Solstice Song (Pagan Passion Book 1) Page 7

  But with the first Yule celebration of Alban Arthan almost upon us, I feel as if I’ve let my community down. The prophecies foretold at Samhuin have not yet come to pass, and as their Bard and leader, I thought I would have some hand in bringing them to bear. We’re not suffering, but prosperity and happiness are subjective. Nothing has really changed in Wintervale in decades, much less the last few months. Have I failed?

  As for my personal fortunes, they’re of lesser consequence. The good of the community is far more important to me and always will be. But still, the Cailleach’s certainty in her prediction compels me to consider what I could improve. Aside from the usual prodding from parents and close friends to ‘settle down,’ everyone in town knows of the Samhuin prophecies. Every look and word from my townsfolk contain a not so subtle reference to the ‘soul mate’ that I’m destined to find. None are more persistent than my own sister. She lives in perpetual hope for my happy domestic future.

  And Mary…well, that spitfire thinks it’s her.

  Cheered by the thought I’ll be able to stop in and see Caris when we get to town, I do have to admit I’m not averse to the idea of a mate. Indeed, at the interval of Samhuin, I harbored feelings of emptiness, an intangible longing for something…something more than a full belly and a quick tumble only intended to ease my physical needs.

  As Savannah squirms, the bodily presence of the woman in front of me comes back into focus. My hand has somehow come to rest at the top of her ribcage and lodges beneath the shelf of her full tits. As my mouth waters, thinking of biting a dusky nipple, my groin tingles to life. The areas where our bodies connect, namely my legs astride hers and my cock against her firm bottom, heat up like a lava flow.

  “Ahem, excuse me,” she says, wriggling away from my grip.

  “Sorry,” I mutter on reflex, removing my hand from her chest and placing it atop her leg. The smooth material of the bottoms she wears are soft to the touch and I find myself inadvertently stroking my fingers up and down the length of her thigh, petting her.

  She slaps my hand. “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  She clucks her tongue and turns her head sideways. “Touching me like that.”

  “Oh.” I stop moving my hand but don’t take it away. She’s just given me two orders in the space of one minute, and I don’t take direction from women. I tell them what to do and how they should do it. With the friction of our bodies rubbing together courtesy of Mateo’s rhythmic gait, I feel stuck to her as an electric charge builds between us, threatening to erupt. My cock twitches, and I’m sure she can feel it.

  She tries to look back at me again. “I have a question.”

  Jaysus. First the demands and now the third fecking degree? I’m trying to keep from tossin’ yer on yer back, woman!

  “Aye. What’s that?” I ask against my better judgment.

  “Did you carry me to your bed last night?”

  I ponder the question. Surely it’s obvious that she didn’t get there under her own power? And what did it fecking matter now when all I want to do is sink my fingers into her slick heat and stroke her until she screams her release into the frosty air. The heat’s coming off her in waves, and as much as she tries to hide it, I can smell the desire on her. Just like the wild animals of the forest, she’s calling to me with her siren’s song of lust. “Aye. Yer were out cold in yer chair. How did yer think yer got there?”

  “Hmm. And where did you sleep?”

  I can see where she’s going with this. Why doesn’t she just ask the question that’s at the heart of this interrogation? Believe me, if I’d bent her over, she’d be walking with a limp.

  “That’s two questions. But I wasn’t snogged up next to yer if that’s what yer intimatin’. Believe me, if I’d taken advantage of yer last night, yer be feelin’ the residuals.” Since she’s opening the door, I’m going to take advantage of her right fecking now. My hand starts caressing her thigh again, oblivious to her pathetic protests. Ach, I want to throw her down off Mateo, yank those tight leggings from her lush body and split her wide open. She might even deserve it with her attitude. Briefly, I picture her face down in the snow as I fist the hair on the back of her head with one hand, pull those stretchy leggings down over her round arse with the other, and pound into her while she squeals my name.

  Yer goin’ to say it, woman. Before this is over, she’s going to come all over my cock while screaming my name. Yer chose to push me buttons. Yer, and yer alone.

  “Well, good!” she spits back just like an ornery cat. “Because if you’d tried anything, you’d have my un-broken stiletto heel up your ass.” My lusty vision’s quickly dispelled with her sharp tone. Somebody’s arse is going to have something up it soon, of that I’m sure.

  “I slept in the loft above the bedroom, so I did, to answer yer question,” I say harshly, continuing to stroke her leg, delighting in her writhing body. The more she tries to get away, the tighter she’s pressing on my straining cock. But I’m not in the mood for threats, and she’s hardly in a position to deliver them.

  Shut yer gob, afore I do somethin’ only me ball sack won’t regret.

  She pauses and settles down. A single syllable escapes her mouth on a moan, and it sounds better than a symphony. “Oh.”

  “Do yer dislike me that much? After all we’ve been through together?” My hand’s strayed to the elastic waistband of her stretchy pants and it’s flirting with her silky soft skin.

  “I don’t dislike you.”

  “Ach, well, there’s a start,” I say, leaning in for a closer whiff of my handmade mint and barberry soap still lingering on her skin and hair from the shower. After she softens even more, my fingers dip inside and I can feel her heat against my body. I can almost smell the lust on her, and I’m dying to know the texture of her pussy. How tight it is.

  For all her prickliness, she’s still a fine looking and fine smelling molly. It might even be considered part of her charm. As she wiggles and turns her head toward me to protest, I plant a kiss on her full lips.

  “Ugh!” She pulls away, her face a mask of horror. “What are you doing?”

  “Yer smell good. Yer feel good. I be needin’ to know if yer taste good too. Don’t feckin’ deny me the knowledge.”

  “You stink, Ronan. Your beard is filthy, and your clothes are beyond despicable. I don’t even like sitting this close to you. How dare you think you can…kiss me?”

  “I do not stink. Do I?” The question is asked in both resentment and curiosity. Since I’m not around other folks very much, I have no idea what I smell like, but I shower each and every day unless I’m deathly ill or it’s a blizzard. I’ve never heard anyone comment on it, and Caris would tan my hide if I walked into her place stinking to high heaven. I showered this morning before she got up. Even though I’m outdoors all the time, I should still be fresh as the forest pines. Shirt and jeans fresh from the laundry Caris happily does for me every two weeks since she’s succumbed to the allure of the machines. How bad can I smell?

  “Ugh!” she clucks in disgust. It annoys me just enough that I slide my finger even deeper into her waistband and stop only inches from the place I want to touch most of all. She’s in such a snit it doesn’t even slow her down. “I’m surprised the horse can even stand you. Maybe you should sleep in his shed with him. If you at least smelled as good as Mateo, it would be an improvement.”

  “Is that so,” I grumble, but I don’t mean it. Not anymore. All thoughts of scent have flown my brain except for the smell of her desire. My fingers crawl the rest of the way, and I slip it inside her heat. She jolts, and a tiny sigh escapes her lips.

  Wet and hot. For me.

  I find the erect nub that’s the center of her pleasure and circle it with my finger. With a soft moan, she presses tighter against me and the pressure of my hand. She starts up again, but her tone is decidedly less shrewish.

  “If my security guards were here, they’d be on you like a swarm of locusts, wrestling you to
the ground. You’d be handcuffed and thrown in jail in the space of five minutes.” I smile when she has to stop and sigh between each sentence.

  “Is that so?”

  I dip a finger into her core and her muscles clamp down, nearly taking my finger off. My cock strains against my pants as it throbs its protest. Her pussy would choke it, and it wants that more than anything.

  Tight. As. Feck.

  “Do you know that Prince Harry himself wasn’t even allowed backstage to meet me without being body scanned and with an armed escort?”

  The pitch of her voice escalates like a siren, her words accelerating like a recording on fast forward as she hovers toward her peak. Prince Harry? I rapidly lose coherence of anything she’s saying. When she comes, I hope she squeals. Soon her foreign words meld together like the drone of insects. Really big insects.

  “And you…you think you can just do whatever you like…toss me in a snowbank, grope me up and down…put your hand between my legs. Who do you think you are? You have no idea who I am. I know Beyoncé personally! I—”

  I press my mouth to her ear, knowing the vibration of my voice will create a new type of excitement in her body. “Yer tight pussy is about to come all over me hand, woman. Shut up for two seconds and let yerself enjoy it.”

  Her body twitches and spasms, and I know she’s there. It’s beautiful to watch, and I wish I was able to see her face clearly. Right now, feeling her tremble through the orgasm is enough, and I caress her through the aftershocks until she’s a limp rag doll in my lap. After the explosion passes, she snuggles her round arse into my erect dick again, and I about lose it.

  But, dammit, Wintervale’s not that far away, and as much as I’d love to throw her down and take my pleasure, I won’t.

  “You…you…you…”

  We’re almost at the junction with the highway, and it’ll be a few more kilometers from there. At the animal’s walking footspeed—about five minutes per kilometer—I’ll have to endure at least ten more minutes of this verbal torture by my mind’s calculations.

  Bollocks.

  That is just not fecking acceptable. I rein Mateo to a stop, changing my mind in the space of a split second. This beauty needs to be taught a lesson, and I’m just the man to do it.

  “What’s wrong. Why are we stopping?” she carps, not knowing when to fecking quit.

  I dismount, take hold of her arm, and haul her off Mateo’s back. She lands clumsily, her feet stumbling and pitching her forward to fall against me. A whelp of surprise issues from her red lips. Lips that need permanent sealing. And I know the best way, given her opinion of me.

  I want to open my fly and push her head down, but even I’m not that base. Instead, I clamp her face between both of my hands, the size of my mitts reaching from her chin to her eyebrows. Her eyes go round as two moons of green cheese.

  The silence is wonderful, and I relish it. But I can’t revel in it too long, or it will be quickly in my past. I kiss her full on the mouth, my tongue sweeping past the barrier of her lips and shrewish tongue, smothering any possible kind of retort. The slippery red gloss, tasting of strawberries, coats my lips as they crush down on hers. After plundering her mouth for several long moments, I find myself pausing to lick it off, first from my own lips, then from hers. Something about the woman makes me want to taste every last inch of her. She gasps, and I resume the kiss, twisting my tongue around hers before she can resume her caterwauling.

  Her hands pummel me about my arms and shoulders, but her lips aren’t as objectionable as her hands. Whatever parts of her scream no to me, her mouth says yes, please. The flying barrage of her fists slow, then stop. When I feel her body finally acquiesce, I let her go. Her eyes flutter open and puffs of vapor escape from her swollen lips as she pants in and out.

  “Why did you do that?” She raises the back of her hand to her mouth as though to wipe away any evidence of my touch. “Haven’t you assaulted my body enough for one day?”

  “’Cause I like yer better with yer pretty gob doing somethin’ other than talkin’. Be glad all I did was kiss it. Believe me, woman. I can think of other things to do with it that yer wouldn’t like as much.” My eyes fell to her heaving chest. “Or mayhap yer would.”

  Savannah looks stunned and utterly tongue-tied—like a pigeon just shite on her head. Her cheeks flush pink but not another word comes out of that bonny mouth. Mission accomplished.

  “Now, I’m ridin’ into town on this here beast.” I pat Mateo’s hindquarters. “Yer can do what yer like. But talkin’ means walkin’, so what’ll it be?” She stands there with eyes blinking, then quickly spins and attempts to re-mount, placing the wrong foot in the stirrup. “Left foot first. Good job yer a singer, not a dancer.”

  She huffs in apparent exasperation and switches feet, but holds her tongue. She manages to saddle up without my intervention, and I climb into place behind her once more, none the worse for wear other than a serious case of blue balls. I briefly wonder why I’m not just taking what I want like I normally would. The implications piss me off so I stop considering it. We plod ahead in blissful silence for another minute or so before we reach the clearing where the trail meets the highway.

  Something’s missing. The road lays clear with a fine layer of new snow covering the lumpy tracks where a diesel motor coach stood only yesterday.

  “Well, things be lookin’ up for yer, Miss Starr,” I say, deliberately using her formal name in spite of my newfound intimate knowledge of her body. “Unless the wee folk ‘av made off with it by magic, it appears yer bombardier has been towed to safety. Halle-fecking-lujah.”

  Chapter Eight

  Savannah

  I can’t believe a hairy, smelly giant of a man gave me the most explosive orgasm of my life. Before he even could be bothered to kiss me.

  And I let him. I wanted him to. Ever since the moment we met, it’s like some fairy waving a lust-wand cast a spell over my traitorous body.

  My ass feels like it’s about to fall off. I picture my butt cheeks sliding away from my body in slices, an avalanche of fleshy slabs plopping on the frozen ground like a cartoon as soon as my feet hit the ground. Numbness creeps in, isolating every muscle. Not just from riding horseback for the last who knows how long, but mentally cauterizing me right along with it. Blank. De-sensitized to anything and everything.

  Nothing more can happen to me today that would faze or surprise me. I’ve been cold, tired, hungry, dirty, outraged, humiliated.

  And so turned on my body has transformed into a heat-seeking missile, soaring aloft on the wings of an ecstasy I can’t even articulate. The worst part? In spite of his surly attitude and gruff ways, I still want him. Again and again.

  And again.

  No reaction to the promising news that my bus is hopefully under repair at this very moment serves as my reaction to his sarcastic words. The only thought that prances about in my head and taunts my dead emotions to life is the memory of Ronan’s hand between my thighs, strumming my pussy better than he played his own dulcimer.

  How the hell did it happen? How did I let it happen? I should have hit him harder. Stomped on his foot or something to get him to let go. But I didn’t. I just spread my legs as wide as my perch on Mateo would allow, granting him even greater access. I bloody well loved it. Probably because I’ve been sexless for so long, leaning up against a washing machine would get me off.

  It’s not Ronan personally. It can’t be. One minute I’m insulting him and the next…

  Jesus, Savie, what’s wrong with you.

  I wanted his wicked fingers. I craved it, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it for even a solid minute. Add shame to the dung-heap of emotions I want to set on fire and burn into oblivion.

  No one is privileged enough to just touch Savannah Starr’s lady bits. No one!

  That’s my problem. I’m so insulated, guarded, treated hands-off like fucking royalty most of the time, no one can get close to me, even if I wanted them to. But I don’t want th
is one, not this hairy, smelly beast with no manners and even less fashion sense.

  God, he can’t be more opposite to my idea of a desirable man. But, to be honest, he doesn’t actually smell bad. I lied about that, hoping an insult would cause him to back off. His earthy, raw, and wild scent strikes a weird chord deep in my being, like when he played that dulcimer.

  Maybe I wanted him to back off because the unfamiliar feelings he invokes inside my body scare the shit out of me. It’s like he’d conjured them up by witchcraft.

  And what I see just up ahead makes it easy to believe in witchcraft. Clusters of odd-shaped, shambling cottages and shops sit nestled alongside a narrow, snowy street looking like the Christmas Village figurines my mom arranges on the fireplace mantel every year. Have I stepped through some kind of time portal?

  “Where are we?” They are the first words I’ve uttered since that hair-raising experience from a few miles ago.

  His voice rumbles in my ear. “Welcome to Wintervale.”

  “How many people live here?”

  “Mmm. ‘Round a hundred, give or take.” He chuckles. “Yer plannin’ on takin’ a census?”

  Did he say one-hundred? As in one plus double zero? That doesn’t even constitute my wardrobe and makeup team. How the hell are we going to get any kind of help or repair service here—or even a damn taxi? My spirits sink lower, if that’s even possible.

  I have to find Mel. It shouldn’t be hard. The entire population of the town is probably within earshot, all I’ll have to do is yell out his name.

  “I have to find my driver. Where is the garage?”

  “Well, ‘tis not what yer rightly call a garage, but old Declan Bleigh’s the mechanic. Fixes stuff out the back garden of his cottage at the far end of town, so he does. But I’m hazardin’ a guess yer man’s at the pub ‘avin’ a spot of breakfast. Let’s try there first.”

  Ronan brings Mateo to a stop outside a quaint, two-story corner building, a single neon light promising “Guinness” flashing in the window. I don’t drink beer but my mouth still waters at the prospect of some adult refreshment after the morning I’ve had. With its Tudor exterior and striped awnings, the place has charm if nothing else. We step inside, and I lower my chin and tug my scarf closer around my face out of habit. My eyes scope the interior, and sure enough, I see Mel’s broad back seated at a booth in the far corner. Praise be to God. I lope toward him trying not to attract attention, but my stupid shoes make that impossible.