4 - We Are Gathered

by Jackie Ivie

  “Get back here. Now.”

  “You don’t wish more light?”

  With him standing beside her bed, engorged male making a large sized lump in her line of sight, while flickers of golden glow touched his upper torso, she wasn’t surprised to find her mouth bone-dry.

  “I…I don’t know.”

  The mattress dented again as he entered it, this time on his hands and knees. The view was heart-stopping. Literally. She gasped to restart it, and that just had him crawling closer, leaning above her and breathing huge gulps of air all about her, making everything moist and heated, and way too bright.

  “I go too fast?”

  Rori gulped and then shook her head.

  “Too slow?”

  If he was going to raise one eyebrow while he asked it, he shouldn’t be surprised at the immediate reaction. Her entire frame pulsed right off the mattress and into his arms, as if directed there. Nothing had ever felt so right! Rori clung to him, bringing him down atop her when she sank back, but this time, roving her hands all about his back and shoulders, following every lump, every scar, every tensed muscle. Her thighs parted, allowing him room to fill the space, and then he just stopped. He pushed up, looking down at her with a fathomless black gaze, while making little surges against her, as if there weren’t at least two layers of material separating them.

  “Rori.”

  Her name sounded like a caress. It matched the one he placed atop her nose, before grazing his lips along it to her forehead. He added to it with whispered words in a foreign tongue, as well as the weight and pressure of his lower abdomen matching against hers.

  “My Friudil.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Sweetheart.”

  “Uh…Tristan. We really need to talk.”

  Her body made another lunge into him, making her whispered words sound that much more gauche. Trite. Stupid.

  “Talk?”

  “This…isn’t normal for me.”

  “I do it wrong?”

  She smiled. She couldn’t help it. He looked so worried.

  “No. Everything with you is perfect. It’s just—. I’m just—.” Man! This was harder than she’d suspected. “I’m not the type for casual sex. I don’t go to bed with a guy on a first date. I mean…not normally.”

  “You don’t like a bed?”

  “Look. You’ll think I’m a bit touchy…but I mean, I’m not like you.”

  “True.”

  He breathed the word against her earlobe, sending rivulets of shivers down her neck, over her shoulder, and from there it just went all through her frame, whispering of illicit wonders, promising craven delights, and guaranteeing massive satisfaction.

  “I don’t want to be just another bedpost notch.”

  “Bed post notch.”

  “Or wherever you notch them.”

  “What?”

  “Conquests.”

  A furrow started in his brow as he pondered it, narrowing his eyes as he just watched her. And then he smiled that killer smile of his.

  “Rori, I was a crusader knight. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “I’m not frightened. Uh…let’s just say it’s been awhile for me. You?”

  “Me? It has been not ever, Friudil.”

  “Ever?”

  Her eyes went wide with comprehension. Shock fought the complete awe, and then it got chased away with such a huge sense of euphoria Rori shook with it. She was afraid her face might split with the grin.

  “You’re not…disappointed?”

  “I’m in awe, Tristan. Truly. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You still want me?”

  “Now, more than ever.”

  Her body slid along his, her legs wrapped about his thighs to gain more pressure and touch where she needed it. He had no idea how much she wanted him. To be the first. The only. The knowledge was heady. Exhilarating. Stimulating. Eroticizing.

  “You’ll mate with me, then?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Fully?”

  “Fully and totally, Tristan. I promise.”

  “Of your free will?”

  He was still worried? The words came amidst kisses that rained across her cheeks, and to a mouth that was grasping and clinging, and returning every bit of it. Rori felt the slightest hint of pain as something sliced the inside of her lip, and then complete bliss as he licked and sucked along the abrasion.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She’d said everything he needed. Mostly was the yes. She wanted him. Fully. Completely. Akron had counseled him on it. No taking her unless she was willing. He didn’t need or want an angry female in his organization – especially one with her powers. Tristan agreed, and then he’d gotten more advice. It was in a message on his phone he’d deleted the moment he heard it, but he couldn’t banish the words easily.

  Akron was his mentor. Had been since he’d saved Tristan from death at the end of an Islamic sword, but that was the extent of it. He’d given his loyalty, his fealty, and his future to the man. That still didn’t give him the right to counsel on this joining with his mate. Especially with the note of amusement that colored the words.

  If only he could ‘un-hear’ them!

  Slow. He’d been counseled to go slow, pace himself, hold back until he couldn’t contain it. Be gentle. He was a warrior readied and primed for battling and dealing death, not a lover preparing for a woman’s satisfaction. Follow. Since she probably wasn’t a maid, she’d have more experience. If he allowed her to lead, he’d find it easier.

  But the moment he sliced open her inner lip and tasted her fluid, he was lost. Drowning. Reeling. He rolled onto his back, taking her with him, while what felt like claws gripped into his sides. The lass had some very sharp fingernails. Puncturing sharp. Gripping strong. Latching onto flesh that gloried in the contact. A moan keened from their conjoined lips, blended from both throats.

  Tristan gripped both sides of the dress he’d unzipped earlier and pulled, ripping it completely apart and exposing bared back flesh to his roaming hands. Her low moan gave approval, but he was beyond asking. Finger pads slid along perfect silken flesh, sending flicks of reaction racing through him. He couldn’t hold back the groan as his hands delineating her spine, defined her waists…slid down to encase her buttocks.

  She’s not wearing under garments.

  Comprehension dawned, licking at his fuse. He wanted to find her cavern, fill it, and then pummel himself into oblivion, and to hell with any slow, gentle following. Tristan pulled from the beauty of her kiss, sending the groan of denial out, locking every muscle he controlled, against the instinct to complete this union, and now. Tristan filled his hands with each globe, lifting and holding her and then making little thrusts as he held her atop flesh that was fire hot and fiercely angry as it rammed against the barrier of his fly.

  “Tristan… Love…”

  Her whispers filled his mind, while the slightest touch of breath hit with perfect precision against his neck, and then she worsened everything with little licks of her tongue at his earlobe. Tristan fought urges and needs, and desires he didn’t even know existed, shuddering beneath her, while each giggle she gave sent torment to spear his groin.

  “Tell me what you like. And where you like it…”

  Sweet paradise! She didn’t know what she asked! His loins bucked into hers before he could stop them, lifting her with every lunge, while his dead heart felt like it wanted to launch from his chest. His hands shook then his legs, while her giggle nearly unseated the control he’d locked on himself.

  “Oh. That.”

  She pushed upward, lifting her torso in order to slide her hands down him, lifting every pore with every touch. And gaining a grunt that accompanied every push his groin continued to push at her. He couldn’t help it. His hands moved of their own volition, releasing her to drop onto his engorged shaft, sending another groan of effect through his throat, while he filled his hands with breasts.

  They made perfect
handholds for lifting upward in order to latch his mouth onto one, and the moment he connected, his mouth was suckling, and tasting and glorying in the scream she made, while making certain her frenzied movement didn’t unlatch him. A tooth pricked flesh. He tasted blood. His senses opened, and devoured, and everything on him roared in response. He barely heard her plea.

  “Slowly…Tristan.”

  Slow?

  There was that damning word again, filtering through his conscience, with an effect akin to sending of a trickle of ice water onto a forest conflagration. He didn’t want slow! He wanted fast and hard, and rough and powerful. And now. He moved to plant his nose into the space between her breasts, holding there and shuddering and silently begging.

  “Tristan?”

  The unsure tone in her voice descended through him, leashing some of the craving. He was failing at the gentle portion, acting more like a warrior than a lover. And the last thing he wanted was frighten her.

  “I mean—. I want your first time to be perfect. Awe-inspiring. Memorable.”

  Surely she teased. It was already memorable. He’d never felt as he did now. Ever. And damn everything, Akron had been right with his advice. Tristan would have to somehow pull back desire that felt like its own entity. His hands loosened on her breasts, and he concentrated on simple things, like the feel of sinking below the surface of a pond, cooling and cleansing, and softening.

  He knew he’d done it, and that it had been the right thing, when she smiled down at him from her higher perch, although the tight nubs of her nipples still sent vibration-like sensations all through his wrists and to his shoulders. And that tightened his nipples in response. The tip of her tongue peeked out, licking at her lower lip, and Tristan shook with the response so harshly it moved her with it.

  Follow.

  Akron’s voice went through his head, and Tristan swallowed. Follow. Right.

  “What do you want?”

  She may have said it, but he didn’t actually hear it. Everything on him was ratcheting into primordial gear again, and if something didn’t change and fast, he was going to be consumed by it.

  “You.”

  It was a guttural croak, and it was accompanied by a full shove of his groin into where she perched. Her instant gasp was his reply, and then she was sliding from him, to stand right at the side of the bed, just staring, and he was going to sob between the pleas if she didn’t return.

  “What? What did I do wrong?”

  “I want to see you.”

  “What?”

  “You. Now. All of you.”

  He’d been wrong before. She was wearing some sort of under-thing, putting a tiny triangle of material over her mysteries, while a spin showed nothing at the back save a string about her waist. Tristan was off the bed, on his feet and shoving his pants to the floor before she’d finished her spin. And then he had to face a wide-eyed, shocked expression as she looked at him. It was almost enough to make him cover up with his hands. Tristan had never felt so exposed and displayed. Her dismay made it worse. He’d been forever among men, and knew he wasn’t different, just large and engorged and angered-looking as it jutted out from his groin toward her.

  “What is it? What?”

  “Oh…Tristan.”

  It was a purr of voice, and it was accompanied by a slide of her frame toward him. She wasn’t just licking her lower lip, she’d pulled the entire thing into her mouth in order to suck on it, and even his skin felt too tight to contain the urge to wrap his arms about her, find and bury himself into the core of her, and he was going to go insane before she reached him.

  She stopped right in front of him, and spent another moment looking down before traveling his abdomen, chest, and then to his gaze. Everything on him jumped as if she’d made actual contact.

  “This is for you, Tristan. Every moment. Every nuance. Exactly as you’ve always wanted, and perhaps dreamt.”

  He closed his eyes and stifled the groan. When he opened them she was still standing in front of him, barely out of touch of his rod, sending vibrations with every huff of breath that tormented his skin and then cursed it. Every muscle in his abdomen responded, tightening and jumping and aching, as if begging a touch. And when he got her palm against him, balancing her, the fire sensation rocketed all the way through him. He was still reining the sensation back when she went to her tip-toes, touched her lips to his, and nipped at him.

  Everything went to the brightest, most vivid, intense hue and it seemed to grow with every moment. Tristan had her in his arms and beneath him within the enclave of the bed without even knowing how they got there. She moved her ministrations to his neck, pricking him and sucking at his life fluid, and sending legions of bliss racing through his veins, while he did the same to her. Exchanging. Giving. Receiving.

  Her hands slid along his belly, searching and then wrapping about him, and with the first stroke, he broke contact with her throat to emit the groan. He was going to perish if he didn’t get sheathed and soon. The need transferred to her, changing the caresses she made to an immediacy of movement. The little triangle of material she wore wasn’t an issue, his lack of expertise even less, and then she guided him, positioning, and then launching upward to join them. With the return shove Tristan lost all sense of time and balance and reality. Liquid warmth surrounded him, wrapping, coiling about his shaft, flexing and rippling and making every lunge an experience of bliss. And then she stopped, yanked her head back and sent a cry into the canopy above them, while the coils about him tightened and flexed, and worked, drawing him into realms of paradise no one could have described.

  He knew there was more. Every plunge and retraction promised it. Tristan pushed himself up, lifting to generate more sensation, push with more strength, heave with more power. She didn’t have fangs, but it didn’t matter. She latched onto his throat, lapping and sucking, matching every motion until the bed rocked with it. And then she pulled from him again to cry, leaving him no doubt as to her satiation and fulfillment, while her sheath continued to enthrall him, becoming a corkscrew of rings that enwrapped and caressed and initiated.

  And still he pumped, heaving and arching and pulling full fists of bedding into his palms as he felt it. The grip of sensation at his lower back moved, shooting lower, taking his groin and squeezing until he thought he might go mad, and there was no way to contain it.

  Tristan yanked back from her throat, putting the most solid agony of sound into the air as the coils about him rippled, milking, and gyrating all about him, taking from him everything he needed to give. The groan died, turning into a sob of sound, matching the ripples of amazement. Ecstasy caught up with him; overtook him; encompassed him. Sealing him into absolute wonder that had no containment. There wasn't a boundary that could, and none that dared try.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The canopy atop his bed was in a blood-red hue, almost black. It had thick roped fringe all along it, in keeping with Castle Poenari’s theme. The red material was embroidered with thread of the same color in a pattern of interlocking crests. He’d exchanged those of Vlad Dracula’s family with the mark of the Vampire Assassin League. If he pondered it at length, the design took on all sorts of demonic expressions. Right now it looked like open sky; wide and clear and immeasurable.

  Tristan didn’t know what to say. What to do. How to say it. It was too vast. He didn’t even know how he’d gotten onto his back, one arm cradling her, while the other supported his head. He was still dealing with how everything on his body seemed to ping with satisfaction and bliss, like little bubbles from a stream. No…it more resembled little bells continually ringing in an ear-pleasing sound. No. That wasn’t even sufficient. This feeling had to resemble the paradise he’d been promised so long ago for joining the Hositaler Knights.

  He opened his mouth to speak something of it, but a drop hitting his chest stopped him. It was followed by another. Tristan lifted his head and stared. It was a tear. His mate was crying? He’d made her cry? He’d hurt her instead of
pleasured her? He’d gone berserk, letting the warrior loose, and hadn’t even known it? The realization actually pained worse than the sword that entered his breastbone so many centuries before, rupturing through his chest, killing him. Much worse.

  Moisture blurred the view as his own eyes watered, despite any desire at sending the emotion back. There was no way he was admitting to this! Tristan dropped his head back to the pillow with a thud. If he’d been regarding heaven a moment earlier, he now got purgatory. He took a swallow to still any tremor of his voice.

  “Friudil?” He had to clear his throat midway, and it still sounded like a sob to his ears.

  “Oh…Tristan. I don’t know what to say.”

  She whispered it amid a series of sniffing, and then swiped a hand across her eyes. He had to guess what she did by feel since he didn’t dare look to her again. The canopy above him seemed safer. It was also back to the blood-red hue. Nothing open and vast about anything. Just demonic impressions. Writhing. Gyrating. He blinked, sending a scald of moisture toward his ears. He was failing. And he concentrated on that. It was better than the pressure building somewhere in his chest. If he had a heart, it was in agony.

  “That was—. It’s—.”

  “Don’t. Please.”

  He lifted a hand and for some reason she took that as an indication to move to a sit and look down at him. Tristan concentrated on the canopy and willed the reaction away. His eyes burned. His throat ached. His chest had a boulder-sized weight atop it. Maybe…if he just kept silent - and if he didn’t blink – he could hide this. Maybe. If he just kept silent…

  “Tristan.”

  “Yes?”

  “That was the most amazing experience of my life.”

  He blinked, sending a cooling sensation across the burn. “What?”

  “Oh yeah. Totally amazing. Thrilling. Awesome. Wonderful. Incredible. I’m running out of adjectives here.”

  She sounded as if she spoke the truth. Not only that, but she sounded like she blushed through the recitation. The hand atop his chest wasn’t leery, either. It felt like a full caress as she trailed her fingertips along him. The green of her eyes looked darker, too.