Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (21 page)

from making a terrible mistake. She would listen to reason; send Sorn from her cabin; contritely beg her

brother's pardon for her momentary lapse of good judgment and morals; return to the naive, untried, and

virginal woman-child he had rescued from Galrath Convent.

Or...

Two. Syn-Jern would call him out; fight for his right to be with Genevieve; become his lifelong enemy;

remove Genny from all contact with her brother; and keep the lady's heart forever.

Or...

“You can just leave them the hell alone,” Weir snarled.

Should he intervene, Weir knew, neither Genny nor Syn-Jern would ever forgive him. They were both

adults; they knew what they wanted.

“And they want each other,” Weir's little voice reminded him, “else they would not be where they are at

this moment."

Not that he minded his sister's attraction to Sorn. If truth were told, he welcomed it. He liked Syn-Jern.

He admired the man.

But right was right, he decided as he lay there.

* * * *

There had been no thought in Syn-Jern's mind at all as he followed Genny Saur. His body, or a part of it

at any rate, had put his bare feet to plank and carried him along without hindrance from his brain. Nor

had he made any effort to circumvent what he knew was going to happen the moment he went below and

found her waiting—impatiently, he thought—outside her cabin door. And he hadn't hesitated as he went

to her, waiting as she stepped back into the haven of her cabin, her face bright with expectancy. Neither

had he entertained the notion of leaving well enough alone as he closed her cabin door and quietly shot

the bolt. As he stood there facing her, his body on fire with a need he knew would have to be quenched

else he would go stark raving mad, there was no doubt in his mind that before it was all over, Genny Saur

would be his.

“Are you sure?” he asked her as he watched her lift her hands to the laces of her bodice.

“Aye,” Genny whispered and began to work the buttons that held her gown in place.

He was trembling when he gently brushed aside her hands and took on the task himself. The fabric

parted and the creamy swelling of her breasts made him draw in a labored breath. His manhood stirred,

growing rock-hard in the confines of his too-tight breeches.

Genny put her hands on his, pressed them to her chest, and delighted in the soft groan of his need as his

fingers molded her breasts.

“Weir will have me flayed alive,” he whispered, but his hands were moving on her, easing inside the

bodice to cup the hot, firm globes that beckoned him.

She moved so close he could feel her body heat through their clothing. Her head fell back as he placed

his thumbs on the peaks of her breasts and rubbed gently.

The swan-like arch of her neck invited his lips and he dipped his head, his mouth fastening greedily on

the pulse point at the base of her neck. Her helpless sigh of passion inflamed him even more and he ran

his hands around her, beneath the confines of the gown, tearing fabric, pulling loose seams, and not

caring. He pressed her to him, ground his hips against her, allowed her to feel the essence of him.

Genny put her arms around his neck. She brought his mouth to hers and as his lips closed over her own,

his tongue began its ravaging. She clasped his strong neck, lifted her legs, and draped them around his

lean hips.

“My, god, Genny!” he gasped against her mouth. He was straining to hold her up for his legs were as

rubbery as a newborn colt's. “Where the hell did you learn that?"

“Do not dilly-dally, Milord!” she warned him, her body sliding further up his as she arched her hips.

Never in his wildest dreams had he thought to be the one conquered in this business. He was not

prepared for her aggression, nor was he able to think straight as her breasts flattened against his chest

and her mouth began a ravishing of its own. From the moment her tongue darted boldly past his lips, he

was lost.

“Now!” he heard her demand and it was all he could do to stagger to the bunk with her.

They fell with him on top, his weight a useless lump as his shaft strained to be free of its imprisonment.

“Take off your damned breeches, Sorn!” she ordered him, dragging one hand from his neck to pluck at

the offending obstruction of his buttons. Her fingers grabbed him through the fabric, pulling.

“Lady, easy!” he rasped. “You're going to..."

“Shuck your breeches!” she demanded. Her fingers were scorching him.

Syn-Jern stood on quivering legs as his hands made quick business of unbuttoning his fly. Barely had he

freed himself before Genny was on her knees, reaching out to take possession of what she saw.

“You ... are ... going ... to ... make ... me...” He couldn't finish for her lips were now around him and he

found he could no longer breathe. He buried his hands in her hair and held her head to him as her mouth

did for him what no woman's mouth ever had. “Oh, Genny!"

So this was what the women of Montyne Cay had said was the ultimate power over their men, Genny

thought as she drew on the rigid flesh in her mouth. She'd heard that a woman's expertise in this particular

phase of lovemaking could make her man do just about anything. From the gasps and groans and

whimpers coming from Syn-Jern, Genny could well understand that to be a truth.

“Lady...” He was pleading, his entire body quivering beneath her touch as she molded his taut ass in her

hands and squeezed roughly. “I ... am ... going ... to..."

Genny suckled him, drawing from him a wetness that was not altogether unpleasant to the taste. She

experimented with her tongue, dragging it around the swollen head of his shaft, making lightning stabs into

the tiny slit that emitted the slightly salty essence of him.

“Genny!"

If she were surprised by the sudden jerking of his shaft, the explosion of fluid that shot from her lover,

she gave no evidence of it. She relaxed her tongue, allowed the liquid to flow smoothly down her throat,

swallowed instinctively, drawing every last drop of fluid from her lover's manhood.

Syn-Jern dragged in a shuddering breath as her lips left him. He lowered his head, stared at her with

absolute astonishment. He was panting from what she had done to him, shocked to the very foundations

of his soul, yet when he opened his mouth to ask her where in the hell she'd learned such tricks, she

smiled shyly at him.

“If I'd have allowed you to take me as you were, Milord Syn-Jern, you'd have hurt me for sure ... I've

listened well when the other women talk to one another.” She looked down at the coverlet. “I am a

virgin, Syn-Jern."

“You...” he breathed raggedly. “I ... we..."

Her eyes lifted to his. “The next time I won't interfere,” she said in a contrite tone. “I'll just lay here

and..."

“The hell you will!” he grated.

Genny found herself on her back, her skirts yanked up to her waist. She tried to sit up, but found his

heavy hand in the center of her chest, pushing her down.

“Be still!” he snarled.

“Milord,” she started to reason with him, but when his mouth latched onto the very core of her, she

squealed—half in protest, half in absolute terror. “What are you doing?"

“Two can play this game!” he said, pulling his mouth from her just long enough to thrust his hands

beneath her hips and lift her to his lips.

“Syn-Jern!"

From the moment his tongue darted inside her, Genny Saur's brain ceased to function. Her body took

over. She arched her hips, pressing against his questing mouth. She grabbed handfuls of his thick hair and

dug her nails into the sleek curls.

Syn-Jern had never entertained the desire to make love to a woman in this fashion. He had always

thought the act disgusting. Having always been fastidious in his person before his deportation to Tyber's

Isle, he had overcome a lot of pre-conceived notions of what was allowed and what wasn't; but oral sex

had never held any appeal to him.

Until now.

"So much for your ideas of sex, Sorn,"
he thought.

Her taste filled his mouth and he drew on the tender nub that seemed to excite her so much. Running his

tongue along the pulsing point, he inhaled the musty scent of her sex, finding his body growing hard once

more.

“I ... need...” she said and he lifted his head to look at her.

“You need what, Milady?” he whispered huskily.

“I ... need...” Her fingers tensed in his hair. She wiggled her hips, lifted them. “I want..."

He knew well enough what his lady wanted and he removed one hand from her smooth rump and

insinuated it between her thighs.

“Oh!” she gasped, trying to clamp her legs shut around the intrusion.

“Unh, unh,” he told her, using his elbow to pry her left leg away. Before she could try to shut him out

again, he inserted his middle finger inside the hot, wet slit of her womanhood and probed gently. Her

juices flowed over his questing finger and he probed deeper, finding—and rejoicing at—the unbroken

barrier of her maidenhead. His finger wiggled inside her.

“Sorn!” Genny shouted. “Damn it, do it!"

Syn-Jern laughed and removed his hand. Settling his weight gently atop her, he guided his shaft to her

and pushed inside gently.

“Will you just...” Genny hissed.

Praying he wouldn't hurt her overly much, he accommodated his lady's need. He stilled when she sucked

in her breath, then began to move inside her. Despite his gentleness, she began wiggling against him,

grinding her sex around his, and gripping him tightly with her inner muscle. At first he tried to shorten his

thrusts in order not to hurt her, but her mindless wiggling, her nails raking down his tensed arms as he

poised over her, drove him to a frenzy that had his shaft pumping with fury between her legs.

“Aye, Milord!” she encouraged. “Aye!"

When he felt her quivering around him, the slick wet heat of her bursting into fulfillment, he could not

hold his own back any longer. He drove deeper, going to the hilt in one final jab that brought a scream of

pleasure from her lips and a grunt of satisfaction from his as he held himself hard against the very core of

her. The scream brought everything to a standstill above decks.

It brought Weir Saur upright in his bunk.

* * * *

Weir was waiting for him when he came out of Genny's cabin. Saur was standing in the gangway—arms

crossed over his wide chest, his shoulder against the bulkhead, one booted ankle crossed over the other.

There was a gleam in the man's eye, a tight frown on his lips.

“Weir,” Syn-Jern said in acknowledgment. He had automatically tensed when he'd found Genny's

brother outside her door.

“Sorn,” Weir returned with an upward flick of his left eyebrow.

Syn-Jern ran a hand through his tousled hair. He had no idea what to say to the man. Did he apologize

for what had happened? Did he try to explain it? Could he make Saur understand how it was between

him and his sister before the man ran him through with the serviceable dagger strapped to his thigh.

Weir's lips twitched with annoyance as he instinctively read those thoughts going through the other man's

mind.

“Ten minutes, Sorn,” Weir said into the silence.

A puzzled look crossed Syn-Jern's face. “I beg your pardon?"

“Ten minutes,” Weir repeated. He jabbed his chin toward Genny's door. “I want her presentable and on

deck in ten minutes.” He unfolded his arms, nearly smiling as Sorn stepped back.

Syn-Jern stared at his woman's brother, held his gaze, and then lifted his chin in defiance. “I won't let you

hurt her, Saur."

Weir nodded. “I have no intention of hurting her, Sorn,” he answered. He took a step toward Syn-Jern.

“Nor you, for that matter, but I am going to make you marry her."

He swept his regard down Syn-Jern, then looked him in the eye. “You have nine minutes to have her up

top or I'll send men to drag you there!"

* * * *

As the sun set on that August day, the twentieth day of the month, in the Year of the Windflower,

Syn-Jern Sorn of Holy Dale Keep, Virago, took Genevieve Saur to wife with the entire compliment of

the Wind Lass's crew as witnesses.

Weiren Saur, brother of the bride, performed the Joining. The best man was Patrick Sean Kasella and

Norbert Tarnes gave the bride away.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Weir Saur nodded politely at his brother-in-law. “Good morn, Syn."

Syn-Jern glanced at the dawn sky. “Is it?"

Weir shrugged and began to re-roll the map he'd been studying. “You know what they say about ‘red

sky in the morning'?"

“Aye. ‘Sailors take warning',” Syn-Jern replied.

“We're in for a blow, I'm thinking,” Neevens put in from the wheel.

“How bad?” Syn-Jern asked.

“Bad enough,” Weir answered. He returned the map to its leather sheath. “There's a small island about

five nautical miles to the larboard. I think we should set course for it until the storm's over."

“I agree,” Syn-Jern said. Since his marriage, he had become much more cautious and extremely

protective.

“Is Genny up?"

Syn-Jern shook his head. “Lazy woman, your sister."

“You can't keep the girl up all night, Sorn, and expect her to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next

day,” Patrick said moodily.

“Get laid, Kasella,” Syn-Jern answered sweetly.

“No one here to lay him,” Neevens guffawed.

It was a measure of the men's respect for Paddy that they now joked about his sexual preference. He