by C. L. Wilson
He responded in kind, showing her with his body everything she already suspected was in his heart.
She rolled atop him, arching away only far enough to rip the buttons from his tunic, to tear the fabric from his shoulders. When he didn’t immediately reach for her bodice, she loosened the ribbon herself. She pulled the bodice and the petticoat over her head and flung them toward the solid ice of the wall.
She was naked now, save for silk hose gartered above each knee and a pair of thin leather slippers. He, on the other hand, was swathed in far too much clothing. She yanked him into a seated position, her legs about his waist, and pulled the tunic off his person. She struggled at first with the closure of his trousers, but managed to undo those as well. She pushed him onto his back so she could slide them down his legs.
Tonight, she did not wish solely to receive. She had lost her family, but she hadn’t lost Lance. He was her family now. And she wished to be his completely.
She untied his shoes and sent them flying across the chamber, along with her own. His stockings, gone. His trousers, gone. His braies, gone. Now they were two naked bodies, tangled together beneath the waning moonlight. Two hearts about to be united.
She climbed back atop him. It had been far too long since last they’d kissed.
His mouth was as hungry as hers, his hands as warm and insistent upon her body. He lowered his lips to her throat, and lifted her higher until he was suckling at her breast. Naked, there was no barrier between the long ridge of his shaft and the cleft between her legs. Already she could feel his hard length become slick with her wetness. She wished to join their bodies as one. Only then would she be holding him tightly enough. She wanted to stay in his arms for the rest of eternity.
She moved her hand between them and positioned him for entry. He gripped her hips as if to stop her from moving too quickly. She kissed his lips in protest. She was past ready. She couldn’t have him fast enough. She needed to feel him within her. Needed him to know without a doubt that she was his completely.
When the tip of his arousal nudged inside her, he loosened his hold on her hips and returned his attentions to pleasing her breasts. She gasped at the dual sensation of his tongue laving her nipple as his shaft slowly impaled her below. With every inch, he suckled her harder. And with every shudder of pleasure from his ministrations, she sank even lower onto his shaft, until their bodies locked tight together. She hadn’t been waiting for this. She had been waiting for him. This was more than mere swiving. This was a love that would last forever.
She began to rock against him, moving her hips tentatively. With the very first movement came a strange rush of pleasure at the fullness deep inside. She had him pinned beneath her, his hips trapped between her thighs. Captive. And yet her body rocked with the movement of his hips, with every thrust of his powerful thighs. His body was so strong, his touch so tender. Perhaps she was the captive. She couldn’t help but surrender. Her heart belonged to him.
The faster she rode him, the more the pressure seemed to build. And yet when she slowed, when she lifted and fell in long, deliberate slides, her muscles clenched around him as if the bliss he’d shown her with his fingers was almost within reach. Her mouth gasped into the night air at his fingers cupping her rear, the rasp of his tongue across her nipples.
She wanted to give him everything. To hold no part of herself back. She leaned backward, briefly lifting her breast from the temptation of his mouth to drive him deeper within her, to gasp at the heady fullness. He was hers. Now and forever.
His fingers were on her hips, coaxing her, guiding her as she rode him. He slid his thumb to the wet heat where their bodies joined, stoking her ever hotter with each swirl of his finger against the sensitive spot just above where his body met hers. The pressure was back, building hotter than before, stronger, faster. She gripped his arms and held on tight. The first time, he had given her pleasure. From now on, they would find it together.
He drove into her again and again, his thumb working its magic. Her hips rose and fell, grinding against him, seeking the thick strength of his shaft, the intoxicating pleasure radiating from his finger. She was his. Her body knew it as well as her heart.
The spasms took her and she cried out, her muscles contracting around him as waves of ecstasy rolled through her. His breaths came faster, his thrusts more urgent, until his legs stiffened beneath her and a rush of heat filled her deep inside.
Spent, she collapsed onto his chest. His heartbeat comforted her. His arms protected her. He was perfect. She didn’t feel cursed. She felt like the luckiest woman in the world.
His arms locked around her. He held her tight, occasionally touching a finger to her hair or pressing a kiss to her head. She snuggled closer. He made her feel loved. Cherished. She recognized the miracle for what it was.
For the first time in six hundred years, the castle felt like a home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lance awoke to a nipple in his side and a sword at his ear.
“Off with his head!” shrilled a female voice.
“Why does everyone want to cut off my head?” he muttered. “Can’t a man go a few days without death threats?”
“Smite him,” a deep voice commanded.
Marigold shot upright, blushed scarlet at the crowd’s collective gasp at her nakedness, and threw herself facedown onto his chest.
“Papa, no!” she shouted into Lance’s ribcage. “I love him!”
He risked opening both eyes to take stock of the situation. He was still on the floor, his clothing scattered around the room, but the observatory was no longer surrounded on five sides by a solid sheet of ice. It was glass. Crystal clear.
And there were about two hundred people crowded in here with them.
He recognized them all from the tree. Several milkmaids, an army of knights, a few dozen revelers, Chaz from New Brunswick, Baron Westinghouse of East Surrey, the sketchy gangster with the tommy gun . . . And of course, the king and queen of the castle.
Also known as the parents of the naked woman sprawled on top of him. The bright pink of her cheeks and the wide smile on her face indicated Marigold’s dual embarrassment and delight.
“It worked,” she whispered, her fingers squeezing his arms. “It worked. All I had to do was learn to let go.”
“But speak the word,” said the owner of the sword from somewhere above Lance’s head. “And I shall separate the blackguard’s worthless head from his body.”
“My cousin Hadrian,” Marigold whispered into Lance’s ear. “He gets like that. Try to ignore him.”
“Well, knave?” came the deep voice that could only belong to the king. “What have you to say for yourself?”
Apparently his cue. Lance pushed up onto his elbows and did the best he could to produce a this-isn’t-what-it-looks-like smile.
The king’s scowl was terrifying.
“Your Highness,” Lance began.
“His Majesty,” Marigold hissed in his ear. “Mama prefers Her Highness.”
“Your Majesty,” he tried again. “My name is Lance Desmond and I’m in love with your daughter. I recognize this may be less than ideal circumstances for a family reunion, but since I’d been planning on making things a little more permanent with Marigold . . . With your blessing, I’d like to court your daughter.”
The king didn’t even have to think twice. “Off with his head!”
Cousin Hadrian lifted his sword in preparation to strike.
Lance sighed. He didn’t want to ruin his first impression by killing one of Marigold’s cousins, but the dude was doing so much grandstanding with his broadsword, he really gave Lance no choice.
When the downward whoosh of the blade sliced through the frosty air, Lance shoved Marigold to safety, sprang up and behind Hadrian, and placed the warrior in a firm choke hold. The sword clattered to the stone floor inches from where their heads had rested.
Cold fury laced every syllable of Lance’s words. “If you ever put Marigold in danger a
gain, I will kill you. I don’t give a damn who you’re related to.”
Hadrian’s lips were turning blue.
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
The queen clutched her husband’s arm and rose on tiptoe to reach his ear. “It seems . . . Perchance we were a bit hasty.”
Marigold wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. “Very hasty. See what happens when people get hasty? Hadrian’s going to swoon at any moment.”
On cue, her cousin thumped onto the floor in a dead heap.
Decision made, the king inclined his royal head. “Lance, was it? Squire, fetch the man a cloak. Maids, prepare the ale. Come. We have much to discuss.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Marigold stood on the starboard side of the deck, her heart so full it could burst. Her parents were there on the dock to see them off. She also expected Lance’s best friend Sancho to join them at any moment.
Lance had worried that the pirate ship might feel like another cage, but how could it with the entire world stretching out before them? Marigold couldn’t wait to set sail. By letting go, she would be free at last.
The past six months had been a whirlwind of activity—getting a social security card, getting acclimated, getting married. The castle had been opened to the public for the ceremony, and there hadn’t been a single centimeter of free space.
Which was perfect, since—in the absence of a kingdom to govern—Papa had agreed to lease Sancho an entire wing of Castle Cavanaugh to become a museum and gift store, in exchange for Sancho agreeing to manage the property. His old Pawn & Potion had moved to the great hall. Visitors pilgrimaged from all corners of the globe to see the famous castle and purchase trinkets.
Due to Lance’s insistence, not a single manuscript had been removed from the library. Instead, they’d raised the money to pay off his bounty with a few jewels from one of her decorative hair combs. The library was now a climate-controlled vault for medieval scholars, the castle itself a world heritage site.
Today, she and Lance were setting off on another adventure. The idea was never to spend more than three consecutive months at sea nor on land. Home would be wherever they happened to be together. The plan was perfect. As was their marriage. She had painted a new portrait, this time of their wedding day, and the canvas now hung above a large triptych inside the main cabin.
Footsteps boomed down the wooden dock, marking Sancho’s arrival. The big man’s gray hair was styled into something Lance called a fauxhawk—it looked rather like the tail end of a duck curving up from Sancho’s forehead, if you asked her—and the bone necklet once again encircled its owner’s throat.
“Lance! Mari!” he shouted up to the ship. “You guys’ll be back by Thanksgiving, right?”
“With bells on,” Lance called back. “You’ll have the turkey in the oven?”
Sancho cocked his thumbs and forefingers like pistols. “Always do. Where you headed first?”
“Bermuda,” Marigold shouted down with an excited wriggle.
Sancho whistled. “The island?”
“Boring.” Lance swung his arm around Marigold’s shoulder and drew her close. “The triangle!”
Sancho’s mouth dropped open.
“Bye, Mama! Bye, Papa!” Marigold waved eagerly as the ship began to drift from shore. “We must be off. Adventure awaits!”
The End
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Erica Ridley learned to read when she was three, which was about the same time she decided to be an author when she grew up.
She is the author of two Gothic romances, Too Wicked to Kiss and Too Sinful to Deny, the vampire romance “Never Been Bitten” in the paranormal romance anthology Born To Bite, and the contemporary paranormal romances Charmed, Midwinter Magic, and Let It Snow.
When not reading or writing romances, Erica can be found riding camels in Africa, zip-lining through rainforests in Central America, or getting hopelessly lost in the middle of Budapest.
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Snowman
A Novella of the Skull Keepers
ELISSA WILDS
This one is for friends, writing, and cool ideas. And writing friends who have cool ideas.
He came to me the other night
through the wind and rain.
He looked at me and smiled and said
I love you.
And the wind was calm.
And the rain stopped.
CHAPTER ONE
Tennessee
Smoky Mountains
December 29
9:00 P.M.
The last things Roan saw before his ship hit the ground were a blur of brown, barren, snow-covered trees and a blinding flash of light that sent sharp pain reverberating through his head. How much time had passed before he regained consciousness, he didn't know.
By the time he opened his eyes, slowly, tentatively, to find himself lying amidst twisted branches and piles of snow, night had fallen. And a good thing too. A dull, aching throb stabbed at his left eye, which he couldn't see out of at the moment. His left eye shield had been damaged on impact. Even the smallest ray of Earth's sun would make vision impossible, not to mention unbearable, without fully functioning eye shields.
It had been early evening when the trackers had picked up his trail and blasted him from the sky. Now, darkness had descended and only the light of a waxing moon illumed the forest around him.
Roan frowned and sat up, shaking fine powder from his hair, immediately regretting having done so. The pain only sharpened. There was something jabbing his eye. He touched the offending object with his hand, and choked back bile. Bigger than a twig, smaller than a tree branch. Either way, he had to deal with it. He'd have to remove the object before he could even think about using a healing surger.
He grasped the object impaling his left eye, braced himself, and yanked it free, then dropped the offending stick to the ground.
More pain, quick, intense flooded his body. Blood, warm and thick trickled down his cheek. A glance at the stick on the ground, darkened with his blood, confirmed his eyeball was still in the socket. That was something at least.
He breathed through the agony, and, left eye squeezed shut, stood on shaking legs.
With his good eye, he scanned his surroundings. He could just make out a shadowed shape a few yards away. Moonlight glinted off of metal, the color of burnished copper, which twisted between bushes and barren trees amidst flurries of snow. Fragments littered the ground.
Only one piece of his ship remained intact. He stumbled to it, swept the snow off of the side of all that remained of his aircraft, and emitted an exasperated groan. It was part of the cockpit. Which was good. His flight seat was intact, also good, just in case the ejection device had malfunctioned and hadn't thrown him from the aircraft on impact. Unfortunately, the control panel was a mangled mess of wire and decimated electrical components.
The well-aimed, heated blast from the aircraft that had taken him down had melted the control panel beyond repair. There was no way Roan could use anything here to contact home or call for help. He was good and stuck. On Earth. Somewhere in the area called Tennessee by humans, in what they referred to as the Smoky Mountains.
At least it was winter. He could take the cold weather much easier than the heat of an Earth summer.
Roan reached deep between the flight seat cushions. His fingers curled over a small, round object. Relief flooded him. He could heal his injuries. The surger was smooth and cool in his hand as he held it over his left eye. The crystals inside the apparatus vibrated and emitted a low hum as they released a healing light, which quickly mended his punctured eye and eased away the stinging pain.
Unfortunately, the eye shields bonded with his eyes required a repair that could only be provided by a skilled Nibiruan technician. He was fresh out of those.
He quickly ran the device over his left knee, which, once the pain in his eye had disappeared, was smarting something fierce. His kneecap had been dislocated. The surger fixed that injury too. His muscles ached. He could feel the warm slide of blood trickling over various gashes in his skin, and he smelled its metallic sent on the air.
Roan lifted the surger toward a source of pain in his chest, but the surger simply emitted a warbled whirring noise then went silent. Whatever juice had been left in the surger post crash had been depleted on his knee repair.