Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River (4 page)

“I hadn’t bathed in over a week and I wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass me by!” she threw at him.

“How was I to know you’d get all bearish about it?”

“Stay out of the damned water, wench!” he said. “I mean it. If you need a bath, we’ll find you a fucking

tub!”

“All right!” she yelled back at him. She was still clutching the gooey soap and rag in her left hand and

swatted him with the wet mess. “Now let go of me!”

He ground his teeth but he let go of her wrist before turning around and stalking off, listening for her to

make sure she was following. There was a wet blob on his chest where the soap had struck him and that

annoyed him more than anything.

Grumbling under her breath, Aingeal walked behind him. She liked the way the coarse denim felt against

her, but it was stirring up heat she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

“Couldn’t you have fashioned me some underwear?” she complained.

“I don’t have a clue how to do that,” he snapped. “Shirts and britches are easy. Such things as you’re

talking about aren’t something I wear.”

“Do all Reapers create clothing out of thin air?”

“Some can,” he replied as they reached the smoldering campfire. “It takes practice. If you can

shape-shift, you can rearrange molecules to make garments.”

Despite her annoyance with him, she was intrigued by his explanation. “What do you mean shape-shift?

Shift into what? What’s a molly cool?”

“Moll-uh-quel,” he stressed as he began kicking sand over the campfire. “To put it simply, it’s what

everything in nature is made up of.”

“Molecule,” she repeated. “It sounds stupid.” She frowned. “You said you could shape-shift.”

“Into a wolf, an eagle,” he grumbled.

“You can really do that?” she asked, her face glowing.

“You’ve heard Reapers Transition,” he snapped. “We change. We shape-shift.”

“Aye, but I always thought it was into some rampaging beast…” She stopped. “Ah! Now I understand.”

She hurried up to him. “Can I see you do it? Can I? Can I?”

“Hell, no!” he thundered, spinning around to fix her with a glower meant to turn her into a quivering mass

of whimpering womanhood.

“Ah, why not?” she asked, pouting, and had the audacity to hit him on the arm with her fist. “You won’t

scare me.”

Cynyr reacted before he thought. He grabbed her, slamming her against him and walking her over to an

oak where he pressed her back to the trunk and leaned into her. Her free hand was pressed to his chest.

“You want to see my fangs, milady?” he snarled, and opened his mouth to exhibit the sharp lateral

incisors that suddenly burst forth. “How about my claws?”

Aingeal stared wide-eyed at the hand he raised in front of her face, her lips parting as five very lethal

looking claws shot from the tips of his fingers to curve downward toward her nose. “Damn,” she said,

but the word was one of amazement instead of the fear he had intended. She looked into his eyes. “No

wonder you guys are so feared. Bet you could open a can of beans with those in a heartbeat, huh?”

The Reaper groaned with frustration, re-sheathed his claws and retracted his fangs. He was pressed

tightly to the female—his lower body grinding into hers—and he wanted nothing more than to slant his

mouth across hers and taste the sweetness of her breath that was fanning the hairs at the base of his

throat. She was gazing up at him with a look unlike anything any other human had ever bestowed upon

him, and he was fast losing himself in her pretty gray gaze.

“Are you going to bite me?” she whispered.

He almost winced when he asked, “Do you want me to?”

“Will it turn me?” she asked, her hand caressing his hard chest.

Cynyr still had hold of her left wrist, keenly aware that he had dragged her arm around his waist and was

holding it behind him. He was staring down into her face, his gaze wandering over high cheekbones, long,

spiky eyelashes and a pert little nose that tended to wrinkle when she spoke.

“You clean up nicely,” he heard himself say.

“Will it turn me if you bite me?” she repeated, her lower lip tucked between her teeth.

He shook his head. “It takes a hell of a lot more than that, wench.”

Aingeal’s thumb had slipped past the gap between a button on his shirt and the front placket and was

rubbing lightly at his chest hair. She smelled of his soap and wet hair.

He lifted his hand and took a long strand of her damp hair between his fingers, studying it. The feel of it

pleased him and he wound it around his middle finger.

“Are you sure Reapers don’t mate?” she asked breathlessly.

His eyes leapt back to hers. “Do you have any idea what it is you’re asking?” he questioned.

She shrugged, and he could feel the tips of her breasts boring into his chest. “No one should have to go

through this life alone, Cyn,” she said. “Not even a Reaper.”

“Reapers are killers, wench,” he said. “They maim and destroy and—”

She brought her hand up his chest and laid the tips of her fingers across his lips, silencing him. “They are

also defenders. They protect and guard and—”

He would later wonder if it had been the gentleness of her words—the fact she seemed unafraid of

him—or the hot glow in her eyes that made him swoop down to claim her lips. He ached to taste her and

as his tongue invaded her mouth, he felt his shaft harden so tightly it nearly buckled his legs.

And Cynyr Cree was lost.

Aingeal’s left hand was clutched in the back of his shirt as he held her wrist to him. She could feel the

play of his muscles as he strained against her and the rock-hard rod pushing into her belly brought waves

of desire shimmering through her. Her other hand was trapped between them—her fingers at the hollow

of his throat—and she could feel the thunder of his pounding heart as he kissed her. His tongue was

dueling with hers and his teeth nipped lightly at her upper lip when he pulled away.

“This is wrong, wench,” he said, his lips trailing kisses over her chin and cheeks.

“Who said so?” she countered, kissing him right back. She flicked out her tongue to taste the texture of

his upper lip and his instant groan made moistness ooze from her core.

Cynyr was not a novice to sex but the only times he had known such fulfillment had been in the mouths

of whores he’d paid to relieve him. He knew better than to mate with one of the willing women, for once

a Reaper mated, he mated for life, and very few allowed themselves such a luxury. Giving in to the desire

to protect a woman, to care for her, to live with her, was discouraged, for it was believed a Reaper lost

his edge that way. The High Council thought it made him more cautious than he should be and less

inclined to take chances.

“The gods help me,” he muttered, and moved back from her, putting distance between them. “I

shouldn’t be doing this. I know better.”

Whimpering, Aingeal reached out for him, afraid he was going to deny them both, but she drew in a

sharp breath as he put his hands to his shirt and ripped it from his body. The sound of tearing silk made

her tremble, and when his fingers went to the buckle of his gun belt, she hunkered down to quickly untie

the leather thong wrapped around his thigh. Slowly she stood up as he worked his way through the

button fly of his leather britches, his cock springing free as though it had a mind of its own.

One moment the denim jeans and white cotton shirt were covering her body and the next the jeans were

gone, vanishing with a quick wave of his hand, and the shirt was hanging open on her chest. He pressed

her back against the tree.

“What I wrought, I can undo,” he said in way of explanation, for she was staring at him in awe.

His hands went under her rump and he lifted her, poising her velvety sheath over his straining rod as

though she weighed no more than a feather. She locked her legs around his hips, sliding her sex down

him before he could change his mind.

The feel of her enveloping him sent tremors through the Reaper’s body. Nothing and no one would ever

be able to take this woman from him, for he was seated firmly within her, his cock already claiming her.

She was his and would remain his for as long as they both lived.

Aingeal had known many men since her husband had sold her to the Jakotai. Not once—not even with

the man to whom she had been legally joined—had she ever known the pleasure of a man’s body. Donal

had rutted with her more from a sense of duty than any real desire, and Otaktay’s brutal sex had been

painful at best. His tendency to lend her to his friends for a bottle of firewater or on the loss of a roll of

dice had handed her over to men who cared for nothing save their own enjoyment. Not once in all the

years since she had lost her virginity on her Joining day had she known what delight a man’s body could

bring.

Cynyr’s cock was hard and smooth, his flesh hot within her body. The tip of him was pressed against the

entrance to her womb and causing such delicious spasms of satisfaction to clench within her, she thought

she would swoon. His hands were kneading her ass with every thrust of his powerful body against hers,

his fingers tightening on her flesh. Her head was on top of his, the side of his face sliding between her

breasts. She could feel his tongue laving her nipple and the sensation was unbelievable as her body

clenched around his.

She had buried her hands in his thick brown locks and was holding on as he rocked against her. There

was a building itch starting low in her belly and she wriggled against him as he lifted her and slammed her

down upon his hot rod.

“Cynyr!” she called out, feeling the beginning of a ripple flowing through her lower body. Her eyes flew

wide as the ripple became a steady wave that crashed over and over and over as he pushed up into her

as far as he could go.

Never had he known such wondrous delight, he thought as the tiny little squeezes undulating around him

became a strong pulsing clutch. He was buried to the hilt within her hot little body, his cock straining to

go higher still as he thrust one last time then held her steady over the spurt of his cum shooting deep

within her. He let his head fall back and he howled with his release, the joy of it sinking deep into his soul.

Trembling, he stood there holding her, his breathing so erratic he thought he might pass out. He was

panting, his hot breath coming out loudly. His knees felt as though they were about to buckle so he

turned, with her still attached to his body, and slid down the trunk of the tree, barely noticing the

roughness of the bark gouging his flesh or the splitting of his leather britches ripping at the inseam.

Her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck and her breasts sticking to his sweaty chest. She

seemed as loathe letting go of him as he was of her. To avoid having the soles of her feet scratched by

the tree trunk, she had moved her feet to his hips as he began to squat so that her knees were under his

armpits, pressed closed to his side.

They sat like that until his cock slid from her wetness to lay its tired head against her thigh. Their

breathing slowed, their foreheads pressed together, they were lost in a world of their own making.

“So much for you going back east,” he said. “No way in hell is that going to happen now.”

“I had nothing to go back to anyway,” she reminded him. She reached up to touch his lips. “Do you

believe in the old saying ‘what will be, will be’?”

“I believe in myself, wench, and that’s about the extent of my beliefs.”

“I wasn’t afraid to follow you last night. Somehow I knew we were meant to be together.”

“Aye, well, I normally would have put a hell of a lot of distance between me and the town I was last in,

but last night I lagged behind,” he admitted. “I knew you’d follow me.”

“You were waiting for me,” she said, stroking the cleft in his strong chin.

“Aye, I believe I was.” He drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly. “I live in Eurus,” he told her. “I

have a ranch there. You will like it.”

She reached out to smooth back a lock of his damp hair. “Is that where you are from?”

“I was sent from beyond the stars, wench,” he told her. “Many, many years ago.”

Aingeal knew little of the world in which she lived and almost nothing about the all-powerful High

Council who governed it. Since the war had devastated three-quarters of the world’s population, life on

Terra had reverted to a time long before such things as star travel. The old ships might still be around but

the knowledge of how to fly and fuel them had long been lost—just as it was with all the machinery that

lay in ruins in the large cities beyond the plains of Terra.

“Perhaps one day you will tell me of your life beyond this world,” she said, caressing his face.

“Perhaps,” he agreed. He stared into her eyes for a long time then gently urged her to move off him.

She stood up and stepped back, unselfconscious about her nudity as he looked at her. She knew her

muscle tone was good, for hard work was part of a Jakotai woman’s life. Though she realized she was

too thin, her breasts were large and her ass nicely rounded. Her hair fell to her hips in curly waves. She

hoped her appearance pleased him.

“You are beautiful,” he said, reading her thoughts.

“Aye, but a bit cold,” she said, wrapping her arms around her.

He waved his hand and once more the dark blue denim wrapped around her lovingly, clinging to her

curves. This time he even provided a pair of leather boots, which fit her like a glove.