Reaper's Revenge (20 page)

cock, he was panting. Her teeth were clenched around his nipple—worrying it—and he was
trembling. His grip on the metal headboard had turned his knuckles white.
Switching to his other nipple, Aingeal tormented that swollen nubbin until she felt the
tremors increasing in her partner’s body. It was then she slowly lifted her legs to position herself
over his rigid cock, seating herself upon it, sliding his stiffness into her, impaling herself upon it.

“Aingeal,” he said on a long, whispered breath. The pounding in his ears had become so
fierce it blocked out all other sound.

Very slowly she began to rotate upon his shaft—circling upon him, rising up and lowering
herself down over his heated length. Her movements were tantalizing, unhurried, almost
leisurely, and precisely timed so that his every breath coincided with the up-and-down movement
of her hot, slick channel.

Her cunt was wet, giving off the unmistakable scent of passion that filled his nostrils and
drove straight to his lustful need. He could feel her heat enveloping him ever higher with each
delicate rotation of her shapely hips, the silken grip of her vaginal muscles undulating slowly
around him until he could stand no more.

His hands came down from the headboard and slid around her waist, his body rearing up to
tumble her to one side until he had her pinned beneath him, his cock rigid as steel within her
satiny depths.

“My turn to ride,” he growled, and thrust into her with a sure, steady stroke that made her
eyes flare.

Her legs came up to lock around his hips, her heel pressed wickedly against the crack of his
ass. Her arms were around his neck, pulling his head down to hers until his lips claimed hers,
tongue thrusting deep to duel with her own.

It was a fiery clash of need that welded their bodies together. He was pumping into her with
furious desire—she was absorbing him with total abandon. Her nails raked down his straining
back where taut muscles gathered and released as he drove into her. Her legs were tight around
his body, her heel drumming against him to goad him on. His hands were beneath her buttocks,
molding her to him.

Their bodies were slick with sweat as they strained against one another. His lips were
skinned back from his clenched teeth, his eyes squeezed tightly closed in concentration. Her lips
were parted, her tongue curled over her upper lip, her eyelids lowered to half-mast over her
fevered gaze. Their breaths pushed harshly from labored lungs. Blood heated. Bodily fluids oozed.
Muscles began a dance for two as passion built higher and higher.
Climax was but a clench away. Cynyr could feel the rhythmic compression of her vaginal
walls gripping him—a clasp and release then a flutter of quick, strong, tightening as wetness
spread over his pistoning cock. He heard his lady’s gasp, her trill of release. He felt her inner
muscles milking him, begging for his own discharge. The itching was building in his balls,
spreading through his cock. The heat was tormenting him until he threw his head back, his throat
arched as though in sacrifice to the dark goddess of lust, and he spurted hot and heavy into his
lady’s quivering channel. His roar of relief was loud in the train car but the sound of it was
drowned out by the blare of the whistle so that no ear other than his and his lady’s heard the
triumphant blast of his possession.

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Arawn was sitting in the old woman’s rocker, his right leg crossed at the ankle over his left knee, his right foot pulsing up and down with agitation. He was angrier than he could ever remember being in his life and the little moans of pleasure coming from his dreaming fellow Reaper only added to Arawn’s irritation. His hands were locked on the arms of the rocker as though he needed the anchor to keep him from rampaging. He felt more dangerous than he’d ever known himself to be and his rage was centered on Owen Tohre and the sweet smile Danielle had bestowed upon the Reaper. What, he wondered, his mind a seething nest of vipers, had gone on while he and Bevyn had been in the Oklaka Territory ridding the world of rogues for the last two days? Had Owen been flirting with Danielle, encouraging her? Had the young Reaper dared to usurp territory the Prime himself had staked out?

Growling like a caged weretiger, Arawn put his leg down and slowly levered himself from the chair. His eyes were hot with rage, narrowed, a muscle working in his cheek. With silent ease he made his way to the door and out onto the porch. The rain was cascading in steady silver needles, stitching pockets of mud into the empty street. With no thought in his seething mind other than the claiming of what he thought of as rightfully his, the Prime Reaper ventured out into the street, mindless of the rain pouring down upon him, plastering his black hair to his head. He barely noticed the sting of the water hitting his eyes and clinging to his long lashes. He put a hand up to swipe at the rain washing over his face but nothing slowed him down as he walked toward the white clapboard house at the far end of town where the sheriff, his wife and daughter resided.

Mick Brady was standing at the window of his barbershop—about to turn away—

when he saw the Reaper making his way down the middle of the street. Curious, he stayed where he was, taking in the purposeful stride and rigidly held shoulders of Arawn Gehdrin.

“It’s about damned time,” the barber said, realizing where Arawn was headed. Leaning a hip against the windowsill, he crossed his arms and watched. Mud squelched at Arawn’s boots but he paid no heed to the slight suction that threatened to steal his boots. His hands hung loosely at his sides but now and again his fingers flexed, itching to curl into fists. He was drenched through but as unaware of it as he was the steely look in his eye, the mulish set of his mouth and the hard clench of his jaw.

Sheriff Dan Brewster felt the need to check on the weather outside and eased the lace curtain his wife had sewn for their parlor window aside with the back of his hand. When he saw the Reaper making his way determinedly down the street, he knew a moment of blind panic as well as relief.

“Mary Lynne,” he called out to his wife who was sitting beside the fire, mending the seat of her husband’s union suit. “Let’s you and me go upstairs a while.”

Mary Lynne looked up. “Whatever for, Dan?” she inquired.

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“Danielle is about to have some important company.”

Danielle was sitting on the other side of her mother, book in hand. She didn’t look up, but a small, secretive smile curled her lush mouth.

Mary Lynne looked at her daughter and understanding hit. She laid aside her mending and joined her husband at the stairs as the scrape of booted feet sounded on their front porch. She barely flinched when the deliberate knock pounded at the door. The sheriff ushered his wife hastily up the stairs with a hand pressed tightly to her back. When the second series of knocks—louder this time—pelted their door, he urged Mary Lynne to quicken her pace.

“I know you’re in there, Danielle!” Arawn yelled, knocking once more upon the door with enough force to rattle the glass in the two sidelights to either side of the portal.

Marking her place in the book, Danielle laid the book aside, stood up, smoothed down the skirt of her gabardine dress and walked sedately to the door, checking her appearance in the mirror beside the coat closet.

“Damn it, Danielle! Open the door or I will kick it—”

Arawn got no further for the door opened to reveal the object of his obsession. His fist was clenched, poised to knock one last time before he utilized his booted foot to gain entrance. Upon seeing Danielle’s politely inquiring face, watching her calmly clutch her hands at her waist, he saw red.

“How may I help you, Lord Arawn?” Danielle inquired sweetly. The Prime Reaper had the urge to grab her, toss her over his shoulder and make off into the late afternoon gloom with her. It didn’t matter to him that he was standing there sopping wet, his hair glued to his head, water running across his face, his boots caked with clinging mud. He couldn’t seem to find his voice and when she cocked one inquisitive, perfectly shaped brow at him in question, all he could think of was…

“Cake,” he bit out.

Danielle blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

Arawn nodded emphatically. “Cake,” he repeated. “I want cake.”

For a moment, the invisible little imp that often sat upon Danielle’s shoulder did an angry little jig, kicking at the side of Danni’s face with a pointed toe boot. Anger rose up in Danielle’s breast until she realized the Prime Reaper was looking at her with hot eyes that demanded—not orange cake—but another delicacy best served hot and moist from an oven entirely unlike the one in her mother’s kitchen.

“You want my…cake,” Danielle said, her words breathless as she fluttered a hand at her throat.

“Aye,” Arawn managed to agree.

One moment they were staring at one another with greedy eyes devouring and the next, Arawn had snaked out an arm and yanked her to him, pressing their bodies so tightly together not even a raindrop could squeeze between them. 110

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His tongue slid between her lips as he drank deeply from her honey mouth. One hand was pressed to the middle of her back, the other threaded itself through the neat bun that sprang free of its pins to cascade down over her shoulders. He was straining against her—completely aware of the rock-hard erection that stabbed at her belly—

allowing her to feel the need that was consuming him.

“Joining,” Danielle said, dragging her lips free of his as he slid kisses along her jaw and down her throat.

“Aye,” he replied, his hand roaming over her back and down her cushioned buttocks.

“Before we do anything,” she stated firmly.

Arawn groaned but he was in no condition to bargain with her. He wanted her all to himself with no other man in the running. “Joining,” he echoed. “Tonight.”

“Tonight,” she agreed.

“I’ll fetch Father O’Malley,” Sheriff Brewster called down from upstairs and the sound of his boot heels thundering down the stairs were in cadence with his wife urging him to hurry before things got out of hand.

Arawn heard the front door open and close but he paid no heed to it. He was feverishly trailing kisses down his woman’s swanlike neck and glorying in the feel of her hands on his arms and around his waist.

“You haven’t asked yet,” Danielle reminded him.

The Prime Reaper pulled back and looked down at her. “You want the words, wench?”

Danielle nodded.

Arawn took a deep breath. He opened his mouth but his lady broke free of his hold and looked down at the floor. He whimpered but obediently went to one knee before her, unmindful of her mother watching from the landing.
“An bpósfaidh tú mé?”

Danielle’s smile turned his heart to mush. “Aye,” she answered. “It will be my pleasure.”

Bowing his head, Arawn thanked the gods who had sent Danielle to him then added a slight rebuke for not warning him such was in store for him. Mentally, he sent a message to the High Council, expecting to be reprimanded for not asking their permission first.

“We’ve other things more important to consider than your taking a mate, Gehdrin,”
Lord Kheelan chastised him. Then wished him good luck.
“Fortan leat.”

Arawn had forgotten about the trip Bevyn, Phelan, Glyn and Iden were making to the Misery River. He lightly touched Phelan’s mind and found the Reaper standing on the river’s shores, a rope clutched in his hand.

“Where’ve you gone, Arawn?” Danielle asked, bringing Arawn back to her. 111

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He shook his head and stood. “Nowhere, wench,” he said, and pulled her into his arms once more. There would be time to check in with his Reapers. For now, he had a woman to claim.

* * * * *

Phelan felt Arawn’s quick probe then the even quicker withdrawal. He pushed the intrusion aside for he was watching Glyn Kullen getting ready to jump off the bank into the raging water of the fast-moving river. Chewing on his lower lip, Phelan could see the fear in Kullen’s eyes.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Iden shouted above the roar of the water. All four of them were soaking wet, their hats jammed down over their heads but affording little protection from the pummeling rain.

Bevyn—as second-in-command of the Reaper unit—stood by, his arms crossed over his chest. Glyn had decided three lead ropes were too much weight wet so Bevyn’s lay unused on the wet ground.

Glyn nodded once then drew in a deep breath. Before he could give himself another reason not to do what he had set himself to do, he flexed his knees and jumped, arching out over the water like the expert swimmer he had once been. The dual lines in Phelan and Iden’s hands went taut as Kullen disappeared beneath the frothing waves of the Misery. The Reapers automatically gave him more rope, playing out the heavy-duty hemp as they felt the tugging.

“There he is!” Phelan shouted.

Glyn’s head had bobbed up near the center of the river. He turned, gave them a thumbs-up and with sure, strong strokes made for the farther shore.

“I’ll be a gods-be-damned Diabolusian warthog,” Bevyn said, stunned as their fellow Reaper negotiated the strong current. He unfolded his arms, his mouth sagging open.

“He’s doing it,” Iden said. “He’s actually doing it!” He was as surprised as Phelan and sat down on the muddy bank and just stared.

Neither Phelan nor Iden felt the tearing pain that usually accompanied their close proximity to running water. Their parasites were still, no doubt as curious about the outcome of the experiment as the Shadowlords whose mind-meld was sitting like a specter in the thoughts of all three Reapers.

“Well done,”
they heard Lord Kheelan Ben-Alkazar complimented Kullen.
“This is
truly a monumental day.”