The Charm Stone (30 page)

She looked at him openly. It was nothing she hadn't already seen, but he found he enjoyed her frank perusal. An enjoyment made obvious by his state of arousal. “Well, are you just going to stand there?” he tossed back at her.

She glanced back up to his face. “I'm quite enjoying standing here, as it happens.”

He took her hand then and pulled her into the tub with him. She gasped as his body brushed against hers at the same time the warm water lapped at their skin. He moved so he sat leaning against the high end of the basin, arranging her facing away from him, between his legs.

“I dinna think this is such a good idea,” he murmured against the damp skin of her neck.

“Oh?” She moaned softly as he drew his tongue along her nape. “I think this is the best idea I've had in ages.”

He nudged against the delectable curve of her backside. “I want you, Josie. This is torture.”

She wiggled back against him. “Yes, it is.” She picked up the bar of soap. “Here. You first.”

He took the cake from her and dipped it in the water. “How am I to wash myself when—”

She took his hand and drew the soap across her breasts, a small moan escaping her as she did so.

“Ah. I am beginning to see the pleasures of no’ bathing alone.” He drew the soap across her breasts again, then decided it was unfair for the cake to have all the fun. So he lathered his hands and used them instead. “Stop yer squirming or I'll no’ be able to control myself.”

“You have no idea how good this feels,” she said, through what sounded like gritted teeth.

He scooped up the soap and pressed it into her hand. “Show me.”

She swiveled then, so she was facing him, on her knees between his. “Where to begin,” she said, a devilish glint in her eyes.

“Anywhere you desire,” he said, meaning it. His entire body was so responsive right now she could wash his toes and he'd likely burst.

She soaped his chest, reminding him again just how sensitive a man's own nipples could be. She moved along his arms, carefully lathering him down to each finger until he found himself quite short of breath. She then found something else to lather, at which point he lost his breath altogether.

“Josie—” It was all he was able to manage.

She released him an instant before he disgraced himself, then stood, water sluicing down her body. She carefully stepped out of the bath and grabbed a towel.

“Allow me,” he said, his voice unsteady. His legs were shaky as he climbed from the bath and took the towel from her. He patted at the water droplets that clung to her skin.

“I'm not fragile, you can rub harder,” she said, lifting her arms for him.

He stepped closer and pulled her arms back down, so they rested on her shoulders. “Nay, but yer skin is delicate and I'd no’ abrade it.”

She traced a finger along his chin and the fine shadow of whiskers that lined it. “You didn't seem to mind doing just that the last time we were together.”

He hadn't thought it possible for a man to blush. “Aye,” he said, finding his own smile as hers grew. “That was different.”

“Aye, it was.” She flung the towel away. “Come on, let's do some more abrading.” She tugged him in the direction of her bed, then let go and dropped to the bed on her back.

He'd never seen a more welcome sight than Josie Griffin in all her glory, splayed across white linen sheets. And he'd never experienced a deeper sense of frustration at not being able to take what was so willingly being offered. Something he wanted more badly than he wanted his next breath.

“It will be okay. Trust me.”

He found he did have trust in her. It was a riveting moment, giving that part of himself over to another, and not nearly as difficult as he'd imagined it would be. Not with her. She smiled and crooked her finger then. He didn't need further urging. He lowered himself on the bed, next to her rather than on top of her as he wished, gritting his teeth as she ran her hands over him. “Yer pushing the boundaries of risk, lass.”

She pushed him over onto his back and started kissing his chest. “Trust me.”

“It's the trust I have in myself that's in question.”

She ignored him, moving her attentions lower, dipping her tongue most startlingly into his navel. His hips jerked and he moved to sit up, but before
he could speak she slipped her hand around the pulsing length of him. He dropped back to the bed, groaning as she stroked him. His groans turned to growls when she lowered her mouth to him.

“Gods in heaven have mercy,” he said, not wishing anything of the sort. He wanted no mercy. In fact, she was welcome to continue for all eternity.

His hips jerked well beyond his control as she continued and he felt himself surging forth. He gripped her shoulders, her head, sinking his fingers into her hair, intent on moving her away at the last moment, but she merely looked up at him, while she took him inside her… and pushed him over the edge.

He shouted through his release, then all but dragged her on top of him. When he found the breath to speak, he said, “Josie, ye didna need—”

She kissed him quiet. “I did. For me, as much for you.” When he looked skeptical, she said, “I want all of you.” Then she smiled. “I'm greedy that way.”

He smiled then, too. And rolled her to her back.

He kissed her hard, then dipped his tongue to her breasts, eliciting a squeal of delight from her. He then discovered that she, too, gasped when her navel was invaded with a warm tongue. He slid that tongue lower. When she stilled his movement with her hand, he looked up. “I find I'm greedy, too.”

“Just because I—”

“Hush and allow me my pleasure.” To punctuate his desire, he dropped a kiss quite intimately between her legs.

He felt rather than saw her head drop back to the bed. “Far be it from me to come between a man and his pleasure.”

“Smart lass.” And he went back to enjoying her. She moved so exquisitely beneath his tongue, her
moans of delight making him hard once again. He found his own exquisite pleasure in driving her farther, higher, until bliss overtook her.

Her skin was heated and damp when he crawled back up beside her. The strength of his desire for her amazed him, even now that they'd both been sated. He was of the mind that there would never be such a thing as being sated with her.

He stroked her hair from her forehead and dropped a kiss there. She turned to him, murmuring softly and curling into him. She pressed a soft kiss just above his heart. And while he was trying to come to terms with the disconcertingly tender feelings her action invoked, he felt her drift to sleep.

So he held her. And thought he could forever.

The rains continued unabated the following morning. Josie awoke first and watched Connal sleep. He looked so damn… mortal, she thought, then forcefully shoved all doubts and fears of their future aside. With the weather as it was, she would be left alone today. All day. Alone. With Connal.

She would have killed for a box of Trojans.

But there were other things they could do. She sighed blissfully, remembering them all. Connal had awakened her somewhere in the middle of the night, touching her, tasting her, until he drove her yet again over the edge. She quite eagerly returned the favor, then stroked his hair as he slumbered deeply. She wanted him then, she wanted him now. She couldn't ever imagine a time she wouldn't. She wanted him in her bed every morning. She wanted him in her life every day. “Don't push it,” she warned herself. “Enjoy what you do have.”

Connal roused then and pulled her to him even
before he'd opened his eyes. She rolled in to him as naturally as if she did so every morning. She kissed him awake, then smiled when he looked at her with something very close to awe.

“What?”

“I enjoy finding ye here, next to me, when I first open my eyes. Tis a lovely sight.”

She blushed. It was that or cry. Then her stomach rumbled and the moment passed.

“I think I've finally depleted yer vast stores of energy.”

She would have denied it, told him she was perfectly content right where she was, but her stomach intruded once again and they both laughed.

“Come on,” she said. “I'll teach you the joys of cooking.”

As it happened, Connal attended his lesson as fiercely as he attended her pleasure. She enjoyed his pride at finally mastering turning an
egg
over and keeping the yolk intact. So what if it was on his tenth try? He was a determined man, but then she knew that about him already.

He ate with gusto, then noticed her staring at him and stopped midbite. “What?”

“Nothing. I just enjoy watching you.”

“I'm no’ doing anything all that exciting.”

She could have told him that watching him breathe excited her. “I guess I never thought about this before, but do you need to eat?” Once the question was out, she could have kicked herself. Reality had intruded its ugly head and she was the one who'd invited it in. “Never mind.”

“No, 'tis all right.” He put his fork down. “I dinna mind answering anything ye care to know.”

“But—”

“I want to know ye, as well as a man can. And I
want ye to know me the same. So ask. And dinna worry about the next minute, or hour. Agreed?”

She nodded and did her best to push her fears away once again. “So, do you? Need to eat?”

He shook his head. “I exist as I am no matter what. But I can still enjoy all the mortal pleasures, if I wish to.”

She swallowed hard, thinking of the mortal pleasures he'd enjoyed giving her. “And do you? Wish to, I mean?”

He grinned then, the teasing light back in his eyes. “Are ye askin’ me if I've pleasured other women? Mortal women?” Then his eyes darkened and he reached across the table to take her hand. “Since I've waited for you, I've had no other.”

She put her own fork down. He'd said that once before. This time, it was different, even more meaningful.

“What else do you want to know?”

She could only shake her head.

“Then 'tis my go.” He settled back in his chair. His hair was sleep-tousled, his chest invitingly bare. “Tell me about your father. I can see that you are close to him.”

She nodded, then finally found her voice. “He—” She smiled then and shook her head. “He's hard to describe. A gypsy, I guess, is a good start. Sounds better than oddball or eccentric, right?”

“He does no’ seem so odd to me. He is full of life, his laugh hearty. And when he looks at you, you can see pride and love in his eyes. The look of a man who knows he's left the best part of himself behind to carry on when he is gone.”

Josie could only stare at him, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Thank you. I wish I knew I could live up to that.”

“I only speak the truth.” He studied her, in that disconcertingly intimate way of his. “And ye will. It's in yer heart.”

He got up then, and cleared both their plates from the table. She watched him as he put the dishes in the sink. He appeared at ease, but she wondered. Wondered if his talk of leaving the best of himself behind hadn't triggered thoughts of his own three-centuries-long quest to do the same. Only his reasons for wanting to wouldn't be the same as her father's.

Yet, when he turned around and she caught his contemplative gaze, she wondered if even he understood what his real desires were anymore.

She stood then and pasted a smile on her face. “I told you once that I thought you needed to have more fun.”

She thought he might have winced, but she pushed on, undeterred. “Cards? Do you play?” Then she remembered the beautiful hand-carved pieces set up by the fire. “How about chess?”

His eyes lit up for only a second, but it was long enough.

“So, you do play.”

“Gregor and I have had a few midnight matches, aye.”

“Drunken chess, huh?”

Connal grinned then. “Made it easier to beat the auld sot.”

“What, having three hundred years of practice wasn't enough of an edge?”

“Practice never makes perfect.” Gazing at her quite directly, he added, “Unless it's perfect practice.”

And just like that she wanted him. Again. Always. “We
are
talking about chess.” She said it as much to remind herself as him.

“Aye. What else would I have meant?” His eyes gleamed as he crossed the room toward her. He took her hand and for a split second, she thought he might drag her upstairs to bed. Or right to the floor. She was fairly certain she wouldn't have objected to either. But he pulled her instead to the chess table. “You'll be white.”

She sat down and tried hard to remember why she'd thought this was the best way to spend the day. “Why do I have to be white?”

He looked at her then. “Because I am always the black.”

“Ah. So, perfect practice or no, you just maybe take this game a little seriously, do you?” She flexed her hands and cracked her knuckles. “Well, I'll have you know that as I spent the larger part of my formative years traveling all over with my gypsy father, we had little in the way of things to entertain ourselves in most of the places we stayed. It was pretty much either cards, books…” She looked up at him. “Or chess.”

He blew the dust from the board, realigned the figures to suit himself, then smiled up at her, supreme confidence in his gaze. “Your move.”