Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
The answer had always been the same no matter how much had been inflicted
upon his body, how much blood he had shed. He would not forsake his vows to satisfy
the lust of a crazed woman, for it had become a test of wills—his and hers.
She had taken delight in pouring and rubbing salt into his wounds. She had
laughed at his screams of pain, his tears and his trembling body. She had enjoyed
watching him barely able to crawl from the rack to his pallet where he would lie
senseless until the next session began.
“And now, Bevyn?” she had whispered in her silky voice on the morning he had
been condemned to die. She caressed his genitals, stroking him suggestively. “Will you
forego the agony of the flames and take my body unto yours?”
“No, milady, I can not,” he had forced himself to say, and thought for just a
moment he saw respect in her insane gaze before she pronounced his death sentence.
“Take him out and burn the little bastard! I will show him who is mistress of his
useless life!”
Too weak to speak, in too much pain to do anything save draw shallow breaths in
and out of his lacerated chest, he had been taken to the courtyard to meet his fate. There
he had been lashed to the column and Kennocha had come out to watch him die.
“But I didn’t stay dead, did I, milady?” he asked aloud.
Ahead of him was Orson and the sweet arms to which he would ride for as long as
the goddess allowed him, and then in a sudden bright burst of awareness—reining in
Préachán because that awareness hit him squarely between the eyes like a ton of brick—
he realized that at last he had something, someone, to live for.
“Sweet, merciful Alel,” he whispered as tears gathered in his eyes.
He sat there trembling as that realization took hold of him, wrapping him in
warmth he had never known, soothing him with a peacefulness he did not know could
exist. He swallowed the lump in his throat.
“Lea.”
Her name on his lips was the sweetest sound, the most glorious feeling. He ached to
see her, to hold her, to hear her gentle voice.
“My Lea,” he said, and a smile broke across his handsome face.
Putting heels to his mount, he raced down the hill and into town, striving not to
whoop like a wild man as he drew his horse to a skidding stop and vaulted from the
saddle, running up the little fieldstone walkway to Cornelia’s front porch, taking the
four steps two at a time and snatching open the door.
“Lea?” he called out, and when he saw her at the top of the stairs, he grinned like an
idiot.
“You’re home,” she said, hurrying down the steps.
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Her Reaper’s Arms
“I am home!” he said. He opened his arms and she threw herself in them, laughing
gaily as he swung her around, set her down for a moment then picked her up in his
arms.
“What are you doing?” she asked as he headed for the door.
“We’re going to Mable’s where a man can show his woman he loves her,” he said
determinedly.
“All her rooms are taken,” she said.
He paused at the door, swiveling her back and forth in his arms, his forehead
puckered with agitation. “Where, Lea?
Where
?” he demanded.
“Oh for the love of Peterson! Take the girl upstairs, son,” he heard Cornelia say
from the parlor. “Just this once, mind you. You ain’t gonna make a habit of it.”
Practically taking the stairs two at a time, Bevyn didn’t question their landlady’s
reprieve. He took his lady straight to his room, bumping the door open with his hip. He
carried her to the bed, plopped her down, rushed back to shut the door and with a
wave of his hand, eliminated the clothing Lea was trying desperately to remove as she
sat up on his mattress.
“That is a wonderful talent, milord,” she said with a gasp.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet, wench,” he told her, flying onto the bed and landing
atop her.
“You goofy oaf!” she complained with an
oomph
of air escaping her laughing
mouth.
His mouth slanted down on hers and his tongue thrust wickedly between her lips.
His arms went under and around her, and he wedged his lower body between her legs,
holding her so tightly she could barely breathe.
Lea loved the weight of her Reaper lying atop her. Her hands were clutching his
hard biceps and that too was a glorious feeling that made her feel safe, protected and
loved. His tongue was thrusting in and around hers, and those sweet, firm lips of his
were making warm heat flow between her thighs.
“I love you,” he whispered against her mouth. “With all my heart I love you!”
Bevyn’s cock was stiff, the tip moist. It was wedged between them along her belly
as he held her. When she slid her hand from his arm to run it between them and grasp
that hard shaft, he drew in a quick, shuddering breath.
“Show me how much, milord,” she said, her fingers wrapped around him.
He shifted so she could guide his cock into her. The sweet heat of her, the slick feel
of her sheath enclosing him was the closest thing to heaven he knew he would ever
experience. He slid into her moistness with his eyes closed tight, his breath held.
Though every instinct screamed at him to take her hard, to take her quickly, to
carve a niche for himself within her, to master her with that fleshy tool, he held back
and very slowly and with great care began to move gently inside her.
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Lea sensed the shifting of his feelings from immediate gratification to loving
restraint and she eased her arms around his shoulders, holding him closely to her.
“I love you, Bevyn Coure,” she whispered in his ear, drawing his earlobe between
her teeth, her tongue lightly plying the interior.
Bevyn shivered at that feeling and increased the depth of his penetration just a little,
though he held himself in check, kept his body from crushing her as heavily as it had a
moment before. He was bracing his body above her, his hands doubled into fists, his
weight resting upon them.
In and out with slow, precise strokes that brought warm honey to coat his shaft. He
felt as though he were sinking into the purest of pleasures and the ache that he was
experiencing in his rod was so intense, so powerful, sweat was popping out all over his
body along with the gooseflesh.
Lea lightly dug her nails into his back to speed up his thrusts. She was aching for
him to ride her, to grind against her and she lifted her hips in invitation.
“Slowly, wench,” he said through clenched teeth. “I want it to last.”
She smiled against his neck, her lips trailing along his salty flesh. “I am here for the
duration, milord,” she replied. “Make it last as long as you wish.”
She was his, he thought as he felt her words drive straight to his libido. She was
entirely his—no one else’s—and she had given herself completely to him. It was such an
exhilarating feeling he experienced at that moment, he thought he might well be able to
do anything he set his mind to.
But the moment she lapped at the vein pumping so furiously in his neck, the exact
instant that warm, wetness stroked over his skin, he could not restrain the wild emotion
that reached out to grip him. His entire body itched to thrust into her. His cock
hardened to the point it was acutely painful and he had no choice but to pump into her
with strong, sure strokes that had the bed beneath them rocking.
“I’ve got to remember that,” Lea mumbled to herself for the next time she wanted
to spur her Reaper on.
She brought her legs up and locked them together behind his waist. Her arms held
him surely—a willing captive to her sweet scent and honeyed flesh. Her fingernails dug
a bit deeper into the flesh of his back.
“Ahh, Lea!” he groaned with deep satisfaction, his speed increasing, his thrusts
coming hard now and deep.
In the parlor, Cornelia glanced up at the ceiling where the chandelier was swaying
to the motion of what was happening in the smaller of her two spare bedrooms. There
was a soft bumping sound, muffled grunts, a soft little whimper. The black woman’s
chubby face broke into a wide grin and she chuckled lightly as she snapped the two
halves of the newspaper spread in her hands and continued reading.
* * * * *
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Her Reaper’s Arms
Penthe had followed the Reaper on foot, running along as swiftly, tirelessly and
professionally as she had trained on her world to perform. Though he was well ahead
of her, she kept his scent in her nostrils and followed the trail unerringly. It helped that
she already knew where he was going—had followed him there before—so when he
outdistanced her, it didn’t matter.
The town was silent when at last she entered it. She spied her target coming out of
the stable then striding quickly to the dark one’s house. A ripe moon had burst forth
and was hovering golden red on the eastern horizon, lighting a path for him. There was
no wind by which he could catch her scent, but from the way he walked—barefoot and
shirtless—she knew his mind was elsewhere and not on her. As she made her way to
the dark woman’s house and looked up at the window behind which she knew the
Reaper would be.
She sniffed the air and the odor of spent sex came to her from the open window and
her lips twisted. Kennocha was no doubt rolling over in her grave knowing the priest
had freely given a woman what her ancestor had demanded of him so long ago.
“No longer pure, are you, Reaper?” Penthe snarled, her fingernails digging into her
palms. “You’ve taken a mate.”
Thoughts of the pale woman she had seen walking beside Coure earlier that day
flitted over Penthe’s mind. She wasn’t much, the Blackwind surmised. Short, her
muscles flaccid, her abilities worthless—the human female was useless in Penthe’s
mind. She would be no match at all for Penthe’s superior warrioress’ skills should it
come to hand-to-hand combat.
Not that the human female would fight for the Reaper. To even contemplate such a
thing was ridiculous and Penthe grimaced. A frail being like the one called Lea would
not pose a challenge and was to be left alone. It would be punishment enough for the
inadequate being to lose the Reaper to Penthe’s Dóigra. The ineffectual creature was to
be pitied not harmed. She was—when all was said and done—a female and deserving
of some manner of protection, the Blackwind reasoned. It was not her fault she had
succumbed to the dangerous black arts of the Reaper.
Glancing around her, Penthe decided to bed down in the stables with the mounts.
She needed shelter and had no compunction about sharing space with her equine
brethren. Stealthily, she made her way to the livery and slipped quickly inside, having
no trouble finding the Reaper’s mount among those stabled. She entered Préachán’s
stall and ran an expert hand over the black horse’s withers.
“You are a worthy steed,” she said, hugging the great head to her breast. “I shall
claim you when I have taken the Reaper’s head.”
* * * * *
After using a washrag to bathe his dirty feet, Bevyn waved away his pants and
climbed back into bed with his woman.
“All settled for the night?” she asked him.
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“I would have felt terrible if I had left him tied to Cornelia’s fence,” Bevyn said of
his horse. “I gave him some hay and a bucket of water.” He chuckled. “If I know
Préachán, he’ll have overturned the bucket by now.”
“What does his name mean?” she asked, snuggling up to her Reaper.
“It is an old Chalean word meaning ‘crow’,” he replied, and reached up to touch the
tattoo on the side of his face. “It is also the name of my clan tat.”
“Milord?” she asked softly. “Why is it you have the Coure marking? Did you learn
who your father was?”
She didn’t think he was going to answer her. His arm had tightened around her and
she could hear him grinding his teeth. She decided if he did not wish to tell her, she
would not ask again for obviously it was something that disturbed him.
“It was Morrigunia who told me who my father was,” he said at last, and his body
was as stiff as a board beside her. “It was She who had both tattoos put on me. Had it
not been by Her hand, neither would have stayed upon my flesh, for anything that was
not there before I Transitioned would heal.”
“Will you tell me of your father?” she asked.
Again he was silent for a long time. “I never met him so I only have second-hand
information,” he said at last. “He was dead long before I was born. I was told he died in
battle but Morrigunia did not believe him worthy of resurrecting.”
He pushed himself up in the bed, leaning back against the headboard, pulling her
up to sit beside him. She saw him look down at her and through the faint glow of the
moonlight shimmering through the window, his face was expressionless.
“I will tell you this but once and then we will never speak of it again,” he stated.
“All right,” she said, holding his dark gaze for a moment before he turned his head
and appeared to be staring across the silent room.
“There are twelve primary clans that are dear to the goddess’s heart,” he said.
“Clans She reckons worthy of Her protection and help. She safeguards those clans,