Autumn Moon Page 12

  He filled the room now with the same assurance, relaxed and at ease, while her skin felt tight and antsy, sensitive to touch under a tank top and cotton pajama bottoms over lace panties. She’d left off the bra, too stimulated to deal with the extra friction.

  With a glass of red wine balanced in the palm of one hand, he twirled the dark liquid before taking an unhurried sip, closing his eyes as the taste hit his tongue. I belong here. That was the message he projected. Her wine, her glasses; it was his as much as hers.

  He was home.

  And it cast a feeling of rightness in her chest so deep it physically ached. If he’d placed the hilt of his sword on the coals of the fire and then held it on her skin, she’d be no less branded. Some marks remained unseen.

  “You’ve been raiding the wine cellar,” she managed to tease without betraying her thoughts.

  Grinning without shame, he asked, “Would you like a glass?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe later.” In her current condition, anything that impeded judgment posed a dangerous prospect.

  Walking along the nearest bookshelf, he ran his free hand over the spines, pausing at a tattered volume of Jane Eyre—one of her favorites, but not his. As a wolf, he would fall asleep when she read it. His interests leaned toward action and suspense novels. He removed the book and placed the glass on the trunk doubling as a coffee table, sat down beside her and drew her legs up over his lap. An intimate gesture, but comfortable because of the memories formed in this room.

  And then he began to read, and she was lost in the deep timbre of his voice. He hesitated at times to decipher certain words, but for the most part recited the verse with steady and determined cadence.

  “You’ve learned so much without me,” she whispered as he paused to turn a page. Her interruption ruined the magic of the moment, and she instantly regretted it.

  His chest rose and fell with a sigh. He closed the book and set it next to his glass. “Elen—”

  “Forgive me,” she blurted. “I should never have brought it up again.” To reassure him, or perhaps herself, she leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Please continue reading. You’re very good at it.”

  His skin was smooth but not soft, she noted during that brief moment of contact, and his scent lingered in the air around them, a meld of midnight breezes through whispering pines. And because it belonged to him, it reminded her of honor, and selflessness, and incredible will. And it would haunt her with hunger for the rest of her days.

  She offered a smile, but humor didn’t lighten his mood—or hers for that matter. If anything, it became heavier as the questions she’d avoided lodged in her throat, burning for answers.

  His hand lifted and covered his cheek where her lips had been. “I haven’t learned everything.” His voice was quiet, and if she’d been mortal, she might never have heard his confession. “That was the first time I’ve felt lips on my skin.”

  There were times in Elen’s life where she’d been stunned to silence. Hundreds, she suspected, were she to waste her time counting. A certain moment at the falls came to mind. And had she not been ripped of her spirit less than four days prior? But his admission left her mouth hanging ajar like a child at her first fair—and he was the candied apple waiting to be tasted. “You’ve never been kissed?”

  “No,” he stated without apology. “And before you ask, I’ve never lain with anyone either.”

  “You’re jesting,” she challenged, still unbelieving. “I was at Avon, if you don’t remember.” She refused to bring up the wager. “You had plenty of admirers, and I can’t imagine that not one offered—”

  “There were offers,” he admitted, “and I was tempted.”

  A log snapped in the hearth, and the flashing flame cast a jagged glow on his profile. As envy burned within her stomach, Elen wondered if she’d somehow caused the flared reaction. “I’m sure you were.” It was natural, expected even, for him to have been tempted and curious. In fact, it needn’t have been mentioned at all, and definitely not with a sheepish grin that told of flirtations she didn’t want to envision.

  If his mouth was going to make that wicked turn, then why couldn’t it turn for her? It was a sullen thought born of loneliness, but it also gave her courage. More than anything, she wanted to jump over that edge of possibilities. But how? She was hardly an expert on the art of luring a lover. She hadn’t flirted in years, decades, really; there hadn’t been anyone to flirt with who wouldn’t have shrunk back in terror.

  But this was Cormack. And he wasn’t at Avon with those other temptations. He was here, with her, and she wanted him so badly she could barely breathe.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.” Cormack leaned forward, snagged the wineglass and took several healthy sips before setting it back, as if he needed the extra libation to ready him for her answer.

  She looked down at the knitted afghan, worrying her fingers within the knotted holes of the pattern. “I’m not sure you want to know.”

  “You’re wrong. Whatever it is, I want to know.” He reached out and covered her hands, turning her wrist to trace a slow circle with his thumb. If his intentions were to drive her mad, he was certainly achieving his goal. “Too much has gone unsaid between us.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. He’d bared his secret, had he not? It felt dishonest, if not cowardly, for her not to do the same. “I’m trying to figure out how to flirt with you.”

  His eyes widened. “Flirt with me?” A choking sound garbled his voice. “There is”—he coughed twice, and then cleared his throat, shaking his head—“no need.”

  “I see.” The space between them filled with awkward tension, and she cringed at her own desperate foolishness. “Then I’m sorry I brought it up.” Mortified, Elen ripped off the blanket and slid her feet onto the floor. “I want some fresh air.” Pride kept her from running to the door, but she did make hasty progress, slipping on her garden clogs and favorite knit cardigan before he caught up with her.

  A large hand covered hers as she turned the doorknob. “You are not leaving,” he said. “Not now.”

  “This is my house,” she reminded him. “I can come and go as I please, so remove your hand and let me be.”

  “I’m not good with words,” he told her.

  “I understand you just fine.” Wrenching her hand out from under his, she pivoted toward the kitchen and dodged around the central fireplace. There was more than one exit from her cottage, and if she didn’t leave soon, he was going to witness her crying. This time she did run, having lost all semblance of pride.

  With shifter speed, he made it to the door first, blocking her escape. His legs spread from frame to frame, a dominant stance, as he planted his feet and lowered his chin. “You don’t understand a damn thing, but I’m not letting you leave here until you do.”

  She wove to the side, but he blocked her, and now she was trapped between a muscular arm and the frame of the door, and she suspected the latter might be easier to move. “Let me pass.”

  “No.”

  Clenching her hands until her nails bit into her palms, she said, “Don’t forget who I am, or what I can do.” As long as nature and its elements were near, there was no man, woman, wolf, shifter or sorcerer who could bar her path if she were willing to hurt them to pass.

  “As if I could,” he taunted, having felt the bite of her gift more than once.

  She winced at the unnecessary reminder. Ducking her head under his arm, she wiggled her foot over his knee and succeeded far enough to get his leg wedged between her thighs, which seriously didn’t help her cause. Frustrated, she pushed against his chest—and then again because if she didn’t do something, she was going to fall apart in his arms.

  When the first tingles tightened her spine, Elen realized her recklessness, but it was too late. Emotion was a powerful conduit, especially pain, and her gift surged and expelled bef
ore she could stop it. Flames flared in the hearth, then built into a raging chute up the chimney that set the cottage aglow before it settled and died in the grate.

  Fire, it seemed, was ready to play. Air responded to procreation, but its cohort fed on all things yearning for resolution, like desperation, anger and suffering. And she presented them all in one bountiful feast. Thankfully, the fiery element calmed as quickly as it flared and hadn’t spread beyond the hearth.

  “Shit,” Cormack hissed between gritted teeth. Two blackened handprints smoldered on the green shirt that covered his chest. “Elen . . . that hurt!” But when most men would have run screaming, he pushed her farther into the jamb of the door.

  The wooden frame dug into her back. “I’m sorry.” And she was. The lingering scent of singed cotton pierced her with guilt. “Let me see your chest,” she pleaded while trying to lift his shirt.

  He brushed her off. “It’s fine.”

  “If you don’t want my help, then go for a run. It will heal after you shift.” But she was determined to see what damage she’d caused before he did and continued to tug at the cotton hem.

  He snagged her wrists midair, holding her in the vise of his grip. “You can burn me to cinders, drown me, force me to shift a hundred times in a row—but you are not leaving this room until you hear me out.”

  Ouch. Well deserved, given their history, but words too can burn. “You were nicer to me as a wolf.” A petty accusation after what she’d just done, but she was too heartbroken to care. “You would never have treated me this way.”

  “You’re right,” he agreed too softly. It was the tone a predator used to taunt its prey, and a warning shiver trickled down her spine. “And I would never have done this either.”

  His mouth descended to capture hers. She wasn’t prepared, hadn’t relaxed her lips, and he came in so quickly that their teeth collided. His kiss was untried and stiff, and he tasted of wine, and fury, and carnal needs too long repressed. It was messy and unsophisticated and she had never been so thoroughly undone.

  He wrenched himself away with a snarl, but he did not loosen his grip.

  No, he used that leverage to push her farther up against the frame of the door, forcing her legs to widen and wrap around his waist. This time there were no layers of skirts to buffer their contact, only his jeans and her thin pajamas over lace undies—and she felt his arousal as surely as she felt her own. She didn’t know whether to cry or climax and very well might do both if he didn’t stop rocking against her core.

  “As I was saying . . .” His lips dropped to the underside of her ear as his breath fanned against her heated skin. “There is no need for you to flirt with me.” He thrust against her with the hard evidence of his proclamation. His angle was perfect. Whether by instinct or intuition, she didn’t know, but if not for their clothes, he would be inside her. “I’m not sure”—his voice, low and strained, dropped off as a shudder racked his frame—“if I would survive it if you did.”

  She felt the building of pressure, the tightening of her lower belly that cried for release. Her thin lace panties provided the perfect friction with his thrusts. He really needed to stop. “Cormack—”

  “Ask me why I haven’t lain with a woman.” When she remained speechless, he nipped the column of her neck—an act of a wolf to his mate. “Ask me!”

  A wave of pleasure shot from the brand of his bite to other, more central nerves that needed no enticements. She was so close. It was cruel of him to play with her this way. “Why?” she asked anyway, because—damn it all—she wanted to know.

  A ragged groan concaved his chest as his forehead fell to the painted wood behind her head. After several breaths, he released her arms only for the freedom to cup her face. By then she had no will to fight. His hips and thighs, and other things, kept her wedged on a precipice of pleasure.

  Then he lifted his face, and his expression was openly haunted; it bared his soul without caring of its destruction. It was the look of the already damned. “Because I have been waiting for the woman I love.”

  “Who?” She had to hear him say it, she simply had to. “Who is this woman?”

  “Do you really have to ask, Elen?”

  “Yes.” She nodded as blood pounded against her temples. “Yes, I do.”

  “You hold my heart in your hands, and even if you don’t want it, it won’t matter because I am lost either way. I am yours. Do with me as you will.”

  Eighteen

  Elen swayed into him, because some wishes were too overwhelming when they came true, and she had never wanted one more than this. “If you are lost, then so am I.” She grasped his shirt because she needed purchase for her hands as her world filled with glorious colors. “I love you, Cormack.”

  “I know you do,” he said quietly, “but I question in what capacity.”

  If she weren’t on the brink of utter gratification, she may have been more patient in her explanation, but as it was, she could hardly think to form a coherent sentence. “I am about to ease all doubts.” She initiated their second kiss and didn’t hold back. If he needed proof, then so be it. She ran her tongue along the fullness of his lips until he allowed her entrance with a tortured moan, meeting her tongue with his. His rocking motions became more aggressive; it was a carnal reaction, unpracticed and crude as primal compulsions demanded release. He was unaware, she suspected, of the effect it had on her.

  “Elen,” he growled into her mouth, concerned—and divinely naïve. “You’re shaking.”

  “I’m not cold,” she cried, recalling the last time he’d misunderstood her tremors. “Don’t stop.” Too desperate to explain, but needing a different angle and harder pressure, she reached back, grabbed the doorframe, digging her fingers around the wood—and arched. “Please don’t stop.” The friction built, and she was beyond thought, dignity and all reason as her pleasure reached its peak. And then—finally—wave after wave washed through her until she was spent and gasping in his arms.

  Cormack held her in the vise of his embrace, completely unmoving, a fact she realized as reality returned. And when she opened her eyes, his hungry gaze devoured her, still needy but filled with awe. “That was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

  “Oh, Cormack . . .” Elen leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Take me upstairs.” She placed a kiss on the corded muscles just under his jaw, reveling in the shudder that racked his body from that simple caress. “We’ve only just begun.”

  A muffled ring came from Cormack’s back pocket.

  He tensed, and then snarled as the sound registered. “Fuck no!” If not twisted with need, his scowl might have been comical. “Fuck,” he repeated again in contradiction to his gentle motions as he set her on her feet. “It’s official,” he mumbled under his breath as the ring continued, “I’ve done something to piss off the Gods.” Reaching back, he wrenched the phone from his pocket and brought it to his ear. “What,” he answered in a clipped tone that made the harmless word sound more offensive than his previous curse.

  She watched with admiration for how well he’d adjusted to his new role as a guard, a position that wasn’t easily earned.

  “At the clinic?” Annoyance left his voice as he listened, replaced by controlled concern. “Who?” A pause. “Are you sure?”

  Then the shrill sound of her clinic alarm echoed from the kitchen. Adrenaline immediately kicked in because nobody sought her help unless all other options were gone.

  His lips formed a tight line as he ended the call. “That was Gabriel.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Melissa’s hurt. My brother-in-law’s waiting with her at the clinic. That’s all I know.”

  The child was Cormack’s last surviving relative. Elen didn’t make comforting promises but ran upstairs to change. She returned in less than a minute, grabbing her keys. The clini
c was within walking distance, but it would be quicker if they drove. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  With a swift tug, Cormack zippered his jacket closed to hide his singed shirt. Gabriel stood beside the concealed entrance of the clinic and offered a sharp nod at their approach. Of Spanish and Celt decent, he had the golden skin of his mother’s people. Eyes so black it was hard to tell where his pupils ended and his irises began. He was a powerful shifter, and he kept the violence of his past untold, but his hatred of the Guardians was as pure as his unnerving gaze.

  “How bad?” Cormack asked.

  “Not an emergency that belongs here.” Gabriel’s lips thinned with annoyance, an odd reaction when his niece may be hurt. “You’ll see.”

  Curiosity cluttered his concern as Cormack followed Elen through the doors of the clinic. Edward, his brother by marriage and now a widower raising a child on his own, sat in a waiting chair, his right arm wrapped in a towel blotched with blood. A large dog carrier made of cream-colored plastic rested by his feet, concealing whatever it held.

  “Where’s Melissa?” Cormack looked around the room for his niece, and then back at the carrier. His foul mood increased by the second.

  A sigh racked Edward’s reedy frame as he lifted his hands in apology. “I didn’t know what else to do.” More human than wolf, the man couldn’t shift. He had dark hair and bright eyes, a coloring bolder than his personality; Edward was content to let others protect his family. Cormack didn’t dislike him; he just didn’t have much in common with him, which had always made their visits awkward, even before the death of his sister.

  Walking ahead, Elen crouched in front of the carrier and peeked through the grated door. A jolt of surprise forced her to drop to her knees—and then her gaze lifted to his. “All is well,” she reassured him with awe in her voice. “The Goddess has blessed us once again. Melissa isn’t hurt, she’s whole.”