A - Immortal Sea

head, inhaling her scent, soap and Elizabeth. Lovely. He licked her, running his tongue over the top slope of her breasts. Her

breath hitched. Nuzzling one cup aside, he found her pebbled nipple with his mouth and suckled her hard, arousing them both,

pleased when she moaned.

He felt her fingers in his hair, scratching delicately against his scalp, and shivered under her touch like a dog. But this

wasn‟t about him, not only about him, not yet. He obeyed her silent tug on his hair, raising his head, covering her mouth with

his. He kissed her above, deep, penetrating kisses, thrusting his tongue into her mouth while his hand played her below. He

craved her taste, seasoned by wine and desire. He stroked down to her knees and up again, down and up, until her thighs

loosened and she made a sound, pleading or approval, in the back of her throat. He cupped her, feeling her moist heat through

the fabric, and caught her gasp in his mouth.

He dragged her pants open, worked his hand inside. She was hot, slick, wet.

Ready for him.

Fondling her with one hand, he raised his head. Even in the dusk, he could see her cheeks were flushed, her lips glazed and

parted. She lay back against the webbing, watching him, her eyes dark and aware.

Not the gaze of a woman mindless with passion.

He frowned. Not that he wanted her mindless, exactly.

“It‟s all right.” She raised her hand to the back of his head, toying with his hair. “Em‟s asleep. No one can see us back

here.”

He had not considered the possibility of an audience. But she had.

Morgan‟s eyes narrowed. Despite the bloom on her skin, the lush wetness between her thighs, she was still thinking like a

mother, like a doctor. Still conscious, still careful, still in control.

Bugger that.

She thought too much. Worried too much. He wanted to plunge her into passion, drag her into the moment, away from the

everyday concerns that swarmed like gnats around her head.

He pushed to his feet, making the hammock bounce like a boat in the waves. “Good. Then we won‟t be interrupted.”

He yanked his sweater over his head, baring himself to the waist. His medallion swung against his chest. Elizabeth rolled to

one elbow, reaching for him. Capturing her hands, he pressed them to the hammock. “Hold on.”

He stripped her pants and underwear away.

Beautiful. He took her with his eyes, letting his gaze roam where his hands had already gone. Beautiful and feminine and

his.

“What are you . . . Oh.” Her voice trailed off as he crouched between her thighs. She tried to press her knees together, but

his shoulders blocked the way. “You don‟t have to . . .”

“Yes. I do. I want to eat you alive.” When her hips hitched, he shoved a pillow under her, cushioning her. She could not

focus on pleasure with ropes chafing her skin. He wanted her to think only of this. Only of him.

He did not ask himself why. Reasons did not matter when she was spread wet and open in front of him. Leaning forward,

he set his mouth on her most succulent flesh.

He lavished her with licks and nips, bites and kisses. She strained toward him and away, her fingers twisting in the

webbing. Her response flooded them both, inflamed him like whiskey, warmed him like wine. Her smooth, firm legs tensed

and stretched. Her toes flexed and curled against his knee, against his shoulder. She was helpless to stand or to stop him, at the

mercy of his hands, his tongue, his teeth. He held her captive, his hard hands on her buttocks while he feasted. He was drunk

on her, her scent, her cries, her soft, wet, luscious center.

Slowly, he thrust a finger inside her, then two, glorying in the slick, convulsive clench of her body. His blood pounded in

his head, in his loins. His rod demanded release. Now, now, now. He fumbled with his clothing, desperate to take her.

Pressing her thighs wide, he braced his feet against the floor. He tipped the hammock, angling her just the way he wanted

her. There. She arched. So hot. So wet. Taking himself in hand, he set himself to her, male to female, naked flesh to naked

flesh. Now.

“Wait,” she choked out.

His lips pulled back from his teeth. She could not be serious.

She jackknifed in the hammock, her head nearly clipping his chin.

He grabbed for her before she tumbled them both. “Easy.”

She groped on the porch around his feet, nearly upending the hammock in her eagerness. As she fumbled with her

discarded pants, her smooth hair brushed his groin. He sucked in his breath.

“There.” She righted herself, face flushed, eyes sparkling. Between two fingers, she gripped a small square foil packet.

“Now.”

His mouth compressed in distaste. “A sheath.”

“Condom.” She cleared her throat. “I got it while we were upstairs.”

When she disappeared into her room, he realized. She wanted this, had planned for it. He could not get any harder, but the

thought sent another flood of warmth through his veins. But . . .

“It is not necessary,” he said.

“Yes, it is.”

“I will not make you sick.”

The immortal children of the sea were not subject to the diseases of humankind.

“You could get me pregnant.”

Again. The unspoken word reverberated between them.

Under the circumstances, he did not think he could explain how unlikely that outcome was. Or how desirable. The finfolk

population was declining. The begetting of children was an issue of practical and political survival.

Yet Elizabeth did not desire another baby, that was clear.

And at some point, her desires had begun to matter to him.

Her firm jaw set at his continued silence. “If we do this, we use protection.”

Morgan gritted his teeth, frustration pounding in his blood.

If?

His kind were legendary for their sexual allure. With the slightest exertion of magic, he could overwhelm her resistance,

make her so wild for him she would let him do whatever he wanted to her without brake or barrier. But he would not violate

her will in such a way. He respected her too much. He . . . liked her, he realized, with a vague feeling of discomfort. He

wanted her not only willing but with him, in body and mind. Not any woman, but Elizabeth.

If that meant he must sheath himself, so be it.

“I suppose that is your usual practice,” he said stiffly.

She folded her arms across her naked breasts. “My usual practice?”

Had he said something to offend her?

“With your other partners,” he clarified.

Human partners. “ I can have sex with whomever I want, whenever I want, ” she had said.

Her eyes narrowed. “I don‟t have other partners.”

“Do you not?” he asked softly.

And why in the name of God and all the angels should he be concerned about whom she slept with or when? He was not

bound by the silly strictures of human behavior. The children of the sea were free to follow the lusts and whims of the

moment, their passions as powerful and changeable as the ocean which gave them being.

“That condom is almost four years old. I had to check the damn expiration date before I took it out of the box.”

Morgan felt his face go blank with shock. Four years. Her husband had been dead three. Did that mean . . . Surely that did

not mean . . .

“There must have been others,” he said.

She did not answer.

Ah.

No others since her husband, then. And given the timing of her pregnancy and marriage, likely few before.