Chapter 30 #2
Mother Nature must have a soft spot for me, because no sooner have the words left his lips than thunder rolls, long and deep, the rumble rattling the windowpanes.
Cairn’s eyes meet mine, and then he takes me by the waist, lifts me as if I weigh no more than a loaf of bread, and sets me on my feet.
He pushes up, and his hooves clop along the wooden floor as he strides to the kitchen window and looks out.
Even from where I’m standing, I see the flash of lightning illuminate his face.
And then the rain starts to fall. It’s a light patter at first, a gentle dance across the thatched roof.
But it doesn’t take long for the storm to arrive in full.
It’s a loud thrum across the roof, and the view outside Cairn’s kitchen window is already becoming obscured by rain and fog by the time he pulls away from it and shoots a look at me.
“Are you sure you’re not a storm witch?”
“I’m sure.” I give him an innocent smile. “But one of my roommates is.”
He leans back against his kitchen counter and crosses his arms. “Did you plan this?”
“Of course not.”
That’s not a bad idea though . . .
He snorts. Maybe he doesn’t believe me.
Socks whispering across the floor, I ease toward him. He looks at me warily as I stand before him, so small compared to his height and width.
“So . . . I guess the mulching and raking will have to wait.”
He arches one brow.
“And I’d hate to get soaking wet walking back to the castle in this storm. Plus, I could get hit by lightning. And you said yourself you missed me, so I know you don’t want me to get fried out there. Guess I’ll just have to stay, wait it out. The headmistress would understand.”
“Please,” Cairn grumbles, shaking his head, “let’s not speak of Lysandra.”
“Okay, no more talk of Moonhart. How about,” I say as I take one of his hands and start to tug on him, trying to guide him toward the sitting room, “we talk about what you’re going to do to me, hmm?”
His eyes narrow further, and though he resists me for a moment, he does eventually push away from the counter and start slowly following me toward the sitting room.
The fire has burned low, and I hurry to toss another log on and shoot a few fresh flames dancing across the wood with my fire magic.
Then, before Cairn can give me another excuse for why we can’t do this, I hurriedly rush from window to window, pulling the curtains closed. When I’m done, the sitting room is dim, lit by the firelight as the rain pours and thunder rumbles above us.
“Lyra,” he says softly.
I know he’s about to tell me we can’t, that we have to stop.
Before he can, I reach for the waistband of my trousers—the ones I wear to work with Cairn, with the stained knees and muddy cuffs—and loosen the cord, then push the fabric down around my ankles.
Cairn watches without speaking as I step free of them and kick them aside with my foot.
Next, I take hold of the bottom of my sweater, and with one motion, I pull it off over my head. That, too, falls into a heap on the floor.
Now I’m just wearing my warm socks and cotton undergarments, the fabric so thin I know Cairn can clearly see the peaks of my nipples even from across the room.
Still, he says nothing. But there’s a straining against his trousers that he’s making no effort to hide.
Each step slow, I move across the sitting room toward him. He stares down at me, the firelight reflecting in his glassy dark eyes.
“I know you want this,” I say as my palm finds his hardening length and I start to stroke him through the fabric.
His breath hitches. “And it’s okay. We’re not doing anything wrong.
” I run my thumb along his tip; it’s already warm through his trousers.
His eyes squeeze closed. “Don’t let them ruin this. ”
Cairn pushes his hips forward, grinding himself against my palm.
His eyes flash open. And then he’s guiding me backward across the sitting room, lifting me by my hips and holding me to his chest as I wrap my legs around his waist. The way he holds me, I feel like I’m weightless, held aloft by the ocean waves.
His dark gaze meets mine. And before I can catch my breath, he kisses me. His lips taste of cinnamon and sugar, and he smells like earth from working outside this morning. The heat from his kiss travels through my veins, setting every inch of my body alight.
With what feels like very little effort, Cairn sinks slowly to the rug in front of the fire.
He lays me down, my back cradled by the softness of the rug, all without breaking our kiss.
And when he does finally pull away, allowing me a moment to breathe, it’s only to pull his tunic off over his head and horns.
His brown skin gleams in the golden light of the fire, contrasting against mine as he reaches for my lightweight cotton panties.
They come off with a whisper, and then I’m lying bare before him. His gaze is hungry as it settles between my legs.
For a moment, I worry he’ll resist again, that I’ll have to beg and plead until he finally gives in. But blissfully, I’m wrong.
Cairn presses a thumb against my clit, which is already pulsing with warmth, then slips one finger inside me. It’s thick, but there’s little resistance—I’m already wet and waiting.
I close my eyes as he pushes his finger deeper, thumb rubbing circles against my swollen clit.
“Are you sore?” he asks. “From last time?”
I don’t bother to open my eyes, just give my head a slow shake side to side. “No. Not anymore.”
“But you were?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He makes a rumbly sound from deep in his chest. Concern? Approval? Maybe both. I don’t know. I’m too focused on the feel of his finger inside me.
Cairn shifts forward, one hand still working me while his other presses into the rug beside my head. Now I open my eyes, if only to look up into his.
Eyes dark, he stares back at me. And when he adds a second finger, pushing it into me alongside the first, he doesn’t break our stare.
I flinch, just a little, and he goes slower, giving my body time to adjust to him.
“How long,” I whisper, voice hitching as he resumes the slow finger thrusts, “will it take until I’m ready?”
His lips pull up slightly. “You asked me that last time.”
I give him a pout. “And you still don’t have an answer for me.”
Inside me, Cairn scissors his fingers, stretching me until I gasp. “Only you can answer that.”
Then I want to do it now, I think, though by the way I’m already gripping his fingers, I know we can’t.
With determination, I say, “Add another.”
One of his brows arches. “We’ve only just started.”
“Just do it. I’m ready.”
He regards me for a long moment. Then, finally, he does as I say.