Chapter 23 #2
Scáthach turned so that she faced him. She leaned forward. He met her halfway and they kissed—softly, gently. He pulled back before the kiss could deepen. She didn’t speak. Instead the Queen of Shadow took his hand in hers and waited.
“That night. The night Aife drugged me and—” He hesitated, swallowed, and then continued. “And raped me. I thought she was you.”
“I know,” Scáthach said softly.
“She weaved a spell when she drugged me, and during the casting of it she asked who I most desired. It was you, Scáthach, my Queen of Shadow. From the moment we met, it has been you. I think it will always be you.”
“I know,” she repeated. “Sentanta, I want to be with you—want to make love with you—but I know you’ve been hurt, misused by Aife. I don’t ever want to cause you pain. If you aren’t ready for this intimacy, I understand. I will wait.”
“I don’t want to wait. I want you, Scáthach. Only you.” He looked down at their linked hands. “But I’m afraid that when I—when we do more than just kiss, it will bring it all back. The pain. The confusion. The humiliation.”
She cupped his chin and lifted his face. “Then I shall follow your lead. Show me what makes you feel safe. Teach me how to fulfill your desire without hurting you. Nights in this realm are long. We have time. Talk to me.”
“I want to try. I’m just afraid I’ll make a stupid mistake and mess up tonight or, worse, break what has formed between us.”
Her thumb traced his full bottom lip. “You cannot break what is between us. Nor can you mess up tonight. Tonight is for us. Think only of that. Think only of your pleasure.”
His smile was tentative. He kissed her thumb and then sucked it gently into his mouth to nip at it, which made her gasp and shiver. “I don’t want to think only of my pleasure. I want to think of yours as well.”
Her lips parted as she stared at his mouth. “I’m very glad to hear that.” Her gaze flicked to his. “May I kiss you now?”
As an answer he pulled her into his embrace; their lips met.
The kiss wasn’t teasing or hesitating or gentle.
It was fire and heat and desire. Their tongues touched, searching and lingering.
Cuchulainn moaned and closed his eyes, losing himself in their kiss.
Scáthach moved closer to him and was suddenly straddling Cuchulainn.
Abruptly his eyes opened. His body tensed. He began to tremble. Scáthach pulled back, understanding immediately that she was in the same position Aife had been in when she’d molested him. Scáthach slid from his lap, taking his hand in hers again. His breath was shaky and came in quick pants.
“Sentanta,” she spoke his name softly. When his eyes found her, they were unfocused. She squeezed his hand. “Talk to me.”
He blinked several times, his gaze finally focusing on her. “I’m sorry.”
She caressed his cheek. “You have nothing to apologize for. Tell me how I can help.”
He ran a hand through his thick hair. He and his words trembled as he spoke. “W-when I woke. I was n-naked. Legs and arms splayed. I was tied to a bed.”
She nodded. Her thumb traced circles over the back of his hand.
“I think it would help if I undressed myself and you were not on top of me.” His lips lifted in a hesitant smile. “At least not on top of me yet.”
Scáthach smiled and released his hand. “Please do undress.”
He stood and pulled off his tunic before taking off his boots. He unlaced his breeches and slid them down his body. When he stepped out of them, she allowed her gaze to travel slowly up and down his body.
“Sunlight skin, / Hair of flame.” Her gaze went to his lips as she continued reciting the poem she’d composed. “Your lips, your touch / Burn me—again, again.”
He knelt before her. Tears turned his amber eyes topaz. “You leave me breathless.”
“I’d prefer not to leave you at all,” she said.
“May I undress you?”
“Yes.”
Cuchulainn took off her tunic and then his gaze went to the laces on the front of her soft leather breeches. He laughed.
“What?” she asked.
“It’s just that I’ve never undressed a woman wearing breeches before now.”
She quirked a brow up. “So your women always wear dresses.”
His smile faded. On his knees beside her, Cuchulainn cupped her face between his hands. “None of them were mine. I never wanted more from them than a quenching of lust.”
“And now?” she asked.
“Now I want anything, everything—all that you will give me.” He kissed her deeply.
“Then you should probably take off the rest of my non-dress. Unless you need my help doing so.”
He smiled and his fingers went to the laces of her breeches. “I think I can figure it out.” When she was finally naked, he remained kneeling beside her as she reclined before him, propped on her elbow, her only covering her thick mane of hair. “I want to touch you,” he said a little breathlessly.
“That’s fortunate because I would very much like you to touch me,” she said.
Cuchulainn began at her feet. He caressed their arches with his thumbs, and she moaned, her eyelids fluttering. “That is . . . so good,” she murmured.
From there his caresses moved in a slow exploratory path up her legs.
He shifted his body so that he knelt between her thighs.
Cuchulainn waited until she opened her eyes and then, holding her gaze, he bent and kissed her knee.
His lips followed the softness of her inner thighs.
She held his gaze as he reached her center.
Then, slowly, she allowed her legs to part, opening herself completely to him.
He did not look away from her gaze. “I’ve thought about tasting you. So often that it’s become a distraction.”
“And I’ve imagined you between my legs. So often that it’s become a distraction.”
“Then let me sate us both.”
Scáthach’s head dropped back as his tongue found her clit.
He licked it, teasing and tasting and sucking gently.
Her hips lifted as she gasped in pleasure, guiding him to learn her rhythm.
Her hands cupped her breasts, rolling her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers as one of his hands slipped under her and held her ass, lifting her more firmly against his mouth.
His other hand played gently with the back of her thigh, stroking and caressing, his fingers lifting to slide into her and then out again to continue the caress.
His tongue flicked against her. Scáthach’s orgasm came so fast and hard that she shouted his name in surprise, clutching his shoulders.
Cuchulainn kissed the soft mound between her legs gently and then continued up her body, his lips and tongue exploring the expanse of her stomach to her breasts.
She sank her fingers into his hair as he sucked and nipped gently at her taut nipples, sending shivers of renewed desire cascading through her body.
Scáthach wanted to touch him as he touched her—to explore his body. But from her memory lifted the scene she’d interrupted where Aife was atop him. Using him. Touching him everywhere. Taking and not giving.
She would not treat him with such callousness.
Scáthach caressed his shoulders and, as he kissed along the sensitive line of her neck to finally return to her mouth, she wrapped her arms around him.
Not tightly. Not imprisoning him. Instead she used featherlight touches to trace the strong lines of his back down to his muscular ass.
“Yes,” he murmured against her lips. “Yes.”
His hard cock rested against her center, and she lifted her hips so that the damp head of it slid between her folds.
She moved against him, rubbing her clit against his cock, rhythmically rocking until her pleasure gathered and gathered—and then her orgasm exploded again.
She clung to him, whispering, “Sentanta, my Sentanta,” while her body thrummed with release.
He lifted himself so that he could look into her eyes. “You are magnificent,” he murmured.
Her hand moved from his shoulder down his back and slowly slid between them where his cock pulsed. She locked her gaze to his as she grasped it. He sucked in a breath and his body went very still.
“Sentanta, may I touch you here?” she asked.
His gaze never left hers as he nodded.
She explored his length, loving the slick softness of the taut skin that sheathed such hardness.
He was thick and more than ready for her.
She caressed the head of his cock, using the drops of desire that had formed there and her own wetness to lubricate her hand while she held him more firmly, stroking the length of him.
He did not look away from her, though his breathing went fast and heavy, and sweat slicked his skin.
“I want you closer,” she told him. “Inside me, filling me, bringing me to orgasm again.”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes.”
Scáthach guided him to her opening. She used the head of his cock to part her lips, to teasingly press against her as she moved her hips so that he slid along the wet length of her without entering.
“Yes,” he whispered again. “Yes, now.”
She positioned him against her entrance, spread her thighs wider, and then with their gazes locked, he thrust into her.
Together they gasped at the spike of pleasure, and then Scáthach wrapped her legs around him, and he began moving with her in a dance older than swordplay.
At first they teased each other. He would pull almost out of her body, and she would lift her hips and tighten her legs, encouraging Cuchulainn to thrust back into her.
He filled her completely and never looked away from her gaze.
Never closed his eyes. Even when their rhythm increased.
“You are everything,” he murmured to her. “You are my truest joy.”