Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

Siân had feared him for good reason. He now knew why her bags had been packed, why she’d agreed to leave so readily. Acid churned in his stomach, anger and vulnerability a venomous cocktail that didn’t sit well.

Needing reassurance, Dylan dropped a kiss on the soft skin just under Sophie’s ear. “Do you regret last night?”

“No,” she whispered.

Relieved, he nestled closer, spreading his fingers across her stomach and molding her to his length. Her bottom wiggled against him and he swore under his breath. He had used her well through the night, he knew, and yet . . . “Can you handle me again?”

“I’m not sure.” A husky laugh fell from her lips. “But I’m willing to try.”

A soft growl rolled from his throat. He pulled her leg over his, exposing her so he could assess for himself. Gently, he parted her opening, inhaling a ragged breath when he found heat and gathering moisture.

He readied her by stroking her flesh, circling her swollen nub with teasing touches and gentle pressure, until she turned her head into the pillow to muffle her cries.

Only then did he ease inside her opening, gritting his teeth against the pulses of her orgasm. His control was still limited, his need still raw. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“Just move.” A muffled plea as her head rocked from side to side, restless.

Sweat gathered on his brow as he slowly thrust forward, grinding his fingers into her hip to keep her in place. As her wet sheath closed around him, he almost came; one night did not fix sixteen years of neglect. But it helped. He rode her into a second climax, managing to hold back his own release until hers began again. His vision blurred. Burying his face in her hair, he surrendered to the carnal fulfillment only his mate could provide.

They lay in comfortable silence for a while afterward, locked in a trembling embrace, as if neither wanted to end this moment of enchantment, of hope and second chances. But soon, the first light of dawn edged through the window, sending orange hues throughout the room, chasing away the shadows of pleasure with the responsibilities of the day.

Resigned, Dylan placed a kiss near her temple and rolled onto his back. The cool morning air did little to bolster his resolve. “If I asked you to wear the Serpent, would you do so?”

She tensed by his side, her voice cautious. “That depends on the reason you’re asking.”

“The weapon is your best defense against a Guardian, against anyone of our kind. I would like you to wear it, if only for my own peace of mind.”

“It scares me,” she admitted. “I had a nightmare the night I received it . . . of a horned snake. It seemed so real. There’s something creepy about it, something . . . unnatural .”

He agreed, yet, “There will be powerful leaders in our territory tomorrow, perhaps even sooner. Taliesin—”

She rose to her elbow and turned to face him, brown eyes searching his face. “He said something you haven’t told me, didn’t he? What did he say?”

Dylan sighed, wishing their reunion had happened sooner, during a more peaceful time. “He confirmed that the Guardians’ arrival is a real threat we need to prepare for.”

“How does he know this?”

“Taliesin has powers beyond ours. I don’t know how he sees what he does, but I believe his warning is real.”

To his surprise, she flopped back down and snuggled against him. Her hand rested on his chest, palm down, and absently slid lower to stroke his stomach. “Fine, I’ll wear the thing if you think I should. But I hope you have a big box of Band-Aids.”

Distracted and once again aroused, he slapped his hand over hers to still her motions. “The bloodletting should only be the once.”

“Why?”

“I believe the Serpent needed to mark you as its new master.”

“Oh, that makes me feel soooo much better.”

“I can show you how to use it,” he offered.

“That would be helpful,” she said with a sarcastic edge. “Do you have time this morning?”

She was truly afraid, he realized, but committed to learning the weapon regardless, because he had asked her to.

“Of course.” He hugged her against his chest, possessive. “You have changed, wife .” He seemed to be telling her that often, but it was with admiration of the woman she’d become that had him repeating the words. “Sixteen years ago you would have argued with me.”

“Sixteen years ago my husband was keeping secrets. I’ve learned to adapt to my surroundings. I understand the need for protection, even if I don’t like its source.”

His breath lodged in his throat. “Say it again.”

Sending him a mischievous smile, she twisted her hand out from under his. Warm flesh slid lower as she shifted positions, womanly soft and completely beguiling. There were teasing kisses where her hand had once been, down his stomach, her breath hot against his skin as she repeated, “I understand the need for protection, even if I don’t like its—”

“Don’t taunt me, Sophie,” he growled, half crazed by the path her mouth led. “Not on this matter . . . Say it again! ”

“Husband,” she complied just before closing her mouth over his hard flesh.

He jerked under the gentle heat. Sweet Mother . . . The feel of her lips around him, suckling . . .

“Sophie . . .” He groaned, tangling his hands in her hair. “You don’t have to do this—”

“Do you want me to stop?” A husky torment as she ran her tongue down his length, turning his cock to stone-on-fire.

“No.” Fuck no, his wolf added, prowling to the surface of his control, less polite and dangerously pleased. Two beings with one voice joined in need: Claim us, our mate, as we have claimed you.

It was his last coherent thought as his wife drove him into sensual ecstasy. And perhaps took a piece of his soul in the process, like a persuasive faery carrying the gift of a thousand wishes— for a price . The last was debatable, but as she brought him to his version of Tír na nÓg, a favored paradise of the Irish Celts, he was well aware that comeuppance had already been taken; Sophie had acquired full possession of his heart.

A RHYTHMIC POUNDING ECHOED ACROSS THE COURTYARD as Sophie marched toward the kitchen, her boot heels clicking on the cobblestone pavers in a steady rhythm. Tucker trotted by her side, keeping in cadence with her strides. The late morning sun was just about to peak over the rampart of Rhuddin Hall, outlining the massive building in shades of orange and gold. The Serpent whip hung low around her waist, hidden under a long white cotton blouse.

She had spent the last hour with Dylan, learning how to wield the weapon, using a tree limb as a target. Its weight, though no heavier than any other of her weapons, made her anxious, now that she knew its potential for causing damage.

The tree would not live to bud another spring.

The Serpent’s metallic fangs acted as anchors, deadly hooks that grabbed its target, securing the flexible sword for a fatal cut. No human, or wolf, could survive a well-landed strike.

Not a pleasant image to carry in her mind as she made her way through the gardens toward the kitchen entrance. “Good morning, George,” she said in passing.

The gardener leaned against his shovel, openedmouthed as he eyed the hound trooping by her side. “Er . . .” He cleared his throat, recovering enough to tip his dirt-encrusted hat. “Good mornin’ to you as well.” It was the kindest reply the man had ever given her.

Progress, Sophie thought as she scooted around a pile of compost. Tucker had been her constant shadow from the moment she’d stepped out of Dylan’s bedroom. Even now, several hours later, the dog crowded against her leg, poking her palm with his wet nose.