Bethany's Rite (23 page)

Yes
.

And suddenly his presence was moving through her, melding to
her as she was to him. Both a part of the other, both complete as they lost
themselves to each other. She soared in the freedom of his control. Safe,
loved, whole.

As gentle as one would hold a newborn child, Wyc slipped his
fingers through her hair to cradle her head. A gesture made all the more tender
for the fierce firestorm of emotion she felt spurring his actions.

Bethany dipped her head, breathing in the intoxicating scent
of Wyc, aroused and fully hers. She pressed her palms into his buttocks, felt
him tense in anticipation as she let her opened mouth hover above the tip of
his cock. His face was taut with barely restrained savagery as his fingers
curled and tangled in her hair. His breath soughed in and out of his lungs.

She was panting herself, and her nails dug into his ass. And
still she taunted him. Slowly ran her tongue over her top lip. His eyes
narrowed, and a dangerous sound of warning rolled at the back of his throat.

“Bethany.” It was a command. A plea. It was all she needed.

With a hum of pleasure, she took him deep and fast into her
mouth, alternately sucking hard enough to draw in her cheeks and stroking with
her tongue. He was thick and long and there wasn’t a hope in hell she could
take him fully inside in this position.

Wyc’s hips immediately jerked forward and he grabbed the
sides of her head to hold her in place.

“Jesus, woman.” He closed his eyes and his head fell back.
After releasing a long, deep breath, he loosened his hold slightly. Bethany
pulled back and circled the ridge at the head of his cock with her tongue
before flicking it back and forth over the tiny slit in the top. His fingers
dug into her skull again.

“Enough.” His voice grated out the hoarse demand. He pulled
her away, ignoring her protest, and lowered them both to the ground.

“But I wanted—”

“Another time.” He smoothed her hair back from her face. “To
seal the Mating Rite, I have to come inside you the first time after the vows
are completed.”

When he pushed her thighs apart and started to sink into
her, she pushed at his shoulder until he rolled over onto his back.

Filled with a determination that surprised even her, she
straddled his hips. “Fine. But you’re still mine to take.”

Wyc started to tell her she was more than welcome to take
him as much and as often as she wanted, but she leaned forward and bit his
bottom lip, cutting him off before a full word fell from his mouth. Emotion,
sharper than pleasure and deeper than desire, flared within him.

He ran his hands down her sides and let his head drop to the
ground. At this minute, there was nothing in either this world or in Ilyria
that could make him look away from his woman who had suddenly become unyielding
in her lust for her mate after speaking her vow. Yet another matching myth
proved true.

With a smile of victory and a wicked gleam in her eyes,
Bethany lowered herself until his cock was nestled against her pussy. She slid
slowly up the length of his shaft, helped along by the juices flowing out of
her cunt. She shuddered and threw her head back, whipping her hair up and off
her face. She thrust out her breasts, let out a cry of driven ecstasy and
spread her thighs wider to rub her clit against him harder and faster.

Wyc had never seen anything so beautiful in his life as the
picture of pure passion and wild release Bethany presented above him. Her
breasts, hard-tipped and plumped to round, lush mounds, bounced and swayed in
sensual counterpoint to the cadence her hips set. Her eyes were closed, her
face strained with the pursuit of her climax. The smell of her arousal as she
continued to spread her cream up and down his cock stirred the dark side of his
lust.

The feral animal within him tore at the human will
restraining it from rising up and fucking his mate, ramming into her body until
this savage need was sated to his satisfaction. He dug his fingers into her
thighs, stopping her fervid motion.

“Now, Bethany. Let me inside now.”

Her eyes flew open, and he was pleased to see the same
desperation that was coursing through his veins reflected in her eyes.

She rose up on her knees and grabbed his cock with both
hands. He fought not to black out with the effort it took to keep from
unloading the second she wrapped her sweet hands around his erection. Sensitive
to the point of pain, his cock throbbed from holding back on his release.

Bethany rocked back and forth, rubbing the head of his penis
around her opening until Wyc was shaking with the need to be inside her.
Suddenly, she blinked and focused on his eyes, her own wide and bright. She
positioned him to enter her, sunk down enough to hold him in place and then
leaned forward, planting her hands on his chest.

Wyc reeled from the sensation of her tight, wet pussy
contracting around the head of his cock. God, how could one small woman make
him so weak? So needy? He was ready to beg if she’d just lower that sweet cunt
of hers and take him all in.

Her eyes blazed, her fingers dug into his muscles. “Mine,”
she whispered roughly, right before slamming her mouth and her body down on
his. And he was lost.

She was in him, with him. A part of him. They were
completely matched and no barriers remained to keep him from her, body, mind or
soul. Before, he could go to her. Now, she could come to him.

Her emotions, so clear he could almost read the thoughts
that went with them, floated through his mind. He felt her touch his heart and
stroke his soul. Fear still slithered around her unanswered questions, but she
refused to submit to it. Her acceptance and trust of him rose in force. He
drank it in, reveled in it, but it wasn’t enough.

“Love me,” he said against her mouth.

She moved on his body, taking him deeper into her. “Yes.”

His animal instinct thrashed against the limits of his
control. Wanting Bethany. Wanting to consume her in his lust.

Panic shot through him at the thought of her encountering
the full force of the beast that had been created within him for her
protection. He only allowed the animal loose during Predator attacks. Never
with a woman. But no woman had ever touched him deep enough to rouse the beast
when he hadn’t called for it.

Bethany’s hands slid over his shoulders and chest, grasping
and flexing. Writhing her body against his, her cunt gripped his cock as her
climax crashed over her.

He felt the rush of power and ecstasy burst through her.
With a curse hissed through clenched teeth, he thrust up into her, his hips
flexing hard and fast.

His frenzy ignited her own. She didn’t balk or draw away.
His soul lunged for her. Caught her.

She screamed. And lunged back. Wrapping herself in him,
beast and man.

He shouted her name, and she gyrated furiously. Reaching up,
he caught her swaying breasts and rolled her nipples hard with his thumbs. A
sound of infinite, elemental passion exploded from her. Fury and joy, need and
offering, command and supplication. It was his mate, giving all of herself to
him, demanding he give himself completely to her. It fused him irrevocably to
her, and he was taken.

Wyc pulled her to his chest, banded his arms around her and
clamped her roughly to him as his release ripped through him.

Bethany buried her face against his neck, bowed into him as
her body tensed through another climax. Her cunt tightened and released its
burning hold on his cock in time to the spasms rocking her in ecstasy, carrying
him along the far edge of darkness and eternity.

When he felt powerless to give any more, she made a small,
purring sound that ended on that incredible moan of hers, and her cunt pulled
at him with one long, hot tug. He jerked in response to her body’s final
embrace and an unexpected spearing surge of pleasure tore through him. Another
stream of cum shot from his cock and planted itself within his mate. She
gasped, pushing herself up to look down at him. And smiled.

She brushed her fingertips over his Guardian tattoo. “It’s
changed colors,” she whispered.

“The Guardian itself is no longer there. It’s no longer needed.
You’re fully mine, as I am yours.” He picked up her hand to kiss her
fingertips. “If you were to check yours, you’d see the same thing.”

He pulled her back down to his chest. She nuzzled against
him, an occasional tremor still shivering through her.

Wyc stroked her back and soothed her through the final
aftershocks of their lovemaking. While she drifted into sleep, he focused his
senses fully on her. She was sated and deeply content. Exhausted but still
vibrating with the fading echoes of emotion.

Never in his life had he unloaded twice from the same
orgasm. There were elements to the Matching Ritual and Mating Rite that had
been thought lost over the centuries. But he was finding more and more truth
embedded in the folklore that surrounded the official ceremonial requirements.

He hadn’t shared much of that with Bethany yet. She had
enough to worry about without extra speculation concerning the validity of
myths that he had grown up with. Especially the myth regarding the outcome of
the first full joining between a matched Mystic and royal heir. Maybe that
would be the one that really did turn out to be false or exaggerated.

Then he heard it. A voice, waking new to the world. A
perfect blend of Bethany and himself. Male. A son.

Instinctively, Wyc wrapped a ferocious, protective love
around him. The lifeforce of his child pushed back. Strong and powerful for one
barely alive. He was glad. If the prophets’ words were to be believed, his
son’s destiny would not be an easy one. Yet one his entire world would depend
on.

He drew tightly around his son again with a bone-deep
longing to shield his child and hold him safe from any and all harm. The
confinement was immediately rejected with an attitude that came across with
suspicious stubbornness. If his son had had eyes, he was certain they’d be
rolling in irritation. Moments alive and already incredibly willful. Just like
his mother.

Wyc laughed out loud, rousing Bethany from her slumber.
Blinking, she lifted her head to look at him, confusion drawing her brows together
over amazing green eyes that held his soul.

“What?” she asked. “Is the Matching Ritual finished? Because
if it’s not, I need to rest before we do anything else.”

Wyc brushed a damp strand of hair from her eyes and tucked
it behind her ear. He thought about their homeworld she had yet to see. The
place of royalty she was destined to assume. Her sisters they had to find and
the son she didn’t know she carried. He thought of the life with him she had
yet to live. His smile faded to solemnity.

“No, babydoll,” he said, and placed a lingering kiss full of
promise on her lips. “It’s not finished. It’s only just begun.”

Rordyc ran his hand through his hair in frustration and
fatigue as he climbed the back steps of the renovated rambling farmhouse. He
had just spent days running possible leads to ground on Eavyn’s location with
little to show for it. For the first time he could remember, he was tired to
the center of his bones of being alone.

It was more than just wanting to find his mate so he could get
on with his life. It was the desperation of knowing he
needed
his mate
or he had no life. None he was interested in living, anyway.

He blamed Wyc. Since Bethany had been found, his cousin had
been more than a little insane and a bigger pain in the ass than normal—but
also completely… Rordyc wasn’t sure what word he was looking for. Content
maybe? But it was more. He didn’t know what the hell it was, just that Wyc had
it, and he didn’t. Even the hours spent on his favorite bike with the beautiful
country surrounding him and the wind screaming in his ears hadn’t distracted
the restlessness that had begun to claw at his soul.

He opened the door to the kitchen and came to a surprised
stop. “I didn’t think you’d give up the cabin so soon,” Rordyc drawled as his
cousin looked up and met his gaze. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a
beer before joining Wyc at the table.

Wyc glanced around as he pushed the stack of papers he had
been shuffling through back into a folder. In a voice pitched so that only Rordyc
could hear should there be any others close by, he said, “We had a visit from a
Predator up at the cabin.”

The news sent a flare of shock through Rordyc. That Wyc was
being careful with that information registered just as suddenly. “Anyone else
know that’s why you’re back?”

“Amdyn. And, I assume, whoever sent the Predator up there in
the first place.”

“Any idea on how you were located?”

Menace flashed hot and promising in Wyc’s blue eyes. “I’m
working on it.”

There was obviously more to the story, but right now, when
their privacy couldn’t be ensured, wasn’t the time to get into it. Rordyc
sipped his beer and sprawled more comfortably in the old, oak chair.

“Is Bethany here?”

Wyc pushed back from the table and ran a hand over his eyes.
“She’s upstairs. Sleeping.”

Rordyc glanced at the clock on the microwave. “It’s not even
seven-thirty yet.”

“She’s needed more sleep the last couple of weeks.”

With a frown, Rordyc asked, “Does she feel okay?” He hoped
she wasn’t having any unexpected side effects from the
Yes Master
antidote. It hadn’t been used all that often.

Wyc’s wolfish grin gave him his answer almost immediately.
“My mate feels damn good as a matter of fact.” He rubbed his palms over his
thighs as if he couldn’t wait to get back to proving to himself just how good
she really did feel. He shrugged, the smug satisfaction dropping from his
expression. “Myrra’s assured me she’s fine. A lot of women need extra rest
during their first trimester.”

“Congratulations.” Rordyc was truly happy for his cousin. He
focused on that and ignored the sharp jab of envy that speared through him.

“Thanks.”

Pride filled the word, but there was some other emotion
coloring the word. Rordyc watched his best friend carefully for a moment before
realizing what it was. A knowing grin spread across his face. “You’re scared
shitless.”

Wyc leveled a dark scowl at him and shoved out of his chair.
“I’m going to laugh my ass off when your mate finally gets a hold of you and
twists you all to hell and back.”

Rordyc laughed. “Don’t hold your breath on that one.”

Wyc threw him a speaking look. An understanding that flowed
between them that went far beyond what would ever be said. “Hopefully, I won’t
have to hold it for long.”

Picking up the folder, Wyc left him alone in the kitchen.
Rordyc pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and removed the clipping he had
stolen from the library’s research room almost a month ago. Following a
different lead altogether, he had come across a picture of a woman standing
with a group of people attending a charity affair.

There had been something—in her face, about her eyes—that
had stopped him cold. Opened up a hole inside his chest and rammed through with
the force of a freight train. Even now, after having studied the picture too
many times to count, it had the same devastating effect on his senses.

At the time, he had tried to dismiss it and continue with
his original search, though he couldn’t keep himself from tearing out the page
and stuffing it in his pocket. When he saw Bethany for the first time and recognized
in her facial features nearly a mirror image of those to his mystery woman, his
instinctive reaction made more sense. Hope that had been edging toward
extinction fired to life again.

He was close to finding his mate. He could feel it.

His gaze scanned down the photo in appreciation of the
curve-hugging gown she wore. Tasteful, sexy and designed to emphasize his
favorite feminine attribute­—breasts. And from what he could tell, hers were
perfect. Not large compared to your average stripper or beer commercial babe,
but the ideal size to rest soft and heavy in a man’s hand. In his hand.

A dark, dangerous emotion slithered through him as it always
did whenever his eyes moved off her to scan the rest of the picture. According
to the caption, Janice Wyer had been instrumental in raising the foundation’s
needed funds.

He grimaced. The caption had been a misprint. Janice Wyer
was an eighty-six-year-old philanthropist who donated regularly to nearly every
charity in the state of Iowa. When he was able to eventually track the picture
to the photographer, all the man could remember was that the woman in the
picture was from out of town. California, he had thought. Or maybe Arizona.

Other than the fact that the charity function had served
cheap champagne, there was one item the photographer was dead certain about.
The man standing next to not-Janice-Wyer in the photo, the man with his arm
around her waist—was her husband.