WyndRiver Sinner

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Are you calm now, Reaper?” she asked, and when he opened his eyes to gaze into hers, she cocked a delicate brow.

  “Ride me, wench,” he said in a husky voice. “Break me to saddle.”

  His words sent tremors of lust down her sides to gather in the pit of her womb. Taking a deep breath, she reached behind her for his wrists and pulled them from her, spreading them wide along the top of the bed. There were no brass railings for him to grip this time so he gathered a handful of the pillows in each fist.

  Very, very slowly, Aingeal lightly stroked her fingertips down his arms from wrists to shoulders, her nails gently grazing his flesh. She could feel goose bumps popping up on his skin and sensed a light shudder run through his chest. Her eyes held his captive as she eased her fingernails along his collarbones, down his sternum, only to spread out to each manly pap and pluck it between her thumbs and index fingers.

  “You are killing me,” he whispered, his nipples hardening into stony nubs.

  “What a way to die, though, eh, Reaper?” she replied.

  Continuing her journey down his body, she lightly raked her nails from his nipples across to his sides and trailed them down his rib cage. Once more she felt the lustful spasm trill through his chest and saw him yanking against the pillows he was gripping. She heard him begin to pant and smiled.

  Dragging her nails slowly upward from his waist to just beneath his outspread arms, she caught the harsh intake of his breath then watched him squeeze his eyes shut to her torture.

  “Tell me,” she said, “what you want to do to me.”

  Cynyr’s eyes snapped open. There were crimson flames leaping in those golden depths—a rapidly growing conflagration.

  She drew her knees up to sit astride his hips, his penis trapped behind her in the sweet concavity of her ass. The warmth of her core was spreading across his pubic mound to heat up his balls. He could smell her love scent and the odor was driving him mad with want.

  “Tell me,” she repeated, her fingers gently tweaking his erect nipples.

  “I want…” He stopped to run his tongue over his dry lips. “I want to thrust into you so hard, so deep you’ll feel it in your tonsils,” he told her.

  Her stomach did a funny little squeeze and she bent down to kiss him, sliding her tongue over his lips, circling them then slipping quickly inside his mouth before straightening up.

  “And?”

  He was on fire with wanting her. Writhing beneath her, he wanted to sheath himself inside her velvety heat. The tip of his cock was oozing—his balls were throbbing.

  “I want to keep thrusting into you until you scream with pleasure.”

  “And what of you, warrior?” she asked. “What can I do for you?”

  He let go of the pillows, reached down and grabbed her hips. He lifted her and impaled her upon his rock-hard shaft. Grinning evilly as her eyes went wide, he arched upward, increasing the depth of his penetration.

  Aingeal’s quick intake of breath told him he had touched a very interesting place within her anatomy. He held himself up as she began to grind her fiery cunt upon him, rotating her hips, sliding up and down, the cadence of her breathing increasing with each passionate revolution.

  Her head was thrown back, the carefully arranged twist at the back of her head disheveled, one long curl draped lovingly over her bare shoulder. She shook her head and the remaining locks tumbled down her back and spread out like a silken cape. She arched her back and her breasts pushed forward, the pert nipples standing up like little pebbles set in a round of pale caramel.

  He wanted to suckle those dusty peaks. Just the sight of them made his mouth water. His fingers were digging into her hips as she rode him in sweet abandon. It was more than he could do to lie still and let her have her way with him without touching her, so he reached out to cover her breasts with his palms.

  “Aye, Reaper,” she said, her breath coming in short, little intakes.

  He slid his fingertips over the sensitive peaks and tweaked them just as she was fingering his. He plucked at her nipples, lightly scratching them between his fingernails.

  Her cunt was slick and hot as she raised and lowered herself on his penis. The slap of her shapely bottom hitting his thighs amused him. Her hair was flying about her—swinging down her back—and he could see the wild tattoo of her heartbeat in the fragile column of her throat.

  The first tiny ripple squeezed through Aingeal’s vagina and gripped her lover in spasms of ecstasy. He was stiff, velvety hard and as those waves of pleasure struck her, he slammed his hands to her hips and held her, pushing upward until she cried out with the satisfaction.

  Aingeal shivered as the last tremor rocketed through her and she collapsed against him, blanketing his sweaty body with her own. His arms wrapped around her and she felt herself turning, going under the sublime weight of her husband, his right hand snaking under her left thigh to position her better for his thrusting.

  It was that first fevered plunge into her heat that set Cynyr’s nerve endings to singing. He was like a starving man before which a banquet had been laid. His hips were pistoning against her, his shaft sliding in and out of her cunt with precision as he strove to capture the same gratification his lady had achieved. He could feel the itch beginning. He could sense the pleasure rushing upward. His blood was pounding in his ears, his heart racing and his body pouring sweat, and when that rapturous moment came for him, he howled his possession of his mate and strained hard against her, his cock in her as far as it could go.

  Delight rippled through Aingeal again and again, and she was astounded she could come again so quickly. It was a feeling that transcended normal pleasure and soared through her veins. She felt as though he had marked her in some way, and her love for him swelled to such a degree she threw her arms around him and joined in his ululation of delight.

  Exhausted, drained, Cynyr fell upon her. He was gasping for breath and felt as though he would never be able to rise again so depleted had the lovemaking made him. He was trembling violently and, as he lay there with his face pressed between her breasts, he knew a contentment he had never thought to find.

  And he knew nothing between heaven and hell could ever take this woman away from him.

  “I love you,” he said, his breath harsh. He held onto her as though she was trying to slip away, his fingers threaded with hers.

  “I love you, mo tiarna,” she whispered.

  “I will kill any man who tries to take you away from me,” he vowed. “You are mine!”

  “I am yours,” she agreed, lifting her head to kiss his damp brow. “I would rather die than be separated from you.”

  * * * * *

  Lord Kheelan drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly. The four men standing with him were quiet as the high commissioner made the decision that would settle Cynyr Cree’s fate.

  “He won’t give her up,” Lord Kheelan observed.

  “Not without a fight,” Lord Naois suggested. He looked to Lord Dunham. “Do you agree?”

  Lord Dunham nodded. “Until now, he has done everything we have asked of him and made no complaints. I feel if we push him, we’ll have more trouble than if we allow him to keep the woman.” He looked to the Prime Reaper. “What are your feelings?”

  Arawn Gehdrin was staring at the vid-com upon which the tableau of lovers had been shown. Cree’s face was frozen in profile to the watchers but the anger and determination could easily be seen.

  “He’ll do what it takes not to lose her,” the Prime Reaper said quietly. “It is my feeling that we do not have the right to deny him.”

  The high commissioner put his clenched fist on the table beneath the vid-com and stared at the screen. “You believe rules are made to be broken, Gehdrin?”

  “To my knowledge I’ve never broken a High Council rule, Your Grace, but that isn’t to say I never will,” Arawn replied. “Each of us must do what we feel is right.” He turned to Bevyn Coure, the second highest-ranking man among the Reapers. “If your
mate’s life depended upon you Transferring one of your parasites, would you?”

  Bevyn cocked a shoulder. “My situation with Lea is different. She has a horror of being turned and has made me swear to her I will never do such a thing to her. Because she feels so strongly about the matter, my answer would have to be no. No, I would not give her one of my hellions but…” He made a point of locking his gaze with Lord Kheelan’s. “That doesn’t mean she will always feel as she does now. Should that change, my answer would be aye. I have no more desire to lose her any more than Cree does his lady.”

  The Prime Reaper nodded. “I have no mate, nor do I foresee myself taking one, but if the need arose, I suspect I would break the rules if her life was in danger.”

  “So you are saying it is perfectly all right to make more Reapers?” Lord Naois inquired.

  “I’m not saying that at all,” Arawn said. “But there are mitigating circumstances no amount of scenario planning can dictate. Man was not meant to spend his life alone. Mating is as normal as breathing to most men. By design, Reapers are solitary creatures, therefore, it follows there might be loneliness in that solitary existence. Reapers mate for life. How much lonelier would a Reaper be if he had a taste of love then lost it when he could have prevented that loss?”

  “Then you condone what Cree did?” Lord Kheelan asked.

  “I understand why he did what he did, and if I was in his position, the chances are strong I would have done the same,” the Prime Reaper replied.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Gehdrin. Do you condone what he did?”

  Arawn held Lord Kheelan’s stare for a moment or two then shook his head. “No, I do not condone it, but from all indications, no harm was done.”

  “His lady accepted it much easier than did Cree,” Lord Dunham said. “I do not believe she sees anything wrong with the decision he made.”

  “Still,” Lord Naois said, “he must atone for going against High Council rules.”

  “Agreed,” Lord Dunham stated.

  Lord Kheelan looked to Arawn and Bevyn. “Gentlemen?”

  “I was punished,” Bevyn said. “It was a minor punishment, but if truth be told, it made me appreciate Lea even the more.”

  “A few days of confinement could hardly be called punishment, Coure,” Arawn pointed out. “That was more an inconvenience than chastisement.”

  “And Cree went beyond simply taking a woman to mate without permission,” Lord Naois pointed out.

  “Then his punishment should be in direct proportion to the crime he committed,” Lord Dunham declared.

  The men looked to the high commissioner. Ultimately, the decision would be his.

  “Cree has suffered much in his life,” Lord Kheelan said. “None of us have ever endured the sting of a lash upon our backs or the horror of being raped. But he is strong and he is determined. For a punishment to have any effect on him, it must be harsh enough to underscore the wrongness of what he did.”

  Arawn and Bevyn exchanged a look.

  “He must have it brought home to him that he can not go against High Council policy, flaunt our rules then expect us to look the other way,” the high commissioner said. “Therefore, it is my decision that he be taken to a containment cell for an interval of one month.” He swept his gaze over the other men. “Without Sustenance or tenerse.”

  Arawn’s lips parted in sympathy to his fellow Reaper’s plight but he made no comment to the sentence. Bevyn looked away, unable to believe so harsh a judgment had been handed down. Both Naois and Dunham had suspected the declaration so neither commented.

  “Lord Gehdrin,” Lord Kheelan said, “you will so inform the other Reapers of my decision.”

  “Aye, Your Grace,” Arawn said, bowing slightly.

  “Make sure they will be there when he is remanded into custody and taken to the cell. I want them to see what happens to him.”

  “What of his lady?” Bevyn asked quietly.

  “She too will be made privy to his punishment.”

  “He’s not going to like that,” Arawn stated. “I know I wouldn’t if I was in his boots.”

  “My lady has never seen me Transition and I’ve no desire for her to ever see that horror,” Bevyn said. “Can we not forego having Cree’s mate observe…”

  “She has already Transitioned,” Lord Kheelan cut him off. “She knows well what it entails.” He straightened his shoulders. “I have made my decision. There will be no further discussion of the matter.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Cynyr was stunned by the judgment. He was standing at attention before the three Shadowlords, Arawn Gehdrin as his commanding officer at his side. He dared not question the decision nor show any sign of weakness before the High Council. Behind him, the other five Reapers were witnesses to his reprimand. He knew he deserved whatever punishment the HC handed down upon him, and in a way he was relieved no mention had been made concerning his lady.

  “As to the woman you have taken as mate,” he heard Lord Kheelan begin, and tensed. “It is our decision you be allowed to keep her.”

  Letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, Cynyr’s eyes closed briefly then opened as he stared at a point above the Shadowlords’ heads.

  “However…”

  The one word struck Cynyr like a sledgehammer and he tensed again, expecting the worst. Surely they weren’t going to punish Aingeal for what he had done.

  “Along with your fellow Reapers, this Council and our Prime Healer, she is to be an observer of your punishment.”

  Horror passed over Cynyr’s face and turned his complexion pale. Gehdrin had warned him against any outbursts that might anger the HC but he was finding it hard not to protest the decision. The Prime Reaper had stressed that under no circumstances was his subordinate to open his mouth unless given permission to do so.

  “Do not shame your fellow Reapers before the High Council,” Gehdrin had ordered. “One wrong word out of your mouth could cause irreparable harm to you and your lady. No matter what the outcome, keep your mouth shut and your body at attention. Is that clear, mister?”

  Cynyr could feel the weight of the other Reapers’ eyes on his back. He could feel their tension as well as that of the man standing at ease beside him. Though Gehdrin’s gaze had not strayed to him, Cynyr knew the Prime Reaper was watching him from the corner of his eye.

  Lord Kheelan signed his name with a flourish upon a paper before him—no doubt Cynyr Cree’s sentence—then handed it to Lord Naois for his signature. Settling back in his tall chair, he braced his elbows on the arm then steepled his fingers, observing Cynyr over the immaculately manicured tips.

  “You have a ranch in Eurus, do you not?”

  Cynyr had to swallow, for his mouth was as dry as the Exasla desert. “Aye, Your Grace,” he managed to say, wondering if his possessions would be confiscated by the High Council.

  “I am told your lady has developed relationships of a kind with people in the town of…” Lord Kheelan leaned forward to consult a paper before him. He looked up. “Haines City near the Exasla Territory.”

  “Aye, Your Grace. She has.”

  Lord Kheelan cocked his head to one side. “What think you of the place, Cree?”

  Cynyr’s forehead crinkled with confusion. “I like it well enough, Your Grace,” he responded, alarmed by the direction the high commissioner’s questions were taking.

  “Well enough to make it your home?”

  The Reaper blinked. Despite his iron-willed control, he turned his head and looked at Gehdrin.

  “Eyes front, mister!” the Prime Reaper ordered.

  Cynyr snapped to. “I could live there, Your Grace,” he admitted.

  Lord Kheelan said nothing for a moment then reached for the paper at which he’d been glancing. “Let me share something with you, Cree,” he said.

  Unaccustomed fear roiled up in Cynyr’s gut. He felt sick to his stomach. He was glad Aingeal wasn’t with him in the High Council chamber, yet needed her pres
ence so badly he could taste it.

  “This letter came to us just this morning,” Lord Kheelan said. He held the pages up for Cynyr to see. “It is a missive penned by someone named Michael Brady. Are you familiar with this person?”

  “Aye, Your Grace,” Cynyr replied. His brows were drawn together over the bridge of his nose.

  “Citizen Brady has a flare for words,” Lord Kheelan informed him. “I won’t bore you with the body of the text, but if you would like to read it before you leave the Citadel, I will make it available to you.” He turned the page over another page then another and still another. “There are five pages here in total.”

  Cynyr felt bile rushing up his throat and wondered what Mick Brady had written to complain to the HC about.

  “There are three simple paragraphs on the first page,” Lord Kheelan continued, “with the remaining pages devoted to signatures.”

  The Reaper flinched. Did the entire town have complaints against him?

  “Did I not comment to you once that you were a cynical man, Lord Cree?” the high commissioner inquired.

  “Aye, Your Grace,” Cynyr said, “you did.”

  “Do you always look for the worst possible motives among those with whom you come into contact?”

  Shifting his gaze down from a spot over Lord Kheelan’s head, he looked into the other man’s eyes. “I have had reason to believe the worst of mankind, Your Grace.”

  Lord Kheelan sighed. “Aye, I suppose you have, Cree, but in this instance, your suspicions are unjustified.” He shook the letter, the pages rattling in his hand. “This is nothing more than high praise for a man for whom the town of Haines City has only the greatest respect. It is a request to have that man permanently assigned to their town and—as best we can tell—was signed by every inhabitant of that town who could wield a signature or make an X.”

  Stunned, Cynyr felt moisture creeping into his eyes. His presence had never been wanted in any of the towns through which he’d passed, and certainly no one had ever wanted him to return. The idea that Brady and the others had asked for him brought a lump to his throat.