WesternWind 4 - Tears of the Reaper (3 page)

Owen Tohre—warrior and killer, drinker of blood and slayer of rogues—sank to his knees on the blanket like a crusader before the Holy Chalice. In silent supplication, he eased the petticoat over her hips and down her stocking-clad legs. He could only stare at the dark triangle framed within the straps of her garter belt.

“Milady,” he said. “I hurt for want of you.”

She stepped out of the circle of gown and petticoat and kicked them aside. All the while his gaze was locked on the wiry curls at the apex of her thighs though he made no move to touch her there. And yet the heat of his gaze sent waves of warmth flooding her nether regions and a light ooze of juices flooded her sex.

“My slippers,” she said. She put a hand to his shoulder and lifted one foot.

With infinite care he took the heel of her slipper in his palm and removed the satin footwear. He laid the slipper aside and gently massaged her toes before she pulled her foot out of his reach and lifted the other for him to bear.

A sensual scent was wafting to him from between her legs and he was on fire with a lust so great it was all he could do not to fall upon her and ravish her like the berserkers of his race from so long before. His entire body clenched with wanting to taste her, to thrust his tongue, his fingers and his cock inside her heated moistness. The pounding of his heart now rushed blood through his ears and he was finding it harder and harder to draw a decent breath.

“My stockings?” she suggested.

If he thought his hands shook before, he had been completely mistaken. They shook so badly as he reached for the clips that held the silk stocking to her garter belt—that wispy piece of sleek white lace that set his imagination on fire—he had to bite his lower lip to keep from moaning aloud. The first clip came undone and he slid his hands behind her thigh to unhook the other one. The backs of his fingers touching her sleek flesh, his wrists coming into contact with the soft hairs on her thighs made his cock as rigid as petrified wood. It stabbed at his leather pants in an effort to break free.

He gently rolled the stocking down her leg and when she lifted her foot, he peeled it off, laying it aside. Swallowing like a green youth, he moved to the other garter, dragging breath into his lungs in ragged gasps. By the time he had that stocking off and had lifted it to his face to inhale the scent of her body he was in acute pain between his legs. When he felt her fingers raking through his hair, he could not stop the whimper from escaping his throat.

“I have dreamed of this day for so long,” she said.

“Milady,” was all he could reply. He dared say no more for fear he would begin to jabber like a fool and start reciting sonnets to her toes or something equally as embarrassing.

It took very little effort to peel the garter belt from her body and she was bare from the waist down, the sleek pale hair at her thighs beckoning him to touch it. He would have if she had not tightened her grip in his hair and pulled his head back tenderly.

“My camisole?” she reminded him.

“Aye,” he said, and shot to his feet so quickly he startled a laugh from her. She was looking at him as an overly fond mother would her recalcitrant child and it rocked him to his very core. It had been so long since anyone had looked at him in that way that it tore through him like molten lava.

“I love you, my Owen,” she said on a breath of sound.

He slipped his fingers under the lacy straps of her camisole and slipped them over her shoulders. The lace-edged silk slid from her body like perfumed oil and fell to her feet, laying her bare for his hot gaze.

“Touch me,” she said in a throaty voice.

With reverent care he laid his hands to her lush breasts and closed his eyes to the feel of them nestled in his palms. Her nipples were swollen and poked eagerly against his fervent clasp. He kneaded those sweet globes oh-so tenderly, pressed ever so gently against their engorged peaks, pulled his fingers down the circumference until he could pluck at those sweet nubs, could twist them lovingly as her head fell back, her long blonde hair swinging down below the cusp of her ass.

He wanted to taste that sun-kissed flesh, draw her nipples deep into his mouth and suckle like a babe would its mother. He wanted to drag his tongue across those turgid peaks, lap at her, lick her and fondle her until he was as satiated as any man could be, but there was a scent calling to him that was so much more potent than the allure of her beautiful breasts. He could not ignore that siren’s call and he sank to his knees once more and buried his face against the crisp hairs between her legs.

“Owen!” she cried out, and clutched his head with both her hands as he pressed hard kisses to her curls.

He was lost in that tangy scent, his mind reeling with the heat that pulsed from her silken folds. Unable to resist, he pulled back and put his fingers to her nether lips, spreading her apart so he could gaze upon the promise that awaited him. He looked his fill then moved his fingers up to softly push aside the hood that covered her clitoris. With even more infinite care, he placed his lips to that swollen protrusion and suckled.

Her hands tensed in his hair and he could hear her gasping for breath. His worship of her was instilling the same lustful needs within her that were blazing through his taut body. His cock was so hard he could barely stand the burning pain of it but he had no intention of ending his self-imposed torture so soon. He had yet to taste the essence of her, to bring her to climax, to make her come for him and that was a goal he would defy the very gods to see done.

Flicking his tongue all around her clit then stabbing it down one silky fold and up the other, he smiled as she ground her hips against him. She wanted what he would give but she had no idea what that was yet. She knew he was playing her like a fine instrument but she wanted the music to burst forth, needed to hear those sweet sounds roaring in her ears. She was pressing her sex to him in such need he could not keep on tormenting her.

He slipped one finger slowly inside her wet sheath and she drew in a harsh, ragged breath.

He slipped another finger into that sweet moistness and began to move his fingers in and out of her, going deeper, staying in longer with each slow thrust.

“Owen!” she protested, and writhed against his invasion. Her hips lurched against his face.

He knew the itch was starting high up inside her. He could feel the pulsing of her tender flesh around his invading fingers. He knew she was so close—so close—to ecstasy and he reveled in the knowledge that it would be he who took her to that wondrous place for the first time.

With his tongue making little spirals on her clit, he increased the rhythm of his plunges into her silken channel. He pushed harder insider her.

She was panting now and the very first tremor rippled through her cunt.

“Owen!” she screamed.

He pulled his lips from her clit. “Come for me, baby,” he said. “Come for your Reaper.”

Before she could make another sound, he latched his lips onto her clit and suckled hard.

Her climax was so intense, so powerful, he had to wrap his free arm around her hips and brace her plump little ass to keep her knees from buckling beneath her. With strength only one of his kind possessed, he lifted her—her legs splayed to either side of his neck, and lay her down, pushing his fingers deep inside her as the last of the little squeezes milked his flesh. Even as the last wave rippled away, he continued to suckle her, to lick and lap at her so-sensitive flesh until she begged him to stop, dragging on his hair in an effort to pull his mouth from her sex.

“No more,” she pleaded. “No more.”

His cock so hard he could barely kneel on the ground, he straightened up and began ripping away his clothing. The silk shirt tore easily. He shredded it and shrugged it from his shoulders. Fumbling at the buttons of his leather pants, he finally grabbed both sides of the opened waistband and ripped the gods-be-damned thing open to free his burning, throbbing shaft.

He braced himself on his knees between her legs, one hand planted by her shoulder as he bent forward to finally taste those wondrous globes that beckoned him to ply his tongue and teeth and lips across them. He greedily suckled her, licked her, swirled his tongue over her nipples, drew them between his teeth and then, when he could stand no more of the temptation, slid his hand to the base of his cock to position himself at her entrance.

Just as he thrust toward her, the hardness in his hand disappeared. His eyes flew wide and he snapped his head down to see what was wrong only to find there was nothing there between his legs but spurting blood where his cock had once hung.

Chapter Two

Those gathered in the barracks room were quiet as another pitiful burst of whimpering came from the patient on the bed. Here in the Colony it was unheard of for a man to make such wretched cries. Illness was not something with which the people had to deal and it deeply bothered those who viewed it. The sounds tore at the nerves and the pathetic pleading that made no sense to them worried the mind.

For a week Owen Tohre lay naked on his belly chained to a bed as the convulsions racking his body came and went. He was without clothing for he complained they itched and burned his flesh. He had to be restrained for the hallucinations that had taken hold of him were so strong, it was feared he would do harm to himself. In his besieged mind, his captors were torturing him, driving sharp needles into his flesh and causing his hands and feet to go numb. He shivered with cold then sweated profusely, soaking the mattress with perspiration and urine. The headaches caused him to groan and moan continually, thus leading those caring for him to remark that the pain had to be nearly unbearable. He cried out at images only he could see and cringed away from helpful hands trying to soothe him. He seemed to be getting worse.

On the seventh day, he managed to stay calm long enough to sip tepid broth through a hollow reed though the bland liquid fared no better at staying down than had the cool water upon which he’d been subsisting.

“What manner of man is he that his wounds close so quickly?” Elder Vaughn asked. He had been observing the abrasions on the patient’s wrists fading as he slept.

“He is a Reaper,” High Elder Chamberlain said to the other three men in the room.

“We do not know that for a surety,” Elder Vaughn stated.

“The dark blue marking on the left side of his face is a Reaper clan tattoo,” Elder Barrow put in. “I saw it on the Reaper who is the law in the Michinoh Territory.”

“Similar but not the same,” Elder Dayton remarked. “I too saw that tattoo on the Reaper in Michinoh. Each Reaper clan has a different tribal marking.”

“If he is a Reaper, he may be near to Transitioning!” Elder Vaughn gasped. He glanced fearfully at the bed. “Will the shackles hold him?”

“Nay, they will not hold him when the time comes but he is too weak now for that to be a problem,” High Elder Chamberlain told them. “He has not eaten since Elder Carlton brought him to us. He has been too ill to even hold down water and you saw what happened with the broth. He has no more strength than that of the child whose life he saved. I doubt he is capable of harming anyone.”

“Aye, but ill from what?” Elder Dayton asked. “From all I have heard of their race, the evil within them cures all sickness. What has befallen this one that his parasite can not heal him?”

“You need not worry about his illness being contagious. The healer says not. Tell me again what you found in his saddlebags,” High Elder Chamberlain asked.

“You are asking after the elixir and the needle?” Elder Barrow wanted clarified. At High Elder Chamberlain’s nod, Elder Barrow shrugged. “Our healer could not identify what was in the glass bottles. He has never seen its like.”

“And there were many such empty bottles?”

“Aye, there were over a dozen,” Elder Barrow replied.

“Which most likely means it is an elixir he must take often. If that is the case, perhaps he is ill from lack of having it,” Elder Vaughn suggested. He cast another fearful glance at the Reaper. “Should we perhaps give him a portion of the drug and see if it will help his condition?”

“But how much is a portion, Elder Vaughn?” Elder Dayton inquired. “An entire bottle? A few drops? How much?”

High Elder Chamberlain exhaled a long breath. “We should send word to the Bastion that we have one of the Citadel’s men in our Colony. They will know what to do with him. It is a certainty we do not.”

“A wise idea yet it will take several days to make the trek to the Bastion,” Elder Barrow said. “Who should we send?”

“I will go in the morning,” Elder Dayton volunteered. “I have not left the Colony for some time and it was my grandson he saved from death’s door. It is my duty to go.”

“What do we do with him until then?” Elder Vaughn asked. “The man is in agony.”

“All we can do is care for him as best we can until we know what else may be done,” High Elder Chamberlain replied. “I have asked Sister Rachel to give him a bath this day. Perhaps that will help.”

“I cannot see where it would do any harm,” Elder Dayton responded.

“Where are his weapons?” Elder Barrow queried.

“Locked away in a safe place,” High Elder Chamberlain answered.

“That is a relief,” Elder Barrow declared. “I would not want such wicked things to find their way into impressionable hands.”