Sea Lord (21 page)

He moved on her, close enough to see the sweep of her thick, fair lashes and the part in her springy hair,

near enough to smell her skin and her fear. He searched her gaze. Her eyes were wide with shock, but it

was her spirit that looked out of them.

She was safe. His heart, which had been clenched as tightly as a fist, relaxed enough to beat. She was

herself.

Ronat spoke from behind him. “My prince? Lord Gau?”

“He can go to Hell,” Conn said without turning. “Escort him to the caves.”

Lucy’s tongue came out to moisten her lips. His entire body clenched in response.

“Upstairs with me,” he commanded softly. “Now.”

She craned her neck to look over his shoulder, apparently oblivious to her danger and his need. “The

dog . . . Is Madadh all right?”

He wanted to shake her. Did she fail to realize how narrow an escape she had just had?

“The dog is in shock,” he said curtly. The vision of Madadh stretched on the cobbles, of Lucy with her

hand to her mouth, struck him again with bruising force. “But it will live. Perhaps this will even teach it to

listen.”

A tinge of color returned to her pale face. “It wasn’t Madadh’s fault.”

“He should have obeyed.”

Her eyes were wide and desolate. “Are you mad at him? Or at me?”

Conn drew a short, sharp breath. He was furious at Gau and at himself, for not anticipating her danger,

for not moving quickly enough to protect her. But he had no intention of debating his feelings with the

entire court looking on. He was not discussing his emotions at all. His fear was too new, his need too

raw.

He gripped her arm above the elbow. “Upstairs.”

She regarded his hand on her arms as he propelled her across the bailey toward his tower. “Did you

know you only touch me when you’re hauling me somewhere?”

She did not sound accusing. Her tone was almost wistful. It filleted him like a knife.

His hold tightened. So did his jaw. He did not know how to touch to give comfort or reassurance. Only

to fight or to mate. “I touch you. I have been inside you.”

They were almost to his tower.

“Sex doesn’t count,” she said.

Temper and need erupted inside him. His control shattered. “Then it doesn’t matter if I do this.”

He spun her through the doorway, backed her against the wall, and covered her mouth with hot, hungry

urgency. The kiss was rough, almost savage. Fury and fear pumped through his blood, drummed in his

head.

She was his to claim.

His to protect.

His to take.

Lucy absorbed the shock of his assault, feeling his hunger, feeding it, needing it.

Gau had caught her in the open, unprepared. She hadn’t had time to find shelter behind the wall she’d

been building her entire life.

When the demon attacked, she’d struck back instinctively, throwing up barriers to protect herself, her

defense less like building a wall and more like dumping a load of bricks on the demon’s head.

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At least, that’s what it felt like to her. She didn’t know how it felt to the demon.

But the alien presence in her mind was gone, extinguished like a campfire under a shovelful of dirt, leaving

her empty in the rubble and the ashes, with gritty eyes and coated tongue. Her chest felt hollow. Her

mind was bruised. The taint of smoke and char caught in the back of her throat and lingered in her

sinuses.

She needed Conn’s taste to wipe it out. She needed his touch to feel alive again and safe.

She welcomed his hard, urgent mouth, his rough, claiming hands. He leaned into her, his heavily muscled

body a bulwark and a refuge. She rested her hand on the back of his neck, the edge of her little finger

riding that line of smooth, exposed skin, and felt his groan vibrate in the back of his throat, in the pit of

her stomach.

He could fill her. He could take her to a place where she wouldn’t have to think. His hands closed over

her breasts, and she quivered in reaction and relief. She craved the warm oblivion of sex like her father

craved his bottle. She wanted to feel something other than lonely. Something besides numb.

Conn made her feel. He trapped her against the wall with his body, his breathing quick and hard. The

storm inside him swirled around them, charging the air, sending lovely electric thrills sliding along her skin.

She was squashed between the bite of stone at her back and his muscled weight all along her front,

breasts, belly, thighs. His erection pulsed against her, thick with life. He bent his head, and she felt the

rasp of his jaw and then the warm suction of his mouth on her throat. Her eyes slid shut.

Dust and ashes and despair.

She opened them again hastily and Conn was there, warm and real, hard and urgent. She threw her arms

around his neck, fisted her hands in his hair.
Take me. Save me.

He growled and lifted her into his arms, plunged with her into the cool, shadowed tower, hauled her up

the stairs. Round and round they climbed, darkness and light playing over his hard face, her gasps and his

footsteps echoing in the enclosed space. She could feel the urgency in him, violent as an approaching

storm. Her head spun. She was breathless, dizzy, drunk with anticipation.

It was sex. Just sex.

It was life.

It was everything.

She licked the hollow of his throat, savoring the taste of salt and man. He carried her to his room and

dropped her on his bed. She bounced once before he came down hard on top of her, taking his weight

on his elbows, caging her legs with his thighs. His mouth covered her mouth. She parted for him eagerly.

His tongue plunged inside.

Her hips hitched upward—
there, please
—seeking pressure, seeking relief. The blunt, hard ridge of his

arousal rubbed the juncture of her thighs. She struggled to open her legs, to capture his, but he straddled

her, his knees on the cloak, pulling the wool fabric tight across her body. She was trapped and itchy.

Desperate.

Panting, she struggled to throw him off. He rose up—
not enough, not nearly enough
—and grabbed

her hips and turned her facedown into the mattress.

Um, no. Not like this. He was too strong. It was too much. She was wary of his total dominance, and

even more alarmed by her own response.

In any contest of passion, she would lose. Had lost already.

And she didn’t even know the stakes.

She twisted to face him.

But he pinned her down, his arms enclosing her arms, his thighs restraining her thighs, his strength

surrounding her. With one hand, he pulled up on her cloak and her skirts, bunching the material around

her waist. The wash of cold air on her bared legs was distraction and relief. His hands shaped her

bottom, measured the span of her hips, tugged the elastic of her panties down her thighs. She shivered,

open to him, vulnerable and wet and open. She turned her face on the pillow as he reached under her, as

his long-fingered hand splayed over her belly, toyed a moment with her piercing, dipped into her navel.

His touch moved down, slow, seeking, deliberate. She moaned and then bit her lip, the pain a tiny

punctuation point to pleasure.

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He was so close behind her, hot and solid behind her, his body controlling her body, his hands

compelling her response. She was drunk, dizzy with the mingled, musky odors of his sweat and her

arousal. She felt him shift to adjust his clothing, and trembled in anticipation. Her breasts tightened. Her

boundaries blurred.

His knee shoved her legs wider apart. She writhed. He stroked, his hand teasing, skimming over her

slick, sensitive flesh. Swaying on her knees, she ground against him, a willing accomplice in her own

surrender.

He kissed her nape.

She made a muffled sound of frustration into the pillow and
bit
him. His arm. Like an animal.

His breath was hot in her ear. “You want this.”

She felt the hair at his groin, the smooth, hard jut of his cock rubbing the crack of her buttocks. He took

himself in hand, positioning himself, sliding the thick head against her wet opening. She melted for him.

Moaned. His skin was hot and silky. Her womb softened and clenched.

She panted and tipped her hips upward, helpless to deny him. “Yes.”

“Then take it.” He thrust. “Take me.”

Deeper.

“Take my seed.”

Her body jolted. Her mind rebelled. But mind and body were taken up, taken over, by the feel of him

inside her, pumping inside her, filling her to bursting. She was blinded, breathless, caught in a current she

could not control. She cried out and convulsed, her orgasm ripped from her, tumbling her over and over

like a shell trapped by the tide. Wave after wave racked her, wrecked her, her contractions milking his

until he plunged, until he shuddered and groaned and released deep inside her.

His big body sprawled over hers, damp. Spent.

Lucy closed her eyes, absorbing the pounding of his heart, the sound of his labored breathing.

“Now,” Conn said, his voice deep with satisfaction, “you will stay.”

12

“UM.” LUCY’S MIND FLOATED SOMEWHERE ABOVE the bed, anchored only by the knot at

her heart. Her head still reeled from the force of Conn’s possession, from the fullness of her own

surrender. Her body felt swollen and achy. Loose, as if Conn had taken her apart and put her back

together without using the manufacturer’s instructions. “I didn’t say I would stay with you.”

The smell of sex, sharp and musky, hung in the air and clung to her skin. The covers were a tangled mess.

So was she. And Conn, instead of rolling over and falling asleep or jumping in the shower and out the

door, seemed content to lie beside her, his hand resting lightly, possessively on her hip, his gaze on her

face.

“I do not require the words. This is enough.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the back of his

knuckles brushing her cheek. She almost wept at the tenderness of the gesture. Unexpected from him.

Unprecedented for her. “This is better.”

Her heart kicked in her chest. Her mouth was dry. “This doesn’t solve anything.”

He lowered his hand. His dark brows drew together. “I gave you my seed.”

Yes. She moistened her dry lips, uncomfortably aware of the tenderness in her belly, the wetness of his

semen between her thighs. He had pushed himself so firmly, so deeply inside her, she was afraid she

couldn’t tell anymore where he ended and she began.

“Uh-huh. And do you make a lifetime commitment to everybody you have sex with?”

He frowned. “Of course not. I am selkie.”

She swallowed. “Well, I’m human. And humans take time to get to know one another before they . . .”

“Fuck?” he suggested very softly.

He was angry, she realized. Hurt? But that was ridiculous.

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“Make a commitment,” she said.

“You said ‘yes,’” he reminded her. “In words, this time.”

She felt her face turn red. “I would have said anything you wanted to have you inside me.”

His nostrils flared. His eyes were deep and dark. “Then—”

She was miserably embarrassed. But she was even more determined to finish, to make him understand.

“I would have done anything. Given you anything.” She took another deep breath, forcing herself to meet

his gaze. “And that scares the crap out of me.”

He frowned. “Did I hurt you?”

“What?”

He examined her face. “I was rough. Did I hurt you?”

She was braced for his impatience. His unexpected consideration shook her heart. “I’m fine. You were .

. .”
Relentless. Overwhelming.
“Incredible. But it’s not enough.”

He gave her a long, considering look. His mouth curved with wicked intent. “I can give you more.”

All the air left her lungs. Desire pinched her breasts, stabbed her womb. The temptation to give up, to

give in to him, almost overpowered her.

She curled her legs under her and sat, smoothing her skirt over her thighs so she wouldn’t have to look at

him. “Last night you accused me of not having the courage to take what you offered me.”

“I was angry.”

“You were right. I am afraid. I’m afraid I’ll give myself to you, and I’ll be left with nothing.”

“Lucy.” He laid his hand over hers, stilling her restless picking at the fabric. His hand was warm. Her

heart turned over in her chest. “I gave you my pledge.”

“Because of the prophecy.”

“I gave you my pelt.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Which only proved her point. “We’re too different, don’t you see?

There’s too much I don’t know about you. That we don’t know about each other.”

Conn released her hand and left the bed. She felt his loss like the pain of a missing limb, as if something

warm and vital had been severed. The mantle of the fireplace framed the proud set of his shoulders.

Today he wore gray velvet and lace at his throat. He looked like a portrait of an aristocrat in a book of

eighteenth-century paintings.

Or like a king.

“The selkie are the children of the sea,” he said with his back to her. “We take our life and our power

from the ocean. A selkie who gives up his pelt gives his power and life into another’s keeping.” He