted their motion, then continued again, postponing the inevitable for as long as they both could.
* * * *
Resting on her elbow, Liandra watched Connal, drinking in the sight of him as he stretched out before the hearth. His body glowed with the light from the fire, and from his own inner furnace. She went to reach out to him. Her hand stalled she saw the scratches and weals on his body.
“Con, you've been hurt! Did I do that?"
“The aliens, not you, are responsible.”
“Damn them!"
He raised a brow. “You curse like a Caledonian."
“It's no laughing matter."
“No.” His eyes lingered on her body and she made no move to cover herself. As he reached out to draw her to him, she wriggled out of range. Throwing a quilt around her shoulders, she went to the cupboard returning, minutes later, with a cloth and salve.
“Sit up, I have to see to your injuries."
“What...?"
“Don't argue. I'm not in the mood."
“So I perceive."
She knelt before him and carefully touched the liniment to the first scratch.
“Ouch! ’Tis stinging me!” He squirmed beneath her hands.
“Be still. Some of these wounds are deep."
Despite the gentleness with which she tended his injuries, his occasional sharp intake of breath alerted her to his agony. Throughout he remained immobile. Again, his strength and courage amazed her.
“You should have told me you were hurt, before—before we..."
Connal chuckled. “With you beside me, darling, I did not feel any pain. Besides, I have endured far worse."
Liandra frowned at him. She leaned forward, her leg brushing his thigh. He drew in a ragged breath as his body tightened and throbbed at her closeness.
“Where did I hurt you?"
He laughed gently.
“What is it?"
Connal shook his head, still chuckling.
Liandra crawled behind him, kneeling at his back. She brushed away his hair and kissed the nape of his neck.
“I much prefer this latest medicine,” he said hoarsely.
Liandra traced her lips up and down his spine, before continuing to salve his wounds.
Connal sucked in his breath. As she worked, her breasts, with their taut nipples, brushed across his back. Beads of perspiration broke out over his body. Arran and the Seven Stars, he could not take much more of this. “Have you done yet, woman?” he ground out between clenched teeth.
“Almost.” She ran her hands gently over his back, making sure every injury was tended. “I will not forgive them for doing this to you.” She kissed his shoulder, let her mouth trail over the length of his neck. She slipped her hands beneath his arms to cup his chest. She felt the muscles contract beneath her fingers. Arran's Mercy, he was magnificent, her Connal! Beautiful. Magnificent. And all hers. She silently laid claim to every inch of him, before Connal turned and pressed his body to hers once more.
* * * *
Liandra rested under the quilt, watching Connal as he moved around the cottage. He wore a blanket draped around his waist, not from modesty but through necessity. For only a short distance from the fire, the cottage interior was icy cold. Outside the storm still raged against their shelter and she shivered at its ferocity.
“Do you often have weather such as this, Con?"
Crouching before the cooking pot hanging in the hearth, Connal ladled food in two bowls. He looked back at her over his shoulder. “No. ’Tis unnatural."
Their gazes met. Liandra watched his eyes turn dark and cold. They both knew the aliens were to blame.
“I fear what might be occurring in my absence,” Connal said. “But it would be folly to even think of leaving our shelter. I must entrust the safety of my clan to others."
“Yes. Our duty is frustrated by this accursed storm!"
“Aye, ‘tis. We must make the most of it."
“I think that's what we've been doing."
Connal forced a smile. Returning to her side, he placed the steaming bowls on their bed and added more logs to the fire, before returning to sit cross-legged before her.
“Are you well?” he asked, studying her face, noticing the high color in her cheeks, her eyes, fever bright.
Liandra struggled to sit upright and laughed. She reached out to stroke the back of his hand and wrist. Connal shivered as he felt that caress invoke again a heady fire which if left to its own devices would lead them far from the cottage, to another reality of their own making.
“Be that my answer?” he asked. Chuckling, he shoved a bowl into her lap. “Eat. Restore your strength, for My Lady Witch is very strenuous in her demands."
“Are you sh
ocked by how much I enjoyed you?"
Connal nearly choked on his porridge. Damn the witch! She behaved as if she had been his lover for years, instead of hours. There was no embarrassment or shyness from her.
He reached out and caressed her cheek. “I did take pleasure from you. Still, I am a man not easily pleased."
“I know."
“Now eat,” Connal said.
Liandra glanced down at her food. Porridge with dried fruit. She wasn't hungry, but she spooned it into her mouth. She would be ravenous later when the effects of her joining with Connal had abated—if that was possible. He had awakened her as only a lover could. Already she felt the rising need within her, and glancing at Connal, she could read the kindling of passion in the glowing depths of his eyes. She averted her gaze. They both needed a respite, though she sensed it would be only a brief one, knowing Connal, knowing herself.
Liandra frowned. Now that she was thinking more clearly, this setting looked familiar.
“What is wrong?” Connal asked.
“This place. Do you remember it?"
“I have been here before. My people use it as a journey station."
“No. It's from our first dream-sharing. Surely you haven't forgotten?” She smiled as Connal flushed.
“That I could not forget.” He laughed. “How is it that in our dreams we were in this place?"
“It's very rare, though not unknown. Sometimes dreams can traverse time and space and merge with the past, or the future. It's never happened to me before.”
Connal smiled. That makes two of us, Liandra Tavor! What they—what he—had experienced in the cottage was far more potent than any dream. Would he ever be the same again? No. He had loved her but thrice. Now he knew that no other woman would do for him. He wanted her again and again. Today. Tomorrow. Perhaps, forever. The infatuation he felt for her, from the first moment he met her, had that somehow, sometime, been transformed into something more than desire? He had not been able to love any woman since meeting her. What witch's spell had she cast over him?
Liandra took the bowls away and Connal watched, laughing as she hopped from one foot to the other as her bare feet met the freezing stone floor.
He reclined on the bed, smoothing out the coverlet in preparation for her return. His hand stopped and he drew in a deep breath.
Blood. He frowned, and checked his wounds. They were not bleeding; Liandra's gentle ministrations had ensured that. Then, what? Had he been too rough with her? She was an alien woman. She had cried out with his first taking of her...
First taking ... Arran's Mercy! NO! Connal's flesh goosepimpled. Fear and joy coursed through him.
Liandra knelt beside him, taking his palm to her cheek. “What's wrong, Con?"
“When I took you, I hurt you, beloved."
Not a question, a statement, Liandra felt her blush extend all the way to her toes. When she tried to drop her face, he reached out to cup her chin, his eyes searching hers.
“Answer me!"
“The first loving can be difficult. Isn't it the way of your women, Connal?"
He swore beneath his breath. “Och! Did I hurt you badly?"
“You were very gentle. There was some pain. That's to be expected."
“But why, Liandra? Why me? And not one of your kind who could understand your needs..."
She put a finger to his lips. “With me, you were perfect, Connal."
He snorted. “Why, Liandra, why?"
“'Tis a long story."
“I am listening,” Connal muttered.
“I'd rather not talk."
“I rather would,” he said, stilling her questing fingers. “I dare not take you again, so soon, darling. You need to recover..."
“Asarians are a resilient species."
“That as may be, but you have yet to answer my question."
“Very well.” She twisted a lock of his hair around her fingers. “You once berated me for changing the color of my hair, only Asarians have hair such as I."
“What has this to do with it?"
“Everything, Con. I hid my heritage, for my own sake. Because—because of what I am. Dream-weavers can be pursued by the curious and the deranged who wish to live out their fantasies with one such as I. When I was a child, a man accosted me."
“Arran's Mercy!"
“Physically, I wasn't hurt. And for my mental recovery, my father counseled me most skillfully. Maybe a legacy of that time has remained, because up until I met you, I never wanted a man."
Connal groaned and closed his eyes. Another explanation of hers that made him ashamed. He had accused her of being a vain woman, not realizing she camouflaged herself for her own protection. Why am I always wrong about you, My Lady Witch?
He fell back against the covers. Liandra followed him down, pressing her body to his. He moaned as her fingers inched over his body, sapping his will. Not that he had much of that where she was concerned. Her gentle laughter invaded his already overloaded senses.
“No, I must not, for I will hurt you, so soon,” he protested.
“Hush, you won't."
She drew him, once more, into the circle of her arms and body.
* * * *
Connal stared into the fire. Pressed back against him, Liandra lay sound asleep, her hands holding his arms as tightly as he held her. Her soft woman's bottom curved into his groin. One of his legs was thrown casually over her, so that even in sleep she was part of him, and he a part of her.
By Arran! He could not understand. She was a woman common to all. A whore. Or so he had thought. The evidence on the coverlet, testimony enough that he had been wrong. He had been her first lover.
That discovery brought pain amid the joy. He had never had a virgin before; such was a complication he had not wanted. Ever. He had thought she was well versed in love and seduction. She responded to him with such familiarity...
He closed his eyes and swore silently. He had taken all from Liandra, and still he was not satisfied. His turgid body throbbed for her again. But he dared not. She had made no complaint the last time he had reached for her, despite her earlier protestations that Asarians were resilient, yet he had seen the apprehension in her eyes. She was tired and sore; she had every right to reject him, but she had not. So he had called a halt to their lovemaking and she had fallen asleep, while he remained on fire. How many times would it take to exorcise her from him?
Did he truly want to be free of her? Could he be free of her?
He had bedded a woman who was an alien. Yet that did not matter. Honor demanded he be accountable, and so he would. For on his world, the taking of a virgin was not done lightly. Whether he liked it or not, he had obligations and responsibilities. His was the honorable way. The only way. And in his loving of her, he had given her the gift of his body, as she had done to him.
And what of Liandra? Her innocent responses to him had been a joy. Innocent. His heat extinquished. An innocent woman was not likely to be protected. He had not taken precautions. He had never gone to a lover without safeguards, but with Liandra the need had been so strong, burning. He had been so desperate—they had both been so desperate—that nothing was in his mind but to love her. And she him, it seemed.
Might a child have been conceived from their moment of lost control? Physically she was very like the women of his world. Might it be possible? Arran's Mercy! He did not want to think about that. But he had to. And would it matter if it were true? Dougall, and others, had been vocal about him finding a wife. What if that wife was an alien witch? Seven Stars! And what of Liandra? How would she feel?
“Con? Something worries you?"
“I thought you were asleep."
“Only resting.” She glanced back at him. “What troubles you?"
“You were a virgin, Liandra."
“Yes.” She smiled. “I was."
He frowned at her, unsettled by the directness of her response. “I always thought you were common to all. A whore."
“I was common to
all, but only in my availability as counselor. I did tell you I wasn't a sensualator. You didn't believe me."
“And do I take it that as a professional, there will be no consequences to our night of folly?"
Liandra gasped. In his eyes, their joining was folly! Something was wrong. Creeping cold coiled inside her, quashing the inner glow that Connal had ignited.
“Well?” he demanded.
“What do you mean?"
“A child, My Lady Witch. Might I have given you a child?"
“Con, is that what's worrying you?” Relieved, she laughed. When she turned to him, the smile froze on her lips. He had retreated from her. Those lover's eyes, which had burned and caressed were now distant and as chill as ice. She stroked his cheek. “Dear Con. You don't have to worry. In order to qualify for my license I must carry within me a contraceptive implant. Even though I'm not a sensualator every one of my calling must take this precaution."
“So, always the professional!"
“Of course. Why are you angry?"
“I am not.”
“Con?"
“Go to sleep, Liandra. We have a long day ahead of us."
As she pressed back against his chest, he could feel the tension within her, mirroring his own.
Worried for nothing, it seemed. She had even laughed at his fears! And the hurt of it was tinged with regret, for what he had imagined might be in the future. She found the thought of a child amusing, because when bedding down with him, she knew she was protected by some infernal League device.
And worse, a hundred times worse, she had been unperturbed by the loss of her maidenhead. Yes. I was she had said. What she had done meant nothing to her.
Why had she accepted him, when she had spurned League men? There must be more to it than that childhood incident. Liandra often called him an “ignorant barbarian.” That being so, why did she take the gift of his body?"
Desperate times, desperate measures—the thought savagely intruded, making his blood run cold. She accepted his loving merely as a means to regain her strength. Their joining, as far as she was concerned, had nothing to do with love. For her it had merely been a renewal, a taking. Nothing more. He had been used. Realization was like a knife twisting inside, sundering his heart.
Crystal Dreams Page 29