Entwined (14 page)

“Let me see you.” Eamon’s husky demand rolled over her.

Slowly, she raised her eyes to his as she bared herself to him, the hot air in the forge feeling cool against her skin. His breath stopped and held, his gaze molten as it roved over her. That look and the sight of her own naked breasts, the pink tips quivering ever so slightly from the force of her unsteady breathing, filled her with liquid heat.

“I’ve died,” he whispered, and then he moved.

His mouth opened over one nipple, and she moaned, her head falling back, her hands clutching the massive swells of his shoulders to keep from falling. He did as promised, suckling her so gently there was barely a pull, just the flat of his tongue against her flesh as the wet heat of his mouth surrounded her.

She was undone. Nothing could feel better. Then he filled his big palms with her breasts, kneading them lightly as he moved to the other nipple and tortured her anew.

Her hands now gripped his hair, holding on, holding him to her. “Eamon,” she said desperately, “I shall faint.”

He pulled free and glanced up at her, the wet curve of his lower lip grazing her distended nipple. Lust and wicked triumph glinted in his eyes. “I’m not done.” And then he grasped the sides of her gown and tugged.

The fabric tore with a loud, long rip. Before she could protest, he threw the gown upon the worktable and then set her upon it, stepping between her legs and cupping the back of her head with a swift move.

His looked wild and fierce staring down at her. High color stained his cheeks, and his nostrils flared. Over six feet of immensely strong, roused male. And it sent a thrill through her.

“What are you waiting for?” she whispered. She was splayed out before him, naked and leaning back upon her hands. And he hadn’t yet moved.

Eamon’s lids grew heavy, his gaze traveling over her in lazy perusal. The muscle at his jaw twitched, and his grip upon her neck tightened. “I’ve waited four years,” he said. “I’m merely enjoying the moment now.”

She laughed lightly, as if anticipation and nerves were not making her heart pound and her insides flutter. “Hardly fair.” She let her gaze roam over his chest, glistening with sweat and so very hard with muscle, down to the bulge pushing against his trousers. “When I am naked and you are not.”

In an instant, he’d let her go and ripped open the packet of his trousers. They slipped to the floor, and Lu sucked in a sharp breath. His thighs were powerful and thick, lightly furred. His cock. She’d had
that
inside her? Beneath a thatch of flame red hair, his cock was long and weighty, bobbing as if impatient.

“Oh, my.”

All his glorious ruddiness, the various shades of red and gold and bronze that colored him, did something to her, made her want to devour him whole, lick him from head to foot.

She settled for reaching out and grasping him. Eamon groaned in approval, his hips swaying forward as she tugged. His skin was shockingly smooth and hot, his flesh so dense that it had no give beneath her questioning squeeze.

“Lu.” He fell forward, leaning into her, his hands slamming onto the table with a thud. He gripped it hard, his arms and shoulders bunching. “Pump it. Up and down. Like you’re… that’s…
Christ
.”

“Am I doing well?” she asked, though she could guess the answer.

He swallowed audibly. “A perfect student.” He voice ended on a strangled note, and he dove his hand into her hair once more and placed an open-mouthed kiss on her neck.

“Eamon, you haven’t yet kissed me, you realize.”

He stilled, his breath buffeting her sensitive skin. “I haven’t,” he agreed.

Lu let his cock go as he cupped her cheeks with his large hands and tilted her head up to him. Tenderness softened his hard features. “Lu,” he said, “I love you.”

His soft lips brushed hers once. Then again. And they both let out a sigh. It was her first kiss. As she knew it was his.

“I love you too, Eamon.” When he pulled back to look at her, she curled her hand around the base of his throat, holding him. “I have loved you,
you
, since I sat with you beneath the willow tree.”

He was not kind, not gentle, when he kissed her again, his lips crushing against her. He held them there for a moment, and then, on a soft groan, he adjusted his grip and his mouth moved over hers, shaping and nuzzling her lips as though they were the sweetest fruit.

Lu opened her mouth to his, and he tasted her with his tongue. God, his tongue. It was slick and soft and warm and made her sex pulse each time he slid it over hers. She lost track of the kiss. It went deeper and deeper until her lips throbbed and her jaw ached, and still she did not want it to end. “I like kissing, Eamon,” she whispered. “We ought to have done it from the beginning.”

He chuckled against her mouth. “I like it too, Bit. So very much.”

Eamon held her head in his hands and devoured her mouth with his own as he eased her back. Lu slid a hand down his firm chest and grasped his cock again. He grunted into her mouth, and then his hands were clutching her thighs, spreading them wider as he kissed her.

The head of his cock moved through her slickness. “Now,” she said against his lips.

It was better than before. All that hard thickness pushing into her without pain. She took him deep, tilting her hips.

“I
love
this part,” he said as he gave a small thrust. And then he grinned.

Looking up into his face, she grinned back. “Let us do it every day.”

They grinned at each other like fools before Eamon’s gaze turned smoky and he began to go at her with deep, assured thrusts. She arched her back, her breasts pressing into his slick chest.

“I love it,” she said on a gasp. Her skin prickled, fire nipping at her breasts, down the backs of her thighs. “Oh, God, Eamon, I love it hard.” She almost laughed for the joy of it; they could be anything they wanted to be, do anything they wanted to do here.

He shuddered, and his grip on her bottom grew tight, nearly painful, as he hauled her closer. “Shall I fuck you harder, Lu?”

It was her turn to shudder. The words. They were even better illicit yet direct. And her sex clamped down on him. “Yes, Eamon.”

He shoved back into her with a grunt, and then he did as asked, thrusting so hard that the bones cradling her sex ached. The table rocked back and forth with squeaks of protest. Something clattered to the floor. Lu wrapped her legs about Eamon’s waist and held on.

Every thrust drove her higher, drew her tighter. Pleasure was illusive and overwhelming all at once. She dug her nails into his moving muscles, spurring him on. “Eamon, Eamon.” Her sight went dim.

They flew apart together, Eamon releasing with a disjointed bellow that drowned out her cry.

He collapsed against her, and for a moment, they simply panted as one, their bodies slick with sweat. But then he moved, hauling her and the gown up. He swathed them in it as he sank to the floor and cradled her against him. Weakly, she rested a hand upon his chest and felt the hard beat of his heart.

Eamon pressed his lips to her temple then peppered her face with soft, searching kisses. His care sent warmth flooding through her.

“I love you, Lucinda Jones,” he said. “You weren’t meant to be mine. But I love you just the same, and I am never giving you up.”

Lu cupped his cheek. “Fate meant for me to belong to you, and you to me. I think you know that. I think we’ve both known all along.”

Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against hers and simply breathed. “I shall thank fate for the rest of my days.”

They were silent, their limbs entwined as they held each other in gratitude, when a thought occurred to her. “Eamon,” she said in growing despair, “Arnold was correct, you realize. We aren’t truly married. I am not Luella. If someone were to find out—”

Eamon kissed her. “I’ll make it right, Bit.”

“But how?”

He caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Do you trust me?”

Lu sank into him on a sigh. “Always and forever.”

Chapter Fourteen

Lucinda spoke the truth when she said she trusted her husband. And one bright Sunday morning, he walked into their private sitting room and gave her a copy of their marriage contract. Frowning in confusion, she read it, and her mouth opened in shock.

“It says Eamon Hollis Evernight and Lucinda Jones.”

Eamon grinned. “And it says the same in the village church registry.”

“But how?” She found herself grinning back at him. “How did you do it?”

Eamon gave a light laugh, and with the very strength that had always made her marvel, he scooped her up and sat back down with her upon his lap. Lucinda snuggled in as he kissed his way up her neck. “Did I ever tell you about my Scottish cousins?”

“Mmm… No, I don’t think you have.”

He caught her earlobe in his lips. “Well”—he gave her a nip—“if you think I am strange… Let us just say that that branch of the family can perform a variety of miracles.”

“I’ll have to thank them,” she said faintly, for his hands were busy elsewhere.

Eamon hummed in agreement. “You’ll have your chance sooner than you think.”

The next day they went to Scotland and were handfasted so that they could say their vows anew. She called herself Lucinda in the ceremony, but she was always Eamon’s Lu.

* * *

Some forty years into their happy marriage, one of Eamon’s Scottish cousins came to him. Though he knew her as Mary Margaret, she called herself Moira Darling. She brought with her a man named Isley.

And while Eamon’s inquisitive little granddaughter Holly checked the mathematics on a set of schematics they were working on, the man asked him a question.

“Tell me, Mr. Evernight,” said the man, “have you one of those splendid mechanical arms of yours available for purchase?”

Mary Chase has been assigned to help Jack Talent find a vicious killer in the streets of Darkest London.

But her prime suspect is Jack Talent himself.

See the next page for a preview of
SHADOWDANCE
.

It was inevitable that Jack be called into headquarters. The Bishop of Charing Cross had struck the night before. Murder was nothing new in London. Strange ones of a public nature, however, were another matter. Jack had been the regulator in charge of this particular case for a year now, a blight on his otherwise stellar record. This time a shifter had been murdered. As one of five—make that four now—known shifters living in London, he took it personally. Having intimate knowledge of certain facts, Jack was also unnerved by this new murder. Deeply. And he wanted answers.

Cool shadows slid over him as he strode down the long, echoing corridor that led from the SOS common rooms to the main meeting area. Headquarters was full of regulators updating their intelligence before going out. He did not like being around them, or anyone. Not that he had to worry on that score. The others steered clear of him, their eyes averted and their bodies tense. Fear he could handle, hell welcome, but pity?

One younger agent lowered her lashes when he passed, and a growl rumbled in his throat. She started and hurried off. Rightly so. No telling what sort of beast would break free should he lose his temper. Not even he knew. That was the way of a shifter, not owned by a single monster but possessed by all. He was everything, and he was nothing in particular. In truth, being a regulator was the only certain and good thing in Jack’s life.

At the end of the black marble hall, a guard stood beside a massive steel door. He saw Jack coming and swiftly opened it.

“Master Talent,” said the guard, “they are waiting for you.”

He was precisely on time and the director was already waiting? And what did the guard mean by “they”? His meeting was to be with the director. Who the bloody devil would be here—

Her scent slammed into him like a punch. And what little equanimity he’d maintained flew out the door. Oh, no, no, no… they wouldn’t dare. He eyed the inner wood door that blocked him from the meeting room. She was in there.

His muscles clenched tight as he forced himself to enter.

“Ah, Master Talent,” said Director Wilde from the head of the table. “Right on time. Excellent. Let us proceed.” His clipped voice was unusually animated, as if he knew Jack’s displeasure at the unexpected third person in the room and reveled in it. Which wouldn’t be surprising. Wilde loved to keep regulators on their toes.

Jack heard every word, but his gaze moved past the director and locked on her. Mary Chase sat at Wilde’s right, serene and ethereal as ever. Her face was a perfect replica of Botticelli’s Venus, and her body… no, he wouldn’t think about that. It was one rule he refused to break. He never, ever, thought too long on Mary Chase.

* * *

Mary Chase would have liked to think that, after years of being on the receiving end of Jack Talent’s hateful glare, she’d be immune to it by now. Unfortunately it still worked through her flesh like a lure, hooking in tight and tugging at something deep within her. One look and she wanted to jump from her chair and hit him. However, knowing that he found her presence bothersome gave her some small satisfaction.

He stood in the doorway, filling it up, poised for a fight like an avenging angel of Old Testament wrath. Over the last year, Talent had reached his physical prime, shooting up well past an already impressive six feet, and adding what looked like twenty pounds of hard-packed muscle to his frame. It was as if nature had given him the outer shell he needed to protect himself from all comers. The change was unnerving, as the man had been intimidating enough before, mainly due to the sheer strength of his stubborn will.

With a sullen pout, Talent dropped his large body into the chair opposite her. She suspected that he sought to convey his displeasure, but the blasted man was too naturally coordinated, and the move ended up appearing effortless. “Director Wilde.”

Talent turned back to Mary again. His rough-hewn features might have been carved from stone. “Mistress Chase.”