Stone Song (13 page)

He was hard, impressively so. She could feel it through his jeans. He grasped her hips and moved her so she brushed over him, her center so slick and her panties so damp with it that she gasped.

“Let me give you what you need, Sorcha.”

He repeated the motion and her eyes closed, her center of gravity shifted.

He was trying to distract her.

“The scars,” she said.

He moved her again. Her ability to focus on anything except the place where their bodies joined evaporated when his fingers stole under her rucked skirt and then inside her damp panties and found, unerringly, her clit.

She sobbed when he touched it, went boneless with need and let him drive from there. He strummed her with singular intent, hard fast strokes she wouldn’t ordinarily have welcomed or enjoyed, but it brought her over the edge in seconds with a force that made her see spots and collapse in a heap on top of him.

He flipped their positions quickly and made short work of her clothes, talking quietly, coaxing her throughout, telling her how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her and wanted this.

She wanted it, too. There was no denying it. And terrifyingly, she wanted it even more after that spectacular climax than she had wanted it before. The erotic visions paraded once more through her mind and, drunk on them, she told him what she wanted.

“No,” he said.

“What?” She’d never offered to do that with anyone.

“No. Not tonight. You’re going to want anything and everything, with the Fae wine influencing you. If you still want to do those things with me another night, we’ll talk.” He shucked his jeans as quickly as he’d dispensed with her clothes, and now he was poised over her. “For tonight,” he said teasing her entrance with his cock, “you’ll have to make do with this.”

Then she couldn’t think of anything except him and her and the place where they were coming together. It flitted through her mind that the Fae were exquisitely, almost painfully perfectly proportioned. His cock was no exception. His crown stretched her, and she couldn’t ever recall feeling so . . . full, with a man. He pushed in slowly so she could mark every inch of it, and she sighed in contentment when he was fully seated.

They found their pace together, like runners over a long stretch, and when she fell behind, when she wasn’t climbing toward a peak with him, he slowed, changed his rhythm, and helped her to catch up. Every time she reached a climax, he allowed her to rest, and then, when she began to fidget beneath him or above him, he started moving again and coaxed her to another height.

It took a very long time to work off the effect of the wine. She asked him again for things she wouldn’t have put into words under normal circumstances, and he refused her, laughing, making extravagant erotic promises for the future that topped her own fantasies and cast them in shadow. Finally she fell asleep cradled in his arms, thinking that in the course of the night they had become, at the very least, friends.

• • •

Elada watched Sorcha Kavanaugh sleep.
Her black hair was spread like silk across her pillow, and she was breathing evenly, in total exhaustion.

He knew better than to trust in the illusory intimacy of sex. They had striven together for physical satiety, but that wasn’t the same thing as living with someone, sharing their hopes and fears, trusting them. He’d gotten a taste of what that could be like with Maire, though she had never entirely admitted him into her heart.

Things would be different with Sorcha. The tenderness he felt now, the protectiveness that had overcome him when the Prince had threatened her, these were emotions he would nurture and allow to grow. They didn’t come naturally to the Fae. They had to be learned. Fortunately, he’d had Miach’s family for an example, and more recently he’d played bodyguard to Beth Carter and Conn of the Hundred Battles and watched the Betrayer’s Fae heart thaw.

Seeing was one thing, of course, and doing was another.

When he’d first heard Sorcha sing, he’d fallen in love with her voice. It had conjured whole worlds of emotion for him, no mean feat for the Fae, who became jaded and unfeeling with age. He could understand why Keiran had taken her.

Elada had crossed paths with that particular Fae on occasion over the centuries. Keiran was one of Donal’s circle. The Fae in New York were divided between the urban, Manhattan clan, led by Donal, where half-breeds were never tolerated and human lovers were treated as slaves, and the Fae of the Hudson Highlands, who lived isolated on their old estates and mixed with no one.

Donal’s circle persisted in the worst of Fae excesses. They lived as the
Tuatha Dé Danann
had before the Druid revolt, and they had learned nothing from their fall. Fortunately, they were indolent, unlike the Prince Consort, who toiled tirelessly to free the Court and his lover, the Queen. Keiran’s death would go largely unremarked in such an unfeeling community.

And fortunately Keiran hadn’t known Sorcha’s true power. Elada liked her even more now that he knew how she had grown up. Elada understood the discipline it took to study without encouragement or in the face of outright hostility. He had not come from a family of warriors or sorcerers or artists. His parents were courtiers, and they had not raised him far from the Queen’s circle, as Miach’s family had. They had traveled with the Court, and when he had demonstrated no remarkable talents as a youth, nothing that would entertain the Queen, he had been largely left to raise himself.

He had chosen the profession of arms because the blade called to him. He possessed some natural affinity for the sword, but not in single combat, like Conn of the Hundred Battles. Nor was his skill of use in a band, where numbers prevailed. His talent lay in close strategy, the ability to think on his feet, to fend off attacks from all sides and from a variety of weapons. He was the ideal sorcerer’s right hand.

And so he had become bound to the ideal sorcerer, and remained so for two thousand years. He had vowed to put Miach first, and to make no other promises to a man or woman, Fae or human. The constraint had not troubled him until he’d heard Sorcha Kavanaugh’s voice drifting through Faneuil Hall. And now, finally, he was free to commit himself to another being—if he could keep her alive long enough to convince her to accept him.

• • •

Sorcha woke up in Gran’s
bed with a Fae.

When she’d returned to Gran’s house after the old woman had died, she’d tried sleeping in her old room. It hadn’t worked. Sorcha hadn’t been able to breathe in the girly pink chamber with the frilled canopy and oppressively generic decor. It had been a room designed for the child Gran had wanted her to be: ordinary. It had never fit her, and nothing had happened in the intervening years to change that. If anything, Sorcha was even less the woman her grandmother had hoped she might be, and more the musician she had dreaded Sorcha might become.

The guest bedroom hadn’t been right either. Gran never had guests. The low iron bed had sat unused and dusty for years at a time. There were no pictures on the walls, and the thin coverlet was moth eaten. When Sorcha had opened the door, she’d been met by a blast of stale, cold air and had promptly closed it again.

Gran’s room had been the only other option short of sleeping in the parlor downstairs, and the springs were out on the old sofa and all the heat in that room tended to go up the wide chimney. Sorcha didn’t believe in ghosts, but Gran’s presence still hung heavily over the room. It was shrouded and dark and tomblike.

When Sorcha had taken down the heavy velvet drapes, they fell to rags, but the blinds beneath were in good working order and the sills in fine condition. The bed curtains had gone next. If she’d been able to get the iron tester out of the room, she would have banished that, too, because it had been Gran’s and it felt like a cage, but there was no moving the thing without a block and tackle and, possibly, a blowtorch.

And the mattress and pillows and linens had been soft as swan’s down. Luxury unknown during Sorcha’s childhood, when she’d slept on scratchy sheets printed with horses and bunnies.

The only problem with the room, once Sorcha had made it her own, was that she always felt like she was swimming in the giant iron tester. No matter how she stretched, she couldn’t touch both sides at once. Even when Tommy climbed in with her, the two of them seemed lost in an ocean of pillows and embroidered linen sheets.

Not this morning. Elada was lying on his stomach, his broad shoulders spanning almost his entire half of the bed, his arm thrown out possessively over Sorcha and his hand resting on the small of her back. The bed finally seemed just the right size.

And lying beside Elada was wonderfully warm.

An unfamiliar sensation filled her. She’d never looked across her pillow at Tommy, or anyone, and felt this way.

Pleased. Smug. Self-satisfied. And certain that every time she thought about this moment during the day, she’d smile and experience this same elation all over again.

She started to drift back to sleep.

A noise downstairs, screeching and metallic, woke her with a start. Her heart pounded, and her first thought was that the Prince had come back.

Elada was in the same position as when she’d woken earlier, but his eyes were open. He didn’t seem concerned about the screeching.

“What was that?” she asked.

His arm tightened around her and he pulled her close in to his chest, like she was a teddy bear. She should be thinking about intruders and ominous clanging noises, but all she could think was that she’d never realized there were so many individual muscles in a man’s arm, had never seen so many with such definition, the play of early morning light and shadow throwing each one into relief.

“That is Bobby Crane, fixing your window. I told him not to wake us and to get started right away.”

Elada threw a leg over her hip, a very naked leg, and she realized they were both naked, skin to skin, and that her Fae lover was ready for another round.

She wasn’t. She was . . .
sore.

Then images from the night flooded her mind. “Oh my god,” she said. “I asked you to, um, oh god.”

She tried to wriggle out of his arms. He just chuckled and kissed her forehead. “That was the Fae wine talking,” he said, but then he scooped Sorcha’s whole body under him and spread her legs with his knees. “Although now that you’re sober, I’m taking requests.”

His words struck a chord of pure desire in her, but when his cock nuzzled her entrance, she winced.

He froze.

“Did I hurt you, Sorcha?”

“No. I’m just sore. Last night was . . . how did you do that? Over and over again?”

“The Fae have a very short refractory period,” he said, grinning. He rolled off her and drew her into his arms. Evidently the Fae could also control their desires, when they chose.

There were more noises downstairs, but now that she knew what they were, she recognized them for house building rather than housebreaking sounds. She decided to snuggle and enjoy the warmth for just a bit longer. Even the air in her bedroom felt warmer. . . .

“Did you turn the heat on?” she asked.

“Yes. It was freezing in here.”

“It was sixty degrees.”

“That’s barely enough to keep your pipes from freezing.”

“My pipes will survive. And you’re immortal.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t feel the cold.”

“I can’t afford to heat the house.”

“I can,” said Elada. “And I don’t enjoy waking up in a cold room. I’m going to get you a thermostat with a timer,” he added.

“You could just put a sweater on,” she said.

“I don’t wear sweaters.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

“You’re right,” he said, nibbling on her ear. “I’m assuming you’re attached to this house. How do you feel about Quincy?”

“Why?”

“There’s a house there I want to buy. It’s newer than this, but it’s still old. Not as much land but mature trees.
Your kind
,” he said, with a hint of mockery, “like trees.”

“What makes you so certain you’re going to be a part of my life?” she asked.

His smile contained no trace of smugness or irony. “Because I’m going to earn it,” he said simply.

She bit her lip before asking the question that had played at the corners of her mind ever since he’d explained the
resilience
of the Fae.

“How old are you?” she asked, lifting her head from his chest and watching his reaction to be sure she didn’t offend.

He lifted one golden eyebrow. “Twenty-two . . .” He paused. “Hundred. Give or take a few years.”

She ought to be weirded out by that, but she wasn’t. If she’d only learned of the existence of the Fae yesterday, it might have thrown her. She’d been hearing about them since childhood, and she’d always known they were immortal, or nearly so, but she didn’t know how long they normally lived. “Is that old or young, for your kind?”

“I’m back to being my kind again, am I?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that human men can’t do what you did last night, over and over again, except when they’re very young. I’ve been with an older guy.” Then she hurried to add, “Not that I’ve had a lot of lovers.”

“Sorcha,” he said. “I’ve been alive for twenty-two hundred years. If we were to compare how many partners we’ve each had, I’m sure my number would come out at least a zero ahead of yours.”

“It’s different for men,” she said, mouthing conventional wisdom she’d never found much sagacity in.

“No,” he replied. “It isn’t. At least not among the Fae.”

“I’m beginning to think your kind may not be so bad after all.”

His smile faded. “Don’t. We may lack some human failings, but we’re not nice, Sorcha. I want to keep you safe from the Fae who hope to use you, but to do that I need allies among my own kind, and while Miach is my best friend, he’s also ruthless in defense of his family. You need him to show you how to control your gifts, but you can’t trust him.”

Suddenly the bed didn’t seem quite as warm.

He sensed her withdrawal, and released her gently.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said. “Don’t worry about Bobby downstairs. He knows his trade.”