Chapter 25 #3
He opened his mouth to tell her of his desire—to woo her to him with proclamations of—
Scáthach closed the space between them with a single step and wound her arms around his shoulders. She looked into his eyes and said, “Love me, Sentanta, so that our passion burns away the memory of the frozen death that surrounds us.”
They came together in a kiss that scorched. Her touch ignited him. It didn’t just burn away the surrounding death. It seared the memory of Aife’s defilement of his body so that he met Scáthach’s passion with unrestrained enthusiasm.
They parted only to hurriedly take off their clothes and spread their cloaks on the stone floor.
Then they blazed together. Their moans of pleasure and gasping breaths filled the space, creating a symphony of desire.
When Scáthach knelt before him and took him into her mouth, he gave himself fully to her, though soon he was on his knees with her.
She smiled and nipped at his bottom lip, the curve of his neck, and finally her teasing tongue found his nipple.
He gasped as she flicked it across his sensitive flesh.
And then he couldn’t bear not being inside her. Still on their knees, he turned her so that her back was to him. Over her shoulder she gave him a sensuous smile before Scáthach languidly bent to rest on her forearms as her rounded ass pressed seductively against him.
He didn’t enter her immediately, though he wanted to.
Instead he caressed her back. Brushing her hair aside, his fingers traced the tattooed lines of swimming sturgeons that flowed over her shoulder and into a waterfall, which became an eternal blue spiral that covered her back.
His hard cock throbbed against the softness of her generous ass.
“Now, Cuchulainn. I need you inside me now.”
As he entered her with one deep thrust, she threw her head back and moaned his name, closing her heat around him.
Her hair flowed down her back like a veil, allowing alluring glimpses of her tattoos and naked skin.
Cuchulainn moved rhythmically with her, in and out of her slickness.
He bent so that he could reach between her legs to stroke her in time with his thrusts.
Her release came first, and again as they shifted position and she rode him.
With her third climax, her beautiful voice cried his name and it was too much for him.
His pleasure was so intense as he lost himself in her that she took his breath, his heart, and his spirit.
And as they lay entwined together, their heartbeats racing in time, Cuchulainn knew that even if they must part, he would be hers forever.
Scáthach’s head rested on his chest. He caressed her shoulder and her back. He thought she’d fallen asleep, but her musical voice asked softly, “Are you well, Sentanta?”
“Better than well.” He could feel her smile. “And you?”
She propped herself up on her elbow so she could look into his eyes. “Better than well, too. But I will admit I wish I had my big bathing tub and buckets of hot water.”
He grinned. “That sounds—” Her gasp cut off his words, and Cuchulainn bolted up and looked wildly around the cave for a weapon, cursing to himself that his sword wasn’t closer.
Scáthach pressed a hand to his chest. “All is well, love. Look.” She pointed behind him.
He turned to see a hot spring had miraculously appeared tucked against the rear wall of the little cave. Steam lifted from the pool of water. Cuchulainn laughed and then said, “This realm adores you.”
“And for that I am very grateful. Come on!” She sprang to her feet, and he was close behind.
With matching groans of deep pleasure, they sank into the hot mineral water. The pool was rounded like a basin and just big enough for them to fit in facing each other.
“This is perfect,” Scáthach said as the water covered her shoulders. She closed her eyes and leaned languidly against the side of the pool.
“It is. Though it’s missing the presence of a bard singing inaccurate ballads of our mighty feats.” His eyes glinted mischievously when hers opened to dangerous slits. Cuchulainn laughed and held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m not being serious.”
She flicked water at him. “That bard! I have a feeling those inaccurate ballads will be told and retold for generations.”
“Well, were he here, perhaps he would compose an accurate love ballad,” Cuchulainn said.
“That chirping budgie would not be allowed in my cave,” she said firmly. “Ugh. Can you imagine?”
“Yes,” Cuchulainn said, eyes still sparkling with humor.
“He’d make you one of the fifty maidens I pleasure over and over and over.
” As he spoke, he took her foot in his hands and began to firmly massage her arch.
“Because, of course, the Hero of Ulster must have superhuman prowess with the maidens.”
“Maidens, huh?” Scáthach’s voice was light, though her eyelids were growing heavy as his clever hands massaged from her foot to her calf. “I am most definitely not a maiden.”
“And for that I am most definitely grateful,” he said. He moved up to her thighs, which he gripped, and then slid her slowly through the water to him so that she straddled his lap. “But we could make the being pleasured over and over and over part of the ballad true.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “So we’re writing ballads now?”
“No, we’re living them.” Cuchulainn kissed her and then he did, indeed, pleasure her over and over and over during that blissfully long night.