Heart Choice (28 page)

“No!” Lark had finished tidying the area where the birth had taken place. “Sometimes
you
misread us, Vinni. None of us here underestimate you.”

Mitchella laughed nervously. “I certainly don't.”

Vinni stared at her, and she shifted her feet, then he smiled—a pure, boy's smile. “I don't know
everything.
” A dimple flashed. “I don't know who will win in my scuffle with the Clover boys later today.”

Time had escaped Mitchella. “It's after midnight?”

“Indeed it is,” Straif said. He cocked his head. “The Ritual was wearing on most of my guests, and those up at the Residence have left.”

“Sounds like we should go, too.” Holm stretched, yawned, and curved his arm around Lark. “A very good evening. Lark got to talk to her father and her MotherSire and MotherDam, and Trif Clover. We blessed and amassed Flair for the T'Blackthorn Residence for years to come. We participated in a birth—and my father addressed a civil greeting to me. A memorable night.”

“Blessings abound,” Straif said. “I'm glad that there is a break in T'Holly's attitude against you.”

Holm flicked some dirt off his sleeve. “I spoke to him first, of course. They don't look good, T'Holly and D'Holly.”

“Living under broken vows of honor is not easy,” Lark said. “T'Heather and other Healers are doing their best to re-mediate the health aspects.”

“Anyone with sense would use bad health as a reason to heal the breach with me and my HeartMate, but not the fighter T'Holly. He thinks he'd be seen as weak, cowardly. His damned pride. He's the captain of the FirstFamilies Council, he has nothing to prove to anyone.”

“Wrong,” Mitchella said, and realized she'd said it aloud when they all looked at her, so she chose her words carefully, “From what I understand, T'Holly has to admit he was wrong in disowning you, and that is something he doesn't often do.”

Holm snorted. “Never. He has never admitted he was wrong.”

“So that's an aspect of himself he has to confront and accept and modify if the situation is to change and be mended. It's not easy facing that something basic in yourself is deficient.” How well she knew that.

“You put it very well, GentleLady Clover,” Vinni bowed to her. “Sometimes we must understand that past dreams must be put aside in order to live a full life.”

“Well, the boy's not talking about me,” Holm said. “I've given up my past and live for present and future.”

Mitchella didn't dare look at Straif.

Holm kissed his HeartMate, Lark. “We have a long trip back to Gael City, so let's say farewell and go to our soft bedsponge at T'Ash's.”

Ignoring Vinni, Straif embraced Holm and Lark and wished them well. Mitchella said her good-byes, too, and the couple teleported away.

Face stubborn in the starlight, Vinni stared with compressed lips at Straif, and Mitchella suddenly understood that the young prophet wanted Straif to give up his quest.

For a moment hope sputtered through her. But even if he gave up his first passion, Straif would never turn to her. She didn't know what he would do if he couldn't find a cure, probably decide to have children anyway. The FirstFamilies were much different from the Clovers.

Straif would never take her as more than a temporary lover.
Never
. The word Holm used regarding T'Holly. It still sounded hopeless.

“Time for me to go, too,” Vinni said. “Farewell, GentleLady, you have found your way.”

Had she? Dared she let Straif blind her to her path, even for a short time? But she felt his heat beside her, the emotions flowing between them, kindling desire within her to know him better. Physically.

Time for another decision.

As she stared at Vinni, he nodded to Straif. “I will remind you that the price for my services is an invitation to
all
your parties.” Then he disappeared with a pop.

Strain left Straif's muscles. He turned in a circle, and Mitchella felt him sending his senses into the night, searching for threats. The quiet pulse of night wafted to him, to her. No one other than those living at the Residence was within the estate walls. A slight breeze brought the scent of spring blossoms with it.

Straif turned to her. “Can you feel it? The new energy of the estate.” And with his words, she could, some of the effervescence that she'd felt before tingled through her soles from the ground and spread through her, sparkling along her nerves, reviving her spirits.

Thickening the bond she had with Straif, calling her to him.

This man was special. Not because of his title or his name or his Flair, but because of what he'd survived, what he'd striven for. And like redecorating a FirstFamily Residence, the opportunity to love a man like this would come to her only once. Did she dare
not
grasp the pleasure? If she didn't take this chance, how often in the future would bitter regret gnaw at her? And how long had it been since she allowed herself to connect with a man more than superficially? Years. She wanted to drink deep of such powerful pleasure.

Whatever he saw in her eyes made his own go dark, potent. He bent down and brushed her lips with his, and Mitchella's insides clenched. Her body wanted his. Fire whispered through her veins, burst over their connection to hit him. He groaned, pulled her close. His mouth ravaged her own, opened her lips. His tongue swept in to learn every cranny of her mouth as his arms caged her so his hard body could learn every curve of hers—and tempt her with ravishing pleasure.

Nineteen

“Will you let me touch you, lovely Mitchella?” Straif
asked.

The desire throbbing between them made thinking hard, but Mitchella knew what she wanted—the feel of his calloused palms against her face. She took his hands and curved them over her cheeks, closing her eyes at the delicious texture.

When he exhaled, his breath tickled her temple, which stirred something so deep inside her that she craved fulfillment.

“Will you let me kiss you, beautiful Mitchella?”

She didn't know if she heard his words in her ear or in her mind, but her lips pulsated with the need to have them covered. Her head dropped back on her neck, and she said, “Yes,” and left her mouth open for him to claim it.

He did. Lips firm, then nibbling, each press, each touch of the edge of his teeth increased the ache within her. Her lips needed his touch, as did her breasts, her core.

She didn't know if she trembled or he shuddered. Probably both. They swayed like trees in a high wind, but the air was still, only pulsating with heady passion. The rushing of the fountain matched the blood in her ears.

He lifted his head, and Mitchella stared up at his face, skin taut over muscle and bone. Noble features.

“I can't offer you everything you want,” he said hoarsely. “Everything you deserve.”

It hurt, a jolt of flaming lightning, and his body jerked as he felt it, too, so linked were they. His eyes went darker, more needy than she'd ever seen.

“I can only offer you all I have at this moment,” he ground out.

“Yes,” she said, and with her decision, all her doubts faded like mist in the hot sun. They might return, but now she'd seize the moment, seize the awful pleasure he could give her, seize
him
. She held on to him tight and threw her head back at the wondrous, sparkling desire and laughed up to the bright stars.

He held her so close she could feel the long cords of his muscles, the sinews of his tendons. The iron of his arousal nestling in the softness of her belly.

She laughed again and discovered it was he who shook.

“Here, now. In the soft moss of the grove. Under the eyes of the Dark Goddess,” he said.

Her heart tripped, and she shook her head at the sweet madness engulfing them. “Yes!”

With a Word, he had them naked. Then her back sank into the cool, springy moss, and each tiny sprig rippled against her skin, and fire bloomed inside her. He watched her, sex jutting. And his body was everything she'd ever wanted, long, lean, hard.

She arched against the ground, repeating the sensation of the caressing moss, reveling in it. Holding up her arms to encourage him. Or perhaps it was to embrace the moment, or the sky, or the universe. Her nipples peaked with anticipation and fine droplets from the fountain.

Standing, his body angled to hers. His hands fisted at his sides, and she knew he wanted to take her hard and fast, but her softness, her femininity, the pure delight he took in observing her lush body against the rich black of the moss made him pause.

His nostrils flared. Images more than thought sped into her mind.
Woman. Goddess.

She opened her thighs.

He came down on her, and their spiraling passion merged, and he was between her legs, and his heart pounded against hers, and his hands, those tough, fabulous hands, sped over her, and his need was deep and dangerous and drew her into a firestorm of blinding craving, and he was inside her and plunging, and she was riding the whirlwind of glittering ecstasy and feeling all of him against her and inside her and merged with her, and they were screaming and shattering into a million stars flung across the sky.

Sensation returned first, the weight and heat of him atop her, the warm moss beneath her. He panted raggedly, chest caressing her breasts, causing her body to clench in orgasm one more time. He groaned.

I can't let you go,
he said mentally.

But he would, she knew. As soon as cool thought and generations of tradition and duty replaced the need of his emotions, the greed of lust, he'd let her leave. After the job was done.

She wouldn't let it matter. She'd survived a devastating emotional blow before, could do so again. Right now she would take everything to keep in her memory forever. And she'd stop anticipating the worst. She'd live in the moment, celebrate this love.

She stroked his back, fingers gliding through the sheen of sweat, and was suddenly aware of his scent. The scent of sage, of the moss of the land, of the water of the fountain, of man.

“I had forgotten how wonderful sex with a soft, passionate woman was.”

He had never known. Because he had never known her, or her love for him. She chuckled at his obtuseness.

He rolled until they lay on their sides, concerned about his weight on hers. He was all solid muscle. His breathing hadn't steadied, and wicked glee tripped through her.

The energy from the land, from the Residence, from the night of the new twinmoons—energy of birthing and growing and becoming—was back. She bounced to her feet, grinned down at him, and tossed her head, feeling the loose flow of her hair.

His stare had fastened on her breasts, and his eyes glazed. His manhood twitched. He groaned.

She shook her head and held out a hand to him.

“Wha—?” he asked.

Bending, she grasped his hand and pulled him up, Flair bringing him to his feet. He swayed.

“Let's play in the fountain.”

Complete disbelief radiated from him.

She tugged, and he stumbled the few paces to the fountain. She climbed into the large, lowest bowl of the five. Let him go to bend under the water and circle the fountain, feeling the fresh water sluicing over her back, sliding into her hair, down her butt and her legs. Wet hair tangled in front of her eyes, she rounded the basin and bumped into him. He reached and grabbed the lip of the fourth bowl to steady himself.

“It's cold,” he gasped.

She laughed.

“How can you do that?” he asked. “How can you move? How can you
see
to move?”

She stepped around him, brushing against him with her full body, and his grip on the stone basin showed white knuckles. Filling her cupped hands with water, she flung it against his chest.

He inhaled on a rush of air. She giggled and admired the pattern of droplets caught on his chest hair.

Blinking down at her, his eyes widened as she plopped into the basin. The coldness of the water only refreshed her. She washed the sex from her, eyed him from behind a swath of hair.

He stepped back. “I'll do it.” Planting his feet, he curved his hands, dipped up water and said “warm,” then let the water trickle down around his groin.

“Sissy,” Mitchella said between giggles as he repeated the process.

“I've lived in untamed Celta too long to like cold water when it can be warm. I
appreciate
the niceties of civilization.” He slapped the rim of the stone bowl. “Like running fountains.” Watching her with gleaming eyes, he finally smiled—lustily. “Like the curves of a city woman.” He bent down, both hands reaching.