Lost Heart: A Celta Novella (Celta HeartMate Series) (6 page)

After the first dance the drinking started, too, with lots of toasts. She even lifted a mug to her Family, letting tears trickle down her face as she spoke of her love for them, including her sister's new HeartMate. Enata could feel Jace in their Family bond —brash and impulsive — as her parents and sister no doubt felt Barton — durable and reliable.

Every other heartbeat brought a wash of Clover threads to her, ready to be bound with her, overwhelming if she let them.

One of the large circle dances stopped and her father dropped her hand. Barton swung her out into the middle of the huge floor, holding her close and moving her faster than the beat of the music.

"Barton!"

He grinned. "Don't fit your notion of proper, huh? But you kept right up with me."

She narrowed her eyes at his deliberate bad grammar. "Barton."

He whisked her into another tight turn. "You're keeping up with me, and that isn't easy, for a fighter or a dancer." He beamed, lowered her into a deep dip. She slapped his shoulder, completely dependent on him for her balance, and completely trusting him.

"What you want to lead?" A short laugh and this time his brows stayed up. "That isn't — ain't — going to happen."

"Oh?"

"Nope." He straightened, so forcefully that he drew her off of her feet.

"You think because you are superior in strength and can toss me around like a doll—"

He did! He actually threw her in the air and caught her! Then let her slide against his body. His very aroused body.

She opened her mouth, couldn't think of a word to say and shut it.

Looking smug, he said, "So much for your scolding. Ah, I know you already, my lady. A sweet and tart lady." He nuzzled her neck and to her appalled surprise, licked her under her ear!

"Your tartness is obvious, but your sweetness only evident at close quarters." He danced her out of the crowd and to the wall, pressed her against it, stroked her jaw. When she parted her lips, his eyes fired. He let his body lean against hers and for the first time in her life she craved sex.

"
L
et
's get out of here,” Barton said.

"How?" Enata asked.

"Teleportation."

She didn't think he could teleport and she didn't know the light or the space where they'd need to land at Clover Compound.

"You do want to go to—"

"Our house in Clover Compound. Yeah."

Their house. A house she'd never seen. She'd never seen Clover Compound either.

Barton waved an arm at a curvy woman with dark brown hair and a cheerful manner. Enata recognized her as the musician and composer, Trif Clover Winterberry.

With a wink at them, and a wave to a man and children, she crossed to them, beamed. "Greetyou again, Enata Licorice
Clover
."

Effervescent with happiness, freer than she'd been for a long time, Enata let laughter pour from her, tipping her head back. Barton's face filled her vision, and his lips locked onto hers. His arms caged her close, against his erect masculinity, and she pressed against him, took his tongue into her mouth.

Vaguely, she felt a woman's arm around her back, knew that as her own and Barton's minds hazed, Trif's stayed crystal clear . . . and amused.

If the woman counted down for the teleportation, Enata didn't know. Only a sudden whoosh, and she pulled her tongue behind her own teeth reflexively. But they landed as gently as a flower petal drifting to the ground.

"Enjoy yourselves," Trif said. "I'm going back to the party!" She vanished.

Soft, mellow light and the gentle fragrance of summer flowers wafted to Enata. She drew away a step from Barton.

He stiffened as she glanced around, said gruffly, "Haven't been paying attention to my space." He shrugged. "It's a starter house for a couple and suited my needs."

Not at all homey or comfortable like her rooms in D'Licorice Residence. She considered. "This doesn't reflect what I know of the quality and attractiveness of Clover Fine Furnishings."

Before he could draw breath, she leaned against him. "And is completely uninteresting at the moment when compared to the very fine and attractive Clover man I have." She hesitated. "My husband."

He expelled a harsh breath, stared at her. Emotion flickered in his eyes -- a hint of fear? Surely not. When he spoke, his voice had roughened. He took her hands, gazed down at her.

She shivered as the poetry in that powerful voice caressed her, then answered the innuendos with her own truth. "It has been a long day of . . . yearning for you."

A laugh and he swept her into his arms, pivoted and strode to the staircase, sprinted up them and down the hallway to a bedroom, again minimally furnished. One bedsponge big enough for the two of them. A new no-time food storage unit. Two spell globes in pale yellow circled the room, casting warm light.

Touching her shoulder tabs he said, "Wedding robe
off!
" The bespelled cloth dropped from her and she stepped from the pool of it, then it whisked away to hang in the open closet.

She didn't, quite, grit her teeth. Now she stood only in breastband over her very modest bust and wispy pantlettes.

Gently he curved his right hand over her left shoulder and she felt the hardness of calluses that he had developed. Heat flooded her.

This time his voice trembled and giddiness surged. He liked the way she looked! He placed both palms over her breasts and her nipples puckered at the thought of those fingers stroking her bare breasts. Petting her lower where she was going wet.

He continued skipping and mixing lines and verses. That he should know the sexy poem in the first place, and should recall it now when her own mind fogged with desire, impressed her. Especially that he could improvise and match it with their loving. Then he knelt at her feet and she swayed, put her own hands on his shoulders to steady herself. He flinched, and though his head bowed, she thought she heard a low groan.

One large hand ringed her ankle, lifted her foot shod in special wedding slippers, white with crystals on the top, soft leather below, but good for dancing. She didn't want to dance. She wanted to have sex— to
make love
. Her whole body throbbed with need.

He slipped her shoe off, drew his fingers along her sole and her foot curled and her fingers dug into his thick shoulder muscles. He didn't seem to notice. Because he was looking straight at her thin, lacy pantlettes. His nostrils widened. Could he
smell
her arousal?

Embarrassed heat washed through her, flushing her skin from forehead down her torso. He rumbled a hum of satisfaction, licked his lips, cleared his throat and said, as he reached for her other foot:

He stripped that shoe, tossed it aside, rose, and set his hands on her waist, lifted her again until he stood, holding her off her feet. His eyes appeared wild. "Trying," he gritted out. "Trying to be romantic, to slow down so I don't take you hard and fast . . . 'soft bed.'" He looked at the bedsponge and his arms flexed as if he'd throw her on that soft mattress. "Wait, gotta kiss you."

Not in the poem, but she liked the notion. He brought her close and she wrapped her legs around him, angled her hips so her throbbing point of need could be against his hard body. They both shuddered, then his mouth met hers and she felt the plush of his lips against her own passion swollen ones.

Mouth to mouth, then their lips opened and they were breath to breath, and tongue to tongue. The flavor of him exploded through her, just
right
. Perfect. She stopped rubbing her tongue against his, dueling with him so intimately, to suck in his lower lip and nibble.

Another groan ripped from him, she felt the vibration of it in her mouth. She moved against him, teasing her breasts and her sex to heightened sensuality those points of her own. Her bare arms brushed against his slightly perspiring chest and shoulders.

"No!" he snapped. "I
will
do this right." He pulled her limbs away from him, placed her on her feet. Her mind spun and her knees wobbled.

She couldn't focus until his ruddy face, wide eyes, entered her vision. His mouth lifted at the corner and eyes narrowed. "Now for the very best of that damn poem." He took her wrists, pushed them behind her and manacled them in one strong hand. That steadied her balance but she found herself arching toward him.

A smile edged his lips. Gently, he squeezed her left nipple with the fingers of his other hand. Whimpers of need escaped her lips . . . His hand moved to the tip of her other breast, plucked it, and she felt her cheeks heat with the delight of lust flowing through her body.

The hand that held her wrists touched the curve of her derriere. He cleared his throat, and when phrases came again they sounded raw and ragged:

And he touched her like that, little strokes that caused tension to spiral up, tighten inside her. With "behind," his free hand curved over her bottom, barely traced the cleft.

"Before." He grazed his hand over her breasts until her nipples poked heavily against the fabric of her breastband.

"Above." The pad of his thumb swept along her mouth, her darting tongue quick enough to lick it and she tasted salt.

"Between." Yes, his voice deepened on that word, and his fingers slid under the waistband of her pantlettes and down to the very top of her sex, stopped with no more than a fingertip parting her. Yes, between. He must have felt her dampness.

"Below." A hoarse whisper. His face had flushed. His features seemed more blunt. More masculine. More of a man, a lover, ready to take his woman and she ached to be taken. His large finger glided downward, feathering the nub of sensation and she trembled, then he continued onward to the opening of her body. Yes.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!

He withdrew from her, his hands from her body, took a pace back. Stared at her as she trembled before him and the poem rushed from him and she could barely hear the cadence of it, understand the lines:

His tone changed slightly as he said, "How blessed I am in discovering you today." He touched one of the remaining ribbons that had bound them together, a licorice red, that was wrapped around his wrist gave her the next line:

She nodded. When he remained too far away from her, out of reach, she touched the green ribbon on her left wrist, one prettily engraved in gold with a large Celtic knot in the shape of a four leaf Clover. And she repeated that line back to him: "
To enter in these bonds, is to be free
." Certainly her heart soared, and her spirit expanded. She felt freer than ever before. With him.

He grinned, his expression so full of happiness, and at wedding
her
that her chest constricted in awe. One long pace forward and his smile changed to pure masculine intensity. A brawny arm settled like a bar behind her back and once more his hand went under her pantlettes, this time between her thighs until the length and width of it covered her sex.

"'
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be,
" he murmured.

Full passion pounded within her and she closed her eyes. Her entire body had become one sensitive organ. She hungered for him to thrust inside her, seal them together. A long minute passed with her enjoying the embrace before she realized he waited for something from her. So she said aloud the only words that floated to her mind. "Yes, husband. Yes, Barton. Yes, let's make love."

"I will do this right." It sounded like a vow. She noticed sweat at his temples.

"You are doing this right. Everything you've done today has been right," she whispered.

He closed his eyes, and his face tightened. Slowly he removed his hand from between her legs and she made a lost sound as he withdrew.

Then he dipped his head. "To show you I am as vulnerable as you, my dearest Enata." A Word had his clothes falling from him and he stood, nude. Clothes hid the true beauty of the man, his contoured muscles, well outlined with the sheen of perspiration.

Of course her stare went to his erection. Magnificent. Her breath came so fast her mind went dizzy, then she tensed her jaw. He had given her exquisite foreplay. She could only do the same. With a wave of fingers she sent her bespelled breastband and pantlettes to the cleanser, then lifted her arms to wrap them around his neck. His pupils widened as her flushed and plumped breasts lifted, her nipples tight. She shivered as she stepped closer, his erection pressing into her abdomen, hot, thick, ready.

Her own sex pulsed, ready for him. She leaned close and kissed his chin, licked the faint stubble of his beard, marshaled the last line of the poem so she could modify it, say it, then let her body rule. "Why, then . . ." She stopped, her voice must be stronger, full of the passion and the desire and the knowledge that this man was her man and she claimed him as he claimed her:

He groaned. This time he did pick her up and toss her onto the bedsponge and followed her down. His body came over hers, she opened her legs wide, wide so he found his place between them and thrust heavily into her, the feel of him filling her, fulfilling her, freeing her.