Sticks and Stone (6 page)

As soon as he touched it, she bucked beneath him. He
swallowed her sharp
cry,
their mouths still fused
together, and rubbed her—hard. Writhing, moaning, and pumping her hips, she
sought relief. Dermot’s fingers kept
slipping,
she was
so wet, unintentionally teasing her to the point of near madness. Twice she
shuddered, tremors rippling through her body, only to continue rubbing against
his hand after a brief pause.

She clutched his back, and when that was not enough, his
ass. She ground her hips against his, churning against his rigid cock. Dermot’s
eyes were closed, but the flares of pleasure were so strong, bursting behind
his closed eyelids in neon reds and greens, he was sure he’d gone blind.

They broke the vacuum seal of their kiss, both of them
gasping for air. She shoved at his hips, lifting him from her body, and his
trapped cock sprang free to hang between her legs. She
moaned,
a ragged groan of pure pleasure that begged for more.

Dermot panted, struggling for control, as he stroked the
length of his cock up and down her slick cleft. Her pulsing flesh wrapped
around him, caressing him, and his control broke. He thrust inside her. She was
so open and
eager,
she barely felt his entrance,
sliding smoothly up the wet passage.

Another shudder rippled through her. Taking advantage of
her momentary stillness, he began slicking his cock in and out. Soon she was
moving with him, rising to meet his thrusts as he grunted and pumped against
her.

The damned tears that he never could master pooled in
the corners of his eyes. His head spun, crazy colored lights and snatches of
songs echoing in his mind. His cock was so huge, he couldn’t imagine how he
could fit inside her, and every brush against her hot, wet flesh was like
broken glass scraping across his sensitive skin.

He whimpered,
then
begged.
“Please.”

On his next thrust, she surged upward, sheathing him to
his balls, then wrapped her legs around his, locking him in place.

Another whimper broke from him. “Yes. Oh, yes, please.”

Her palm smacked his ass, crushing his balls against her
swollen bud, and he cried out as lightning flared in his groin. Wildly, he
kissed her face—her cheeks, her chin, her nose, her mouth. Anyplace that he
could reach. His hands groped for her breasts, squeezing and kneading until her
sharp gasps told him he’d found the most sensitive spots. And all the while,
she kept slapping him, the frantic tempo building until he was rutting madly,
unable to think of anything but appeasing the pain.

With a howl torn from deep within him, he came, pouring
into her. And still her hands rose and fell against his ass, rocking him
against her as her inner muscles clenched and squeezed his cock. Waves of
euphoria ripped through him, white-hot and glowing red,
carillons
of bells and wheeling flights of birds bursting into wing. It was if his entire
brain had been rewired, and now he heard with his eyes and tasted with his
ears.

A moment later, her triumphant scream slashed across his
senses, and she collapsed beneath him.

She stroked his back, with the leisurely caress of the
well-pleasured. Dermot snuggled against her, nuzzling her neck and licking the
salty skin. Gradually, he became aware of a chill against his naked back.
Lifting his head, he saw that their enthusiastic lovemaking had thrown all the
covers from the bed.

Then he turned to look at the woman beneath him. Eyes
closed, she smiled like a sleepy angel.
A well-loved and
completely sated angel.

And he didn’t even know her name.

Dermot groaned. Rolling off of her, he covered his eyes
with his arm. God, what had he done? Last night had been…well, he could be
forgiven for not thinking clearly after all he’d been through. But he hadn’t
been under any enchantments this morning. He could have thanked the woman for
her assistance, promised her a check as an expression of his gratitude and to
ensure her silence, and been gone.

But no.
He’d gone out of
his way to explain his hidden desire, making sure she fully understood how much
he enjoyed getting his ass slapped. And then he’d begged her to do it again.
Him.
Begging for a spanking.
God,
the press was going to have a field day with this. They loved tawdry sex
scandals.

He could see the headlines now. “Most Eligible
Bachelor’s
Secret Bedroom Shame” “Kick-Ass Millionaire
Enjoys Getting Ass Kicked” “Spanking Makes Stone Hard”

He’d been so careful. For years, he’d camouflaged his
inability to come the normal way as solicitousness for his partner’s needs, and
a preference for hand jobs that couldn’t possibly get his partner pregnant.

He groaned again, as an even worse thought hit him. Last
night, the witch had said his seed was sterile, good only for creating saplings
with a dryad. But he had no idea how long that condition lasted. Was he
infertile for good? Or might his sperm even now be eagerly attacking one of her
ripe eggs?

God.
Either one would be
a disaster. He slammed his head into the pillow, but it was too late to knock
any sense into his brain.

The woman rolled to her side and brushed her fingertips
across his chest. Despite himself, he felt his nipples tensing.

“Is it a problem you’re having?”

She sounded like an uneducated farm girl again, which
he’d noticed she did under passion. His masculine pride longed to indulge in
some puffing and strutting, at this proof of how deeply he’d rocked her with
his lovemaking. But now was not the time.

 
“We didn’t use
protection,” he said, still shielded by his arm.

Her hand on his chest stilled. “Oh.”

That answered his question, then. The dryad’s effect was
just for last night.

“I think it will be okay,” she said softly, as if she
was trying to convince herself as much as him. “My last period was not too long
ago. I shouldn’t be able to get pregnant now.”

Dermot snorted, thinking of the old joke. What do you
call a couple who relies on the rhythm method for birth control?
Parents.

Speaking of which, he could just imagine explaining this
disaster to his parents. “Mom, Dad, I met this beautiful Irish witch. She saved
me from a dryad and I got her pregnant.”

He groaned again. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Oh!
It’s
right you are!”

She breathed deeply, no doubt making her delicious
breasts jiggle and sway most alluringly. Dermot resolutely kept his arm over
his face. He would not look. He would not be tempted again.

“My name is Eileen
Daniells
.
What’s yours?”

He dropped his arm and stared at her. She watched him
out of those guileless blue-green eyes, waiting for his answer. “You don’t
know?”

She shook her head, pursing her lips. He couldn’t think
about those lips, where they’d been, what they’d done. He forced his gaze back
to her eyes.

“You looked familiar when I saw you last night,” she
admitted. “I thought you had come from that big wedding. You’re obviously an
American.”

There was no point in lying to her. All she had to do
was pick up any news account of Tami’s wedding and his photo would be there.
The fact that he’d attended his former nanny’s wedding had been billed as a
great human interest angle, a softening of the Stone image.

 
“My name is
Stone. Dermot Stone.”

She smiled, as if the name meant nothing to her. “Dermot
is a good Irish name.”

“My mother is Irish. Well, of Irish descent. She always
makes sure everyone knows her family moved to America long before the potato
famine brought so many Irish immigrants over.”

He worried for a moment that he’d offended her, but she
just nodded sagely. “I understand what she means. When the American publishers
first started approaching me, one had the nerve to ask if I wanted an American
‘expert’ to ghost write my books, after I’d already sold three of them here.
We’re the most literate country in Europe—well, maybe second after Iceland, it
depends who you ask—but the fools couldn’t get past my accent.”

“That’s why you decided to get rid of your brogue?”

“Yes, they—” She frowned at him. “How did you know
that?”

“It comes back when you’re excited. I figured it was a
recent change.” He paused,
then
asked the question
hammering at his heart. “What kind of books do you write?”

“Some history, but mostly nonfiction
references on being a priestess of the light.
What my publisher
calls ‘New Age’ material.”

He smiled.
Of course.
She was a
witch. She wrote books about witchcraft. “How are they doing?”

“They sold very well over here, that’s why Silver Moon
was interested in publishing me. My first book of theirs is already in its
fourth printing, and they contracted for an open-ended series. The second book
will be out in two months.”

Dermot whistled. He’d heard of Silver Moon. They had
double digit growth rates and 20% profits, when most publishers were struggling
for any growth and happy to make 8% profits.

He cast his mind back to the cocktail party cum
investment meeting he’d attended in New York, where he’d heard those figures.
All but the most inept New Age publishers were doing well, but Silver Moon had
a sizable lead over its competitors. One of the reasons given had been their
ability to identify talented writers and build a following for them. And one of
the writers they’d crowed loudest about had been an Irish witch named Eileen
Lyons.

“You’re Eileen Lyons.”

She blushed, her fine alabaster skin glowing rose. He
was amazed that someone so uninhibited about sex could be embarrassed about
public recognition.

Dermot breathed deeply, the bands of fear that enclosed
his chest shattering like sugar candy. She would never expose his secret to the
press. Her career depended on her image, and any scandal would destroy her
completely.

“Yes, that’s the name I write under. But how did you
guess?”

“I was approached about investing in the company a few
months ago. I remembered the name.”

She tilted her head, resting it on her bent arm, and studied
him. “You’re uncommonly clear sighted for one who doesn’t walk the path.”

“I pay attention and I know what I want.” He shrugged.
“No great trick.”

“And what is it you want?”

Money.
Power.
To make his mark in the world and surpass his father’s achievements.
And right now, her.

“To spend the rest of this day in bed with you,” he
admitted. “But I can’t. I’ve already missed a breakfast meeting with our Dublin
directors. That was only a status meeting, and I’ll get as much from reading
their reports as from listening to them. No doubt they figured I was sleeping
off the wedding celebration, and carried on without me. But I have to be in
London by one o’clock. I can’t miss that.”

She rolled away from him,
then
leaned over the edge of the bed to gather some of the covers. “So you won’t be
staying in the area, then?”

 
“No. The only
reason I was down here was the wedding.” He reached out and touched her
shoulder, turning her to look at him. “I’d like to see you again, Eileen. We
could meet in Dublin.”

She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Is it seeing you’ve a mind
to do, or could you as easily keep your eyes closed?”

He blew out his breath in a disgusted snort. “Yes, I
want to make love to you again. But it’s more than that. Beautiful women throw
themselves at me all the time. I don’t need to import lovers. I want to see you
again because there’s something special about you, something I don’t have the
time to explore right now even though I wish I could. I hoped you might feel
the same way.”

Now she looked at him, gazing deeply into his eyes as if
she could read his soul. For all he knew, she actually could.

But he’d told the truth. The sex had been phenomenal.
After all these years of denial, finding a lover who understood and encouraged
his desires was like a dream come true.
And to have her be an
intelligent, successful woman on top of that?
If there was one thing he
admired more than anything else, it was a person who’d succeeded because of
their own tenacity and competence. God, he couldn’t have asked for a more ideal
woman.

A chill ghosted over him, and it had nothing to do with
his nakedness. She was exactly what he’d asked for. And the leprechaun had
delivered her.

Dermot leaped out of the bed. His clothes were in the
bathroom where he’d left them, although the pants had been hung on a peg to
dry.

“Where’s my jacket?” he asked.

“You weren’t wearing one.
Just your
shirt and shoes.
You’re lucky I saw your pants, black as they are.”