WyndRiver Sinner
Page 21
Aingeal looked down and picked up the charm, angling it so she could see what it was. She turned her eyes up to him. “What is it?” she asked, fingering the bright gold emblem with the heart-shaped pale green stone shot through with black bands.
“It is a Gaelach symbol called an eternity knot,” he said. “I asked Arawn to go to a jeweler to get it for me. It signifies there is no beginning and there is no end to the love we have for one another. It simply was, is and will be.” He touched the stone. “The malachite is a protection stone for children.” He looked into her eyes. “Our sons who are and who will be.”
Tears filled Aingeal’s eyes and she threw her arms around her husband’s neck and held him. “Have you any notion how much I love you, Cynyr Cree?” she asked.
“Have you any notion of how much that love is returned?”
“Remember when I asked if you believed in what will be, will be?”
“I remember,” he said.
“We were meant to be, Reaper.”
He lowered his mouth to hers and claimed her sweet lips in a soft, mesmerizing caress. The tip of his tongue traced the corners of her mouth then flicked at her upper lip.
“Love me,” she whispered.
“With all my heart,” he responded.
As the late afternoon trailed into dusk behind them and the train chugged its way west to meet the sun, Cynyr removed the last obstacle between his body and hers and stretched out atop her, his mouth eagerly claiming the rosy peak of one creamy breast. He suckled her—drawing pleasure from the contact—and felt her hands spiking through his hair.
Aingeal massaged his scalp as he swirled his tongue around the sensitive nipple. His teeth were grazing the delicate nub and that sent quivers of delight down her sides. His right hand held the breast he suckled while his left hand lay curled under her shoulder. He had positioned himself between her spread legs, his cock as hard as stone as it leapt against her velvety core.
He shifted so he could trail his left hand down her side and onto the heat of her sex. He slipped one finger—then two—inside her tight warmth and found the spot for which he searched.
“Ah,” she groaned, and her hands clenched in his hair.
His fingers circled that sweet convexity, claimed it, took it and branded it his. Moistness oozed over his questing flesh and the heat within her increased as he stroked her. Very gently his thumb worked back and forth across her clitoris, causing her to arch her hips upward and her pulse to quicken as that little nubbin stiffened and began to throb.
Aingeal’s breath was coming in short little pants and she was grinding her hips against his invading hand. She was offering herself to him for his pleasure, knowing in return pleasure would also be hers.
Feeling the first faint spasm against his fingertips, he withdrew his fingers and thrust his staff into her. The slide of it nearly drove him wild with ecstasy. Releasing her breast, he slid both hands under her firm little bottom and lifted her closer to his hardness. Her legs went around his hips and she arched up to meet his long, firm strokes, wriggling against him as the second spasm was born and her entire creamy sheath clutched at his throbbing member.
Pulses of white-hot heat rippled through Aingeal’s lower body. The delicious weight of her husband’s body pressed down upon her and she became lost in the heady enjoyment that shot through her loins. Quickening around his rigid flesh, her cunt drew upon him with firm little squeezes that milked the love juice from his rod.
Cynyr’s seed shot hot and deep inside his lady. The pleasure was so intense, so powerful he felt it all the way from his groin to his knees. Holding that last tremor against the very core of her, pressed as far inside her as their bodies would allow, he knew a moment of such sublime satisfaction it brought tears to his eyes.
Exhausted, drained of every last ounce of his energy, he collapsed beside her, his wet cock smearing a silky line across her taut thigh.
She gathered him into her arms with his head in the hollow of her shoulder and held him close. His hair smelled of lemons as the thick curls lay against her cheek.
They lay quietly for a long time, though both were wide-awake. He was staring at a tiny mole on her chest and she was looking up at the ceiling. Their hearts had slowed to a normal rhythm, their bodies cooled of the fine film of perspiration that had formed when they were in the throes of passion. Contentment had settled over them like a warm, comforting blanket.
“Ranger,” Cynyr said quietly.
She knew what he meant. “Briton?” she countered.
“Too stuffy,” he proclaimed.
“Ranger,” she said, trying out the word. “Ranger Cree.” She shook her head. “Just doesn’t do it for me, Reaper.”
He reached up to mold his hand around her breast. “Aincyn,” he said.
Aingeal smiled. “Now, that I like.”
“Aincyn it will be then,” her mate decreed.
“And the next son will be Briton,” she told him.
He lifted his head and looked up at her. “When do I get to use Ranger then?”
She thought about it for a moment. “After our seventeenth child?” she inquired.
Cynyr flinched. “Seventeenth?” he repeated.
“Aye, Reaper,” she said. “We’re going to found a dynasty of handsome Cree boys.”
“Seventeenth,” he said the word again, letting it fall like a rock. “That’s a whole lot of work, wench.”
“That’s a whole lot of loving, Reaper,” she said.
“All right,” he said after a deep sigh. “Then the third son will be Chastain.”
“The fourth will be Dayton,” she said, reaching down to fondle his sleeping member.
“Dayton, eh?” he said, his staff beginning to waken. He rubbed his naked body against hers. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
“Okay, then what say you and I get to work on straightening out the wrinkles?” she asked, gently pulling on his cock.
About the Author
Charlee is the author of over thirty books. Married 39 years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashley. She is the willing house slave to five demanding felines who are holding her hostage in her home and only allowing her to leave in order to purchase food for them. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest.
Charlotte welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Ellora’s Cavemen: Legendary Tails I anthology
Fated Mates anthology
Passion’s Mistral
WindVerse: Ardor’s Leveche
WindVerse: Pleasure’s Foehn
WindVerse: Prisoners of the Wind
WindWorld: Desire’s Sirocco
WindWorld: Longing’s Levant
WindWorld: Lucien’s Khamsin
WindWorld: Rapture’s Etesian
And see Charlotte Boyett-Compo’s stories at Cerridwen Press
(www.cerridwenpress.com):
BlackWind: Sean and Bronwyn
BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn
Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.
www.ellorascave.com
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