Disclaimer: Not my universe, not my characters.
Warning: Sexual content, profanity
This story is part of the Hope Forgotten Series.
Cassandra and the Prophecy
Hope Forgotten IV
EXILE
by Parda (September 1998)
... the dreams that have escaped you ...
May Day, 1630
Aberdeen, Scotland
Cassandra dropped her comb and looked for her sword, as she sensed the first faint warning of an Immortal. Her sword was in its usual place, hanging on its hook next to the fireplace, only a few feet away. There was an identical hook next to the second fireplace on the other side of the room. She slid to the edge of the large four-poster bed, moving carefully so that she did not wake the kitten in its nest of pillows, and took the sword down.
She walked quickly and quietly around the carved chest at the foot of the bed, then flattened herself against the wall between the front door of the house and one of the four large windows on that wall. Her unbound hair clung to her arms and wrists, and she reached back with her left hand and quickly twisted her hair together at the nape of her neck. The sense of an Immortal grew stronger.
A figure passed by the window, and there was a knock on the door. Cassandra didn't move.
"Connor MacLeod," came the muffled words.
Cassandra closed her eyes in relief as she recognized the voice. She had received his message two days ago, telling her he would be in town today, but she knew better than to trust such a message completely. She loosened her hair and smoothed the lace at her throat, then brushed nervously at her garnet-colored skirt. Connor had always liked this color. She opened the door and looked out into the street, her sword raised and ready.
Connor stood on the doorstep, his sword in his hand. He wore the MacLeod plaid as his breacan, its blues and greens falling in elegant folds over a cream-colored sark. The breacan was pinned at the left shoulder with a silver brooch of a running stag and gathered at his narrow waist with a belt of fine leather. A finely tooled dirk hung at his belt, next to the badger-head sporran. His hair was combed back from his high brow, and two narrow braids framed his clean-shaven face. His gray eyes were calm and watchful. It was Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and he was magnificent.
She smiled and took a small step back.
Connor stepped to the doorway and brought his sword up smoothly, knocking hers aside. The point of his sword came to rest exactly between her breasts, not touching her, but much too close.
Cassandra carefully did not move. She had not seen him in over thirty years. There was a look in his eyes that had not been there before; it reminded her of the intent amber gaze of a wolf tracking its prey. Connor was a hunter now, a predator, a killer, and he was making no attempt to hide it. It was Connor, but he was different. She wondered how many heads he had taken.
She stood very still as he looked her up and down. His gaze was intense and unwavering, and she recognized that stare from their sparring days. It was the same look he gave to his opponents in battle. He was watching her, studying her, remembering what he knew about her, her strengths and her weaknesses, her moves and her tricks. She was glad that he was here as a lover and not as a killer. She did not ever want to face him in battle.
"Heh," he said, in a soft pleased voice, and then he smiled. He lowered his sword and strode past her into the room.
Cassandra stared at his back for a moment, debating the wisdom of taking the flat of her sword to his backside. She finally shrugged and shut the door.
Connor was examining the far wall. He glanced through the open door that led into the kitchen, then looked out the two windows that gave a view of the walled garden. He turned around, noting the four large windows that looked out onto the street, two on each side of the front door. Only after he had determined the possible exits did he look about the rest of the room.
Cassandra watched as he glanced quickly at the eating area to his left, well-lit now by the sunlight from the four windows that overlooked it. A square table and two chairs stood in front of the fireplace, and a narrow serving table was underneath the windows on the far wall. A corner cabinet held dishes, and her lap-harp was on a small table in the other corner. Shelves stood between the two large windows, holding dishes, baskets, and a few precious books. He looked to his right, taking in the large bed with the carved chest at its foot and the wash-stand near its head. His gaze was not so quick to leave that side of the room.
"A fine house here," he commented, speaking in Gaelic, the language of his birth.
Cassandra came to stand beside him, her sword still in her hand. "It suits me," she said in the same language, recognizing his wish to feel at home again.
He turned to her and smiled again. "Yes. It does." He looked her up and down again, but his gaze was warmer now. "You live here alone?"
"There is a servant girl who sleeps in the kitchen, but I told her she might visit her mother."
Connor lifted his eyebrows. "How convenient. Does her mother live far away?"
"Not far. But the girl is not coming back for a week." The girl was only coming back to clean the house completely after Cassandra left Aberdeen for good.
"A week?" Connor smiled very slowly. "A week is good." His gaze went back to the lap-harp on the small table in the corner. "You still have your harp."
"Yes, I brought it with me from Donan Woods."
"I've missed the music. Perhaps later, you will play?" His gaze grew warmer still, and now the smile reached his eyes. "But nay the now."
Cassandra took a sudden breath, feeling an answering warmth growing deep within her at his look. "Nay the now," she agreed, smiling back at him. She wanted to know where Duncan was, but she did not want to ask. She forced down her impatience and kept the smile on her face, then walked over to the narrow table against the wall between the cabinet and the kitchen door. "Shall we get comfortable?" she asked, holding her sword level, but still ready, above the table. Having discussions with drawn swords about always made her nervous.
Connor smiled again and gave his dry brief chuckle. He walked over to her and bowed slightly, then they both laid their swords on the table.
Cassandra bowed back, then stepped closer to him, her face calm and unreadable. She could smell the scents she always associated with Connor, heather and horse and wool, overlaid with a faint whiff of soap. She unbuckled his sword belt and stared into his eyes as she slowly pulled the end of it down, so that the thin strip of leather snaked over his shoulder. She caught it as it fell, then placed it next to his sword. Next her hands went to the strap of his dorlach, the small bag used to carry provisions and other items. She lifted the strap from his shoulder and placed the bag on the table. "It's heavy," she commented.
"There's bread in it," Connor replied, "fresh-baked this morning."
Cassandra's eyebrows lifted. "Bread, is it? And fresh-baked." She smiled at him, pleased. "Are you hungry now?" she asked.
"Not for bread."
Cassandra's smile widened. "For oranges, perhaps?" She had bought the last two oranges in the market very early that morning.
"Oranges?" Connor returned her smile and shook his head. "No."
The look in his eyes left her no doubt as to what he was hungry for. She was hungry, too, but she could wait a little longer. And so could he. "A drink then?" At his nod, she poured raspberry wine for herself and whisky for him. She had bought several bottles of whisky for him from a bothy in one of the nearby villages.
"It's a fine day," she said, holding a glass in each hand. "Let's go into the garden." She started for the door which led through the kitchen into the garden and called over her shoulder, "Will you bring the swords?" She knew he was much more interested in her body than he was in her head.
Connor blinked at her show of trust, then grinned. He picked up both swords and followed her outside.
The garden was splendid in early spring, a walled courtyard fragrant with apple blossoms and bright with flowers. Connor joined her on a wooden bench near the garden wall and laid the two swords across his lap. "A fine garden, too," he said, enjoying the pleasant scene.
She nodded and handed him his drink. "I was fortunate to find this place. I've been here over a year, and I was able to work on the garden last summer." She leaned over and gently touched a young thyme plant that grew next to the bench, then crumbled a clod of dirt between her fingers. "The herbs are coming along nicely." She would not be here to harvest them. She would leave as soon as Connor was gone; she had stayed too long in this place already.
"Still growing herbs, I see." He sipped at his drink.
She shrugged. "People will always need potions and simples to help ease their pains. I was a healer before I became an Immortal." Her hand was tight on her wine glass, and she forced it to relax. She was still a healer, but she had learned to be a killer, too. She wondered if he had heard the intensity of her voice, the quietness there. She knew he would not understand it.
Connor looked at her sharply. "You do not call yourself the Witch of Aberdeen, do you?"
"Indeed, no!" she laughed, then said more soberly, "That would be most unwise." Especially in this time and place. Witch hunts had started again, a more active form of the usual latent hate. Witch hunts and Roland were not the only reason to leave this place. King Charles was on the throne in London instead of Edinburgh now, and she knew that the religious and political unrest surging in the country would soon boil over into outright fighting. She had seen times such as these before.
"Who is the witch of Donan Woods now?" Connor asked. There had always been a witch in Donan Woods, since before his grandmother's time.
"Duncan's Aunt Aileen," Cassandra replied. "She came to the forest one day, and we talked. Her children and her husband were dead, and she agreed to stay at the cottage. That's how it's always been done, you know, one woman following another."
"Then the witch has not always been an Immortal?"
"Oh, no." Cassandra was surprised he should think that. "The witch has always come from the local people, except for me." She sipped at her wine. "But I am witch no longer. To my neighbors, I am plain Bess Lockley, a sailor's widow. My poor husband was lost at sea some years back."
Connor turned slowly to look at her. "I was a sailor."
"Were you?" she asked innocently. She knew that, of course.
He looked at her over his rim of his cup as he took another drink. "And I was lost at sea."
"But found again," she said lightly.
"Aye. It's hard to keep a good man down."
She knew this game, and she enjoyed it. "And are you a good man, Connor?"
He leaned a little closer to her and said softly, "I'm very good."
He had indeed changed. She had not expected him to be so ... sure of himself. He was confident to the point of arrogance, but she didn't mind. It was good to see him growing up. Apparently he had learned how to play this game, too. Cassandra smiled and sipped at her wine. She knew he was definitely interested in playing. Placing his sword between her breasts had been a deliberate provocation, a reminder to her of their meeting in Donan Woods when she had held a blade to his neck. She knew he was trying to establish his dominance over her, to make sure she realized that he was no longer her student, but her equal. Or maybe even her superior. Both in bed, and out of it.
She was willing to acknowledge him as her equal, although, she thought with another smile, he would have to prove his superiority. They could play that game this afternoon, and he could win. It was an important game for a man to win. Later tonight, and all through this week, there would be time enough for love.
She stood. "I think I'm hungry now," she said, looking into his eyes as she leaned over to pick up her sword from his lap.
Connor's eyes were intent and very warm. "Good." He tossed back the rest of his whisky and stood and stretched. "Is there a privy outside?"
She motioned to the far corner of the garden and watched him walk away, the sun shining on his hair. It was lighter now than it had been, bleached by many hours in the sun and wind. Before his hair had been the colors of the warm browns and tans of dried grasses in the fall. Now it was clover honey and amber and the deep dark gold of whisky, but it still looked as soft as she remembered. A fine game indeed.
She went into the house and placed her sword under the bed, then closed the shutters on the windows. She carefully scooped the gray and white kitten from its nest on the pillows and laid it in the basket next to the chest. The kitten stirred and stretched, then lay at full length, limply asleep. Cassandra stroked the soft fur gently, feeling the steady beat of the heart under the fragile ribs. The kitten was a young one, newly weaned. Cassandra had found it mewling in an alley just three days before. She would take the kitten with her when she left.
She took her comb off the bed and put it on the wash-stand, then pulled down the bed-covers and plumped the pillows. She looked at herself in the small glass mirror on the wall. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright, and she knew it wasn't just from the wine. It was good to see him again.
Connor walked into the room, and Cassandra turned quickly from the mirror. She looked at him for a moment, simply enjoying the sight of him, the splendor and strength of a magnificent male. He seemed to dominate the room, his energy and his confidence filling the space around him. She was suddenly very much aware of the beating of her heart.
Connor looked around the room again, quickly and thoroughly. Cassandra saw him smile slightly when his gaze went to the shuttered windows and the turned-down covers on the bed. Then his gaze went to her, and his smile of amusement changed to one of pleased satisfaction. He stood there, waiting for her to come to him.
That was the first move in this part of the game, and it was his. The second move was up to her. She walked toward him slowly. "Have you traveled far today?" she asked, standing very close.
"Not far. A few miles only."
"But perhaps your feet are tired?" she suggested. She motioned for him to sit down on the bed, then looked at the katana he still held in his hand. "Would you like to put that under the bed? Or should I do it for you?"
A slow grin touched Connor's eyes. "I'll take care of this sword." He leaned over and placed it under the bed. "And this." He carefully removed his sgian dubh, the needle-sharp knife tucked into his boot, and set it next to the sword, then sat down on the edge of the bed.
Cassandra nodded gravely, though her eyes were also amused. She knelt in front of him and took off his boots, muddy and dusty from the road. She slid her hands up his legs and unrolled his stockings, then pulled them off, leaving his feet bare. She rose smoothly and set the boots and stockings on the hearth, then went to the wash-stand that stood against the wall next to the head of the bed. She washed her hands in the basin there, using the lavender-scented soap she had made last winter.
She had just reached for a towel when his hands came to rest firmly on her shoulders, surprising her. She took a deep breath against the thudding of her heart, feeling the warmth of his body close behind her.
"All clean?" he asked, his voice against her ear.
"Yes," she managed. She quickly dried her hands, then turned to face him. "All clean." She laid her palm against his cheek. "Is my hand cold?" His skin was very smooth. He must have shaved recently. He inclined his head slowly, moving his cheek against her hand, not bothering to answer. She spread her fingers and traced the outline of his cheekbone, his ear, the line of his throat. She moved her hand slowly, her thumb moving gently across the fullness of his lower lip, then her hand slid down to his neck, the skin rougher there, not quite so clean-shaven. She could feel the faint prickles of his beard and the steady pulse of his blood. Her hand slid lower, under his sark, feeling the smooth muscles underneath the curling softness of his hair. "That's warmer," she said softly, as he shivered under her hand.
"Aye," agreed Connor huskily, "but it's only one hand." He caught her other hand in his and brought it to his lips, placing warm kisses on the back of her hand, following the lines of delicate bones there. He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, then traced each finger with his teeth, while his fingers continued to caress the back of her hand.
Cassandra caught her breath. "Connor-," she began, then was abruptly silent as his lips came down upon hers swiftly, warming them, claiming them for his own. The whiff of soap had faded now, and she smelled his fresh scent instead.
Their hands were still touching, and he entwined his fingers in hers, gripping her tightly, holding her close. His other hand went to the nape of her neck, moving under the curtain of her hair. His fingers spread out and massaged the base of her skull, while he gently urged her lips apart with his tongue.
Cassandra opened her mouth to him willingly, eagerly, tasting the faint peat flavor of whisky on his breath and on his tongue. She moved her hand from his chest up over his shoulder to his back, pulling him closer to her.
He moved his fingers slowly through her hair, separating the shining strands. He pulled his head back from the kiss and raised a strand to his lips. He circled her slowly until he came to stand behind her, then nuzzled his way through her hair to the soft skin of her neck. "I love the feel of your hair," he said quietly.
Cassandra shivered at the deep tones of his voice so close to her. She closed her eyes as his lips moved to the tender spot below her ear, then bowed her head as he traced the softness of her neck with his kisses. His hands moved to cup her breasts, and she moaned deep in her throat and leaned back against him. "Connor," she gasped, as his thumbs gently coaxed the nipples to hardness. She placed her own hands over his, marveling at the strength and the gentleness there, and lifted one of his hands to her lips, kissing the palm and then tracing his long slender fingers with her teeth as he had done to her earlier.
Now it was Connor's turn to gasp, and his hand tightened on hers. She leaned back against him, and felt Connor shudder as she pressed the softness of her backside against the hardness in his loins. His grip tightened unconsciously on her breast, and she arched against him again, moving her hips in slow small circles that turned the pressure into delicious agony, both for him and for her.
He turned her to face him then, quickly, urgently, and kissed her again, one hand in the glorious length of her hair, the other hand sliding down the curve of her back to pull her closer to him.
Cassandra opened her mouth to him again, and reached up to pull his head closer. His hair was soft, and it curled around her fingers. She remembered the feel of it on her bare skin from many years ago, and wanted to feel it again. As the kiss ended, she whispered against his mouth, "Take my clothes off, Connor."
He pulled back to look at her, his eyes dark with desire.
She continued in a low voice, "I want to be naked in your arms." She saw his eyes narrow slightly, and she felt an answering flush in her own cheeks. It had been a long time since Connor had undressed her.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her around, and then his hands went to the front of her bodice. He untied the bow, then slowly loosened the laces which went down to her waist. His hands followed them, loosening them, opening them, spreading apart the fabric. His hands moved up, under the warm, heavy cloak of her hair, and slid the loosened bodice back from her shoulders and down her arms, letting it fall to the floor.
Cassandra closed her eyes as she felt his hands moving on her. The heel of his hand settled on her navel and his fingers splayed downward, underneath the waistband of her skirt. As his fingertips moved in slow delicate circles, she leaned back against him and drew a shuddering breath.
But he hadn't finished undressing her yet. His hands busied themselves at her waist, untying the strings of skirt and underskirts. They fell to the floor as well, and she stood clad in only her shift and corset and her stockings. There were more laces to be loosened, and now as his hands made their way downward, his long fingers slipped under her corset between the laces and caressed her warm skin through the thin material of her shift. The corset followed the bodice to the floor, and he untied the bow at the neck of her shift, pulling the thin fabric wide until both her shoulders were bared.
He turned her to face him again, then lowered his head to side of her neck, kissing his way down the soft skin there to the harder planes of her shoulder. Connor grasped the shift in his teeth and pulled it down even farther, then did the same on the other side. He straightened, his eyes very intent, then hooked the cloth around his thumbs and slowly slid his hands down her arms, pulling the cloth down to her waist, revealing her breasts. Cassandra caught her breath as the touch of cool air was replaced by heat when Connor bent his head and suckled briefly at each rosy tip, teasing them round with teeth and tongue.
Cassandra swayed on her feet as the heat from her breasts moved deeper within her. She placed her hands on his shoulders, then closed her eyes again as he gave a final, demanding tug on each breast. She heard the soft whisper of cloth as her shift fell to the floor. His hands did not touch her, but Cassandra could feel the heat of his body close to her. She tightened her grip on his shoulders as he sank to his knees before her.
A gentle touch, the barest brushing of his fingertips behind her knee, as he untied her garter. Then more ghostly touches as he slowly rolled down the woolen hose. She lifted her foot and he pulled her stocking off, his hands sliding firmly along her feet, but touching her only through the cloth. She felt him turn slightly under her hands, then he removed her other stocking in the same way. Finally, she was naked before him, and finally, he touched her.
His hands started at her feet, then moved up to her calves, following the long curve of muscle there. His fingertips brushed again on the tender spots behind her knees, just firm enough not to tickle, just gentle enough to tease. Then above her knees, as he straightened his back to kneel before her, his hands encircling her legs, his thumbs tracing delicate lines up the inside of her thighs while his fingertips pressed more firmly on the outer curves. His hands moved still higher, his thumbs moved closer together, until finally they touched at her core.
Cassandra gave a sudden sharp gasp, and she tightened her grip on his shoulders again. Still gentle, still teasing, his thumbs touched and caressed, stroking her, opening her, reaching inside her to kindle the fire within. Then his thumbs moved apart and away, and his hands slid to the backs of her thighs.
"Connor," she pleaded as she opened her eyes, aching for him to touch her once more.
He smiled up at her, then laughed softly, and she felt his breath warm upon the softness just under her ribs. Then the warmth changed to heat as he touched his lips to her, kissing her gently, blazing a path of fire upon her skin as he moved ever lower. He paused at her navel, his tongue flicking out in a flash of moistness, while his hands urged her legs apart. Then the kisses started to move lower again.
As Connor settled back on his heels, Cassandra's hands moved from his shoulders to his head, and she twined the softness of his hair around her fingers. Connor's hands were moving once more, his thumbs resuming their gentle caresses, and she trembled at his touch. Her arms and her breasts felt cold, but she welcomed the contrast to the heat she felt deep within her. Then Connor leaned forward, and Cassandra didn't feel cold anywhere anymore.
"Connor!" she gasped, as he gave her the sweetest kiss of all. She moaned deep in her throat and swayed on her feet, pulling his head closer to her. She closed her eyes again, surrendering herself to the sensations sweeping over her, through her, in her. The fierce liquid fire spread from her center and danced along her veins, spreading to her arms and legs, making her shake with desire.
Connor's hands moved to her hips and held her firmly, then he slowly kissed his way back up to her mouth. "Maybe you shouldn't be standing," he suggested, a small smile playing about his mouth.
"Perhaps not," Cassandra answered breathlessly. "But first I want to be naked in your arms." She stepped close to him, relishing the rough feel of his wool breacan against her skin, the warmth from his body, the strength of his arms about her, the strands of his hair mingling with her own on her breasts. She slid her hand to the back of his neck and pulled him closer for a kiss. The smoky tang of whisky mingled with a newer taste, faintly salty, faintly sweet.
Connor bent his head and kissed her again, his hands moving unhindered now up and down her body, feeling the resiliency of silken skin over smooth muscle. His hands went to her rounded backside and gripped her there, lifted her slightly and held her close against him, wanting to join with her now, to lose himself within her once again.
Cassandra sensed his impatience and felt it herself. She stepped back a little, then her hands went to his belt and swiftly undid the buckle. She laid the belt with its dirk and sporran on the wash-stand, then came back to him and unpinned the brooch at his left shoulder. "I hope you're not cold," she said, as she pushed his breacan off, leaving him clad only in his sark.
"No," said Connor, "but maybe we should both lie down now."
"We should," she agreed, "right here." She placed both hands on his chest and pushed him backwards hard.
He sat down abruptly on the bed, then reached forward and caught the end of her long tresses in each hand. He leaned back a little on the bed and looked at her as she stood before him. His gaze moved slowly down her body, and Cassandra felt the heat in her body follow the path of his stare. Then he returned his gaze to her face and started to wind her hair around each of his hands, slowly, gently, pulling her ever closer to him.
She came willingly and stood between his legs, trapped by his hands in her hair and the intensity of his expression. She laid her hands on the tops of his thighs and looked into his eyes while she very slowly eased her hands under the hem of his sark. Her hands disappeared completely under the cloth, and Connor closed his eyes as her fingertips met at the soft line of hair on his belly.
"Cassandra," he growled, as her fingers moved apart again.
She laughed softly and tugged at the bottom of his sark. "I want you to be naked in my arms, too."
Connor drew in a sudden breath, then unwound his hands from her hair. He obligingly stood up so that she could tug his sark higher. When he sat back down she moved closer to him and pressed her thighs against the inside of his own.
She smiled at him, a slow lazy smile, and slid her hands up along his hips, his sides, his ribs, pulling the sark higher. The game was going quite well.
Connor lifted his arms and let her pull the sark over his head. She dropped it on the floor, then went to her knees before him. His hands went to her hair again, and he wound his fingers in it tightly.
Cassandra closed her eyes as she knelt between his legs, relying on touch and taste and smell and heat. It was not at all difficult to find what she wanted. His shaft quivered as she traced her way up its length with the pointed tip of her tongue. She swirled her tongue slowly over its head; Connor's sharp gasp allowed her to rely on sound as well as she slowly drew him into her mouth. She had told him she was hungry.
But she was hungry for more than that, and after a few moments she lifted her head and kissed her way up to his chest.
Connor was hungry, too. He pulled her up by the arms until she was standing in front of him again. Then he grasped her by the waist and lifted her up onto the bed and pulled her with him as he lay back.
She knelt above him, her knees on either side of his hips, her hands resting on the bed above his shoulders. Her hair hung down around them, and brushed his face and chest. She lowered her head to kiss him, inhaling his sweet musky smell as the tips of her breasts barely touched the softness of the hair on his chest. She moved her hips in that same slow, small circle she had used when he was standing behind her.
Connor groaned and arched upward, but she moved upward, too, and whispered to him teasingly, "Tell me what you want."
He did not speak, but the heat in his narrowed gaze was answer enough.
Cassandra smiled again, and her own eyes narrowed as she ran her tongue over her lips and her gaze traveled downward. He was magnificent. She lowered her head to kiss him again, this time lowering her hips as well. "Tell me what you want," she repeated, feeling the heat from him very close indeed to the heat within her.
He surged upward again, seeking to join with her, but she lifted her hips again and shook her head, smiling.
"Tell me," she whispered. "I want to hear you say it."
"You." Connor placed his hands on her hips, holding her firmly. "I want you."
She felt a sudden spike of desire at his words and at his touch, but she took in a slow breath, not wanting to give in to the passion between them just yet. "Do you want me to kiss you?" she asked playfully, and did so, a swift and passionate kiss.
"Do you want me to sing to you?" She smiled when she saw him catch his breath at that suggestion, and she kissed him again, lingering now at the sweetness of his mouth. "Later," she promised, then moved her hips under his hands until she felt the warm tip of his manhood against her. "What do you want now?" she asked softly, as she moved back and forth, up and down, very slowly, very carefully.
Connor stared at her between slitted lids. "I want to bury myself in you," he whispered, his voice rasping.
She smiled in triumph and started to move downward, but he tightened his grip on her hips and held her still.
"What do you want, Cassandra?" he asked and shifted upward just a little, her warmth and her moistness around him, then retreated, holding her off when she tried to follow him down.
"I want you," she said breathlessly, pleased that he was joining in the game.
Connor's mouth curved upward in a slow satisfied smile, and he asked, "Do you want me to kiss you?" He lifted his head to reach her lips with his own, and as he did so he moved his hips upward again, a little higher this time, but still he held her motionless above him. Her sharp gasp as he entered her and then retreated was muffled against his mouth. "What do you want now?" he demanded, lying back on the bed.
"You," she admitted, and tried to move downward again, prevented again by his hands on her hips. She wet her lips and said huskily, "I want all of you, inside of me."
"Good," he said simply, and surged upward at the same time as he pulled her onto him. She saw him smile with great satisfaction at her sharp cry as he buried himself inside her.
The long separation was over, and they moved together, but Connor kept his hands on her, controlling her movements, holding her where he wanted her. First close against him, then higher, barely touching, moving only slightly, then close again, his eyes intent upon her face while he moved inside of her, where she had said she wanted him to be.
He moved her higher again, away from him, torturing her with just the barest connection between them, and certainly torturing himself as well. She knew he was determined not to let her control him; he was determined to win this game.
"What do you want now, Cassandra?" he asked, not moving at all.
"Please," she whispered as she writhed against his hands. She didn't want to play anymore.
"Tell me." He started to move again, carefully, exquisitely, barely inside her.
"I want you." She was panting in short shallow gasps. "You, Connor. I need you," she demanded hoarsely. He always liked to hear his name.
He let go of her then, let her control her own movements, let her choose the rhythm of the ride. They moved together now, adapting and responding to each other, finding once again the ways to merge the two of them into one.
The tempo increased and the rhythm intensified, and Cassandra grasped his shoulders while his arms went about her and held her close. "I need you, Connor," she repeated urgently.
She felt his hands slide down to her flanks and grip her tightly once again, but this time his hands moved with her, urging her on as she moved with him in short quick bursts. "All of you," she whispered fiercely, "all of you, inside of me."
Connor cried out and slammed her hard against him, while he surged upward inside of her, burying himself, losing himself, finding himself within her, over and over again.
Cassandra cried out, too, and closed her eyes as the waves from him started the waves deep inside her, spreading in ever-growing ripples from the center of her being. She held on to him tightly, the only solid thing in a universe of shifting waves and ebbing tides.
Her eyes still closed, she surrendered to the delicious lassitude that followed love-making and relaxed bonelessly on top of him, her hands lying limply on his chest, laying her head next to his, their hair mingling on the pillow.
Connor wrapped his arms about her and held her close. She could feel the beat of his heart against her own. After a long silence, he recovered enough to run his fingers idly through her hair. They lay quietly, luxuriating in the feel and the touch and the smell of each other, the warmth and the smoothness of skin against skin.
Continued in Chapter 2, wherein Connor and Cassandra find love, for the now
