What you've all really been waiting for - not, however, the end. This chapter stands at a M rating due to sexual content.
Chapter Twenty Eight
It hurt, he found, as badly the second time as it had the first. Hope had quietly died, barely even a kick or two as the trapdoor beneath had dropped away. He strode from his own home in a haze of pain, seized the horses' halters from the barn. Perhaps he hadn't used his hands or power to push her away, but he had used words, and feelings—his own. And that made it worse, infinitely worse. Because this time, when she pulled away, it wouldn't be from his temper, or because she was afraid of his powers, or the things in his past. It would be because he, as a man, and his perverted love for her, had driven her away.
The numbness was coming back, he noted, with a spectacular lack of emotion, sliding the mare's halter over her ears. It tightened his chest and did little to ease the clenched feel of his abdomen, but at least it put a halt the tearing sensation that lingered high under his breastbone. Muir snorted at him, tossed his head a few times, then settled to the idea of being stabled—however briefly, for the mage to groom him and pick any stones out of his hooves—while it was still light out. It meant also, and most importantly, that he would be fed.
Dórainn was grateful for the numbness that was spreading thinly over him. It meant, maybe, that he would stay numb until she was gone again.
Muir shoved his nose against his master's shoulder, and nickered quietly. The sorcerer lifted a hand, rubbed between the horse's eyes until Muir shuddered with pleasure, and then led him towards the barn. The mare followed, ears now pricked at the possibility of food.
They were as good a shield as any, he decided, horses. And they had the added advantage of being large and warm and unwaveringly loyal, perfect to lean upon.
He loved her. He loved her as a woman, not merely as a daughter. She sat where he had left her for several long moments, absorbing the information he had flung at her. It was a revelation, and a welcome one—he loved her, or thought he did. There was a chance, then, that they could be together. A good chance, she thought, springing up, as though to follow, and then paused.
She wouldn't get ahead of herself, wouldn't delude herself into believing that they would be married and live 'happily ever after'. But if there was a chance…she wouldn't let the term 'mistress' bother her. Not when it was the price of trying for more between them; nor any of the other, less kind terms for such a woman. Besides, she had little left to lose—she had left Seòbhrach Rubha, she had no pressing engagements anywhere else because she simply did not know anyone else, and if it did not work out, she would simply go South, or to Beinn Dùthaich, or elsewhere. She was, she knew, a good enough painter to be able to sell the paintings to survive, and if she could not, she knew enough of herbs and healing to be a midwife or a healer.
But if all went well, and the chance worked…
Shaking herself out of her reverie, she turned to the door he had so recently gone through, and followed.
She found him easily, with his back to the door, stroking a brush over Muir's dark, silky-looking hide. The horse seemed in the throes of ecstasy, his ears flicked back to listen to his master's steady, almost lilting voice. Dórainn spoke fluently the crooning of nonsense and compliments that was a language to hostlers and cavalryman across the world. But his voice was dull beneath the uniform cadence of horse whispering, and his movements, while as sure and economical as always, seemed as though they were very nearly too much effort.
Finally, his voice fell away from the soothing tone. "What do you want, Rapunzel?" he inquired tiredly, not bothering to turn around, or cease rubbing the summer mud from Muir's back. He simply stood, tall and straight, brushing at the same spot on his horse's back, waiting for her answer.
This was what the dragon had meant when he had made his comment about returning whether or not Dórainn wished her to. The meaning of the words struck her like a solid blow to the breastbone, with enough impact behind it to force her to catch her breath. He had loved her—loved her still—and she had hurt him intolerably. And then hurt him again, returning, and reopening all of the old wounds.
"You had no right," she said, walking into dim, warm interior of the barn. His back stiffened faintly, his shoulder blades jerking slightly, and the brush on the courser's back coming at last to a halt.
"You tell me you love me, and then you throw qualifiers at me. You say I'm not your daughter, Dórainn, but a woman," she continued, moving closer still. "And then you say you love me in ways you shouldn't.
"You say 'I love you'," she charged, when he turned to find her right behind him, too close to evade.
Too far to kiss.
"But you run before I can say it back."
He watched her closely, silently, for a long time, peering into her eyes as though he would examine her soul. "And given the chance to say it," he growled softly, after what seemed an eternity, "would you?"
He didn't touch her. His hands, long, narrow, sorcerer's hands, remained quiet at his side, one still holding a hog-bristle brush, though they ached to go to her waist and draw her against him. His face, lean and harsh, was tight, the flesh of it stretched taut over the rawboned frame of his bones. Eyes the color of a blade were locked on hers, searingly direct and intimately searching.
She smiled, an expression easily as fierce as his eyes. "I would. I love you."
Some of the dark intensity leaked from his eyes, softening them, heating them, some of the tension in his body went with it.
"I—" his mouth twitched, belying frustration when the words he wanted wouldn't come. He shifted his weight, pulled in a breath as though bracing himself. "Mi bi gaol agad air a gus lei, Rapunzel." My heart is yours.
The brush thudded lightly to the straw-covered wooden floor. His hands came up, settled very lightly on her waist, as though afraid he would damage her, holding too tightly, or worse, that she might flinch away. "It always has been."
Warmth flooded in, easing the numerous little bruises doubt and pride had left inside her. "And mine, yours," she replied softly, moving closer, and wrapped her arms around him so that her head rested comfortably against his shoulder. Dórainn smiled against her hair, pushing back the encroaching prickle of tears behind his eyes, and held her close, reveling in the feel of her against him.
She pulled away a second later, though, and he thought for one brief, insane moment that he'd done something wrong, that now was when he would wake from this strange dream, as he had woken from all the others, needing and denied. All doubts were dispelled, and hope sprung awake again, a phoenix, when, instead, she pressed her lips to his, and brought with her a shaft of pure, sensual heat, tempered with bittersweet love and strengthened again with too many other emotions to name.
Here was fire, she thought, dazed by it, then gave up thought to feel the heat of his mouth on hers, the silk of his hair tangling in her fingers, the strength and control of his fingers and palms stroking up her back, then down again, reassuringly firm. Here was pleasure, white-hot, tightening her belly to a writhing knot. The warmth of his body, seeping through his clothes and hers, to wash into her very bones—how had she never before noticed how very warm he was, how pervasive the warmth? The startling tilt of his head to deepen the kiss, the shockingly gratifying flick of his inquisitive tongue against the line of her lips, jolting her into opening so that he could slip, quite agilely, inside and continue to do wonderful things to her.
He broke the kiss, letting them both gasp in needed air, and was off, dropping feathery-soft kisses across her cheekbones, nose, eyelids, forehead, chin, like the late-spring rains, little more than mist. And then returned once again to her mouth, seducing.
"No," he groaned quietly, and drew away as though it hurt him to do so, holding her at arms length.
"W-what? Why did you stop?" She didn't want to drag her mind back to some semblance of sanity, or force it to function. She wanted him, now, as soon as possible, as she had never wanted anyone or thing before. Rapunzel felt, if he simply left her like this—a knot of scraped-raw nerve ends tightened to the point, nearly, of pain—she would die. And worse, if they stopped, and reality intruded, it would end. "Don't stop," she yelped, and rose on the tips of her toes to crush her mouth back to his.
"No, Rapunzel," he promised roughly against her lips, before extricating himself again, "I won't—can't. But this will happen in a bed, not here."
He bent, scooped up the dropped horse brush, and tossed it carelessly into the small room at the end of the stable where tack and grain and other such things were kept, uncaring of where it landed. Perhaps the magic he sent after it got it in its place, perhaps not. Then he swept her from the stall in a fluid movement, and efficiently closed and secured it behind them, leading them both, within a moment, to the back door of the cottage.
There was a moment of awkwardness when they reached the bedroom—an attack of shyness on her part, and some indefinable emotion flared in his eyes as well.
And then, just as quickly, the awkwardness was gone, broken by her tremulous smile, and they were back in one another's arms.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, sliding his hands from where they had again rested hesitantly on her hips up to her ribcage. They nearly spanned her completely, his thumbs coming to rest just beneath her breasts, his fingers curving with her ribs nearly to her spine, not quite meeting in the middle of her back. "Gods, so beautiful.
"Sensitive," he continued wonderingly, when she shuddered at the causal brush of his thumbs against the undersides of her breasts, even through the fabric of her dress.
She watched his face, saw sensual hunger there. The same was coiling ever tighter in her belly. It was that that made her shudder at his touch, yearn to be somehow closer. It was that that made the air heavy and sweet, and made the red-golden light that poured through the windows onto the bed seem almost liquid.
His fingers shifted, went to the lacings of her bodice.
"You won't need this," he promised softly, deftly untying it, and unlacing it, without ever taking his eyes from hers. How many times had he done this in his dreams?
"Nor this, lovely," he whispered when the bodice was off, and his nimble fingers had started on her chemise. Then, at last, her upper body was bare for his eyes. They feasted for one very long moment, the heat in them, the obvious appreciation, bringing a flush of embarrassment to her face, causing her eyes to flicker away.
He flicked a finger along her cheek, feeling the warmth there, and the heated steel of his eyes softened. "Beautiful lady, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. Rapunzel," he rumbled tenderly, bringing her attention back to his face. "Look at me, gaol. Touch me as I've been touching you."
She nodded wordlessly, and lifted trembling fingers to the fastenings of his robes. Within moments, his outer belt, of pouches and pockets dropped to the floor. Then the heavy black fabric, and his black-linen tunic. Save for leaning over to rid them both of their boots, Dórainn stood quietly, letting her do as she pleased, watching with silver-gone-molten eyes.
Rapunzel studied him, eyes trailing over him. His shoulders were broad, broader now, free from obscuring black cloth. There were intriguing hollows just beneath the sharp line of his collarbones. The chest that lay below looked hard—not as sculpted as some of the more grotesquely muscular guards at Seòbhrach Rubha, but certainly tastefully trim, with a fascinating series of slight ridges on his abdomen, like those on a washer-board, giving in to a stretch of smooth skin. A thin line of silky-looking hair ran down from his naval, parallel to his knife-blade hipbones, to disappear under the line of his trousers. Without thinking, she traced its downward path with a fingertip.
He twitched at her touch; one sharp inhalation of breath, to replace what shock had knocked out of him, then stilled again for her benefit.
But she had already snatched away her hand. "Did I hurt you?"
"No, Rapunzel, not in the least," he replied tightly, his voice in accord with the blazing heat in his eyes, and the taut expression of need on his face His hands, motionless by his sides, had fisted. "I overestimated my own self-control. By all means, continue. Please."
Warily, she took a step forward, and carefully flattened a hand against his chest. It was a very nice chest, she decided. Not particularly hairy, which she was grateful for—many men his age had a pelt, it seemed, of curling grey hair that oft escaped the collars of their tunics. She wasn't often a prude, but such a covering seemed to her very untidy, and rather unhygienic—not at all attractive.
Her hand slid lightly down, brushing over a small, flat nipple, and over the slight ridges of his ribs, visible, but only just. Then it dropped away, and she started to do the same on the other side.
A scar gave her pause. She had seen it, a moment ago, when she had first set eyes on his body, but dismissed it as one of the many that covered his body, products of a life lived the hard way. But it wasn't quite the same. This one was more the pink of still-healing flesh, though it had obviously healed cleanly and closed a while ago. Straight and about an inch and a half long, the width of a blade, just beneath the jut of his right collar bone, mercifully above his lung. It would have bled nicely, though, she thought. Certainly enough to scatter drops of blood around the tower.
"A reminder. To not be a fool, and turn my back on an enemy, not matter how innocent he appears," he murmured, having guessed, in that eerie way of his, what she was thinking. "No more, Rapunzel, no less."
He kissed her then, and backed her towards the rumpled bed, eased her down while never lifting his mouth. Together they tumbled down, sprawled like children.
The touching began again—eager pets here, long, sinuous strokes there. The testing of flesh with fingertips, lips, tongue, and teeth. Heat built higher and hotter, the ache in her belly grew more demanding.
She whimpered quietly, and clutched at his shoulders—the ache was nearly pain, and the heat and tension was becoming neigh unbearable. There had to be more, some release or explosion, or something.
"Patience," he whispered in response, and cupped the origin of the heat, ignoring the cloth that blocked him from direct contact. Rapunzel twitched, shocked—she knew, in theory, at least, what the mating process involved, for Dórainn had been, while discreet, very thorough about her education—but this was very different from what she had expected.
He made a sound in the back of his throat that may have been a chuckle. "Lift your hips," the sorcerer instructed gently, and slid with deft ease her skirt and under layers from her body.
He was burning alive. But this fire had no dark shades, no trice-damned allusions to vicious memories that made his soul cringe. This fire licked at his body with cheerful intensity that promised, finally, the fulfillment of too many needs to list. It was fueled by her, he thought. How could this love-making, and the little death that would follow be anything but lovely and right? He loved the feel of her skin beneath his hands, the unconscious prick of her nails on his shoulders, the sounds that trickled quietly from the long, white throat he was nibbling on.
He cupped her again, rewarded with another tiny gasp, the widening of her crystal-blue eyes as they locked on his. She was feverish there, and wet enough already to dampen his hand. His body tightened once more in eager anticipation, a warm shiver running down his spine. He ignored both reactions and focused all his concentration upon her.
She twisted slowly, wanting, abruptly, as much of his touch down there as she could get. It felt so very good, both relief and torturous pleasure at the same time. He stroked, gently, with one elegant finger, the dewy folds he had found between her legs, then drew an intricate little pattern there that had her hips bucking towards his hand, and forced her to balance precariously on a knife-edge peak of tortuous pleasure, needing only one more push to go over the side.
Instead of giving her that push, he eased away, leaving her to balance unsteadily.
"Wait—"
As though he hadn't heard her protest, or felt the tension in her soft body, he parted her, and slipped one lean finger inside, simultaneously moving his thumb lightly across a tiny point she hadn't, 'til that moment, known existed.
Pleasure roared through her as she tumbled over the side, clenching and unclenching every muscle in her body, drawing a muffled shriek and a thousand tiny convulsions where he was still delicately embedded.
He felt every contraction, the knowledge of her pleasure sending a hard jolt of need through his own body. Control fought against need, and, after a vicious struggle, won. For now.
Rapunzel lay still at last, eyes soft and body replete, watching him. Tiny spasms still went off, but they were gentler. He was a beautiful, generous man, with desire in his eyes and a will of iron keeping him from rushing. She was, she knew, exceedingly lucky that he would be her first.
And, Gods willing, her last.
"Come to me now," she commanded softly, and sat up. A push against his shoulders forced him down, and she scrambled to sit astride his thighs—she had seen a girl do this once at court, when the couple was intoxicated enough not to care where she and her chosen dalliance were—while he blinked at her in bemusement. Her fingers went immediately to work on his second belt, a plain, sturdy affair much like its laden twin, and soon banished it to the pile of shed garments. Then the cord fastenings of his plain trousers, which soon lay open. He arched slightly, aiding her in whisking them off, as he had whisked away her clothes. He sprang free, hot and heavy and stiff; velvety, she found, when she touched him. Dórainn groaned, feeling her fingers around him, and then groaned again when she flitted away to examine him more fully, from the top down.
"Rapunzel—" his voice audibly faltered as her lips brushed from the hollow under his left shoulder down, across the flat, tight nipple that lay against his chest. "—Come here," he finally managed, tangling his hands in the hair near her scalp and guiding her back to him so that their mouths could mesh again, briefly this time."Let's free this for you," he murmured, sliding away the leather thong that had bound the end of her rapidly loosening braid, and helped the process along with swift fingers, until at last her long, heavy blond hair hung in silky sheets around them, pooling on the bed and cascading waterfall-style down her back. He stroked a hand down lightly over the length of it, savoring, then slipped beneath the spill of it and stroked up along her side, this time taking in the feel of satiny flesh. She shuddered, and arched her back as more heat coiled in her belly.
"It always surprises me, how much I need you," he whispered, and rolled, placing her beneath him again. She smiled, and rested her hands on his shoulders, clinging close to him. "For I do, you know."
"Good," she purred, drawing a faint smile from him, and gasped quietly when his fingers slid gently into her, stretching tenderly, testing her size and dampness. Her legs opened for him, and a moment later he moved closer, to cradle himself there. The tip of him, large and velvety, rested at her entrance, hesitating for a moment.
He kissed her as he moved forward, swallowed her shocked little cry at the invasion.
Dórainn paused when he felt the thin barrier of her maidenhood. There was no magic on earth that could take away this pain, as much as he might wish there was. It seemed vastly unfair to him, that a woman's first lover must cause her pain, that she must receive it in order to receive him fully. He wanted nothing to hurt this woman, ever, and wanted even less to be the one causing the pain.
But gods help him, he couldn't simply stay here and go no further. His body demanded he bury himself in her, and some primal instinct that cared nothing for gentility or love roared that taking her innocence would bind her to him all the more.
He surged forward, into the tight core of her, and for a moment, his mind blanked, filled with nothing but sensation.
Too tight, too tight—her mind shrieked, shying from him. There was burning pain there, a sense of being entirely too full where before there had been aching emptiness.
"I think we've done it wrong," she managed, fighting the need to twist away from him—it would only make it worse, she was certain. It hurt—
"No, love," he murmured, looking down with his silver eyes still full of desire, now joined by sorrow and concern that hadn't been there previously. His hand found hers, fingers laced with hers, tightened on them. "This is how it is done."
"It's not very pleasant." There was a slight note of panic in her voice now. "I can't—please, I think—"
"Easy, Rapunzel. It will get better, I promise you," he crooned, stroking a soothing hand down her side. She was squeezing him as she struggled to adjust, and it was driving him mad. His skin shuddered, and the muscles under it quivered with the effort of control.
"No, I—" she shifted beneath him. An expression of surprise flashed through her blue eyes. "It is getting better."
"Yes. I promised, didn't I?" He chuckled, a tight, terse sound. "It can be better yet." He slid back slowly, just a bit, then forward again, creating delicious friction between them.
"I think—do that again," Rapunzel requested, arching and lifting her hips to aid him.
"Be assured, my love, I shall," he replied hoarsely, and proved himself truthful by easing away, further this time, and then returning. He set a pattern, moving slowly. Out, a little further each time, until he pulled nearly out of her with each stroke, then in, diving back into the sweet, fiery heat that was Rapunzel.
The heat grew unbearable far more quickly this time, the pleasure somehow deeper, heavier. Hotter. The slide of him against delicate, damp flesh, with all of it thousands of tiny nerve endings, was driving her up, and higher still. He buried his lips against her neck, tasting the salt of perspiration, the sweetness, nipping the slim tendons that ran there with careful control.
"Bròineán, you are driving me out of my mind," he whispered, nuzzling just under her ear. His hand slid down her body again, from where it had briefly lit upon her breast, kneading it like an overgrown cat, to their joined heat.
She shivered at the touch, felt herself balancing again on that paper-thin peak that was suspended above pleasure.
His body, already tense, went rigid above hers. Suddenly the thrusts of his body into hers grew faster, and harder, flinging her over the edge, farther than before, deeper. Somewhere, above, there was a muffled groan of pleasure, and then he was with her, floating slowly down through the haze of intense satisfaction.
The initial discomfort, she thought, when she was capable of thinking again, was more than worth the pleasure. Warmed, she cuddled closer against his side, where he'd settled to avoid crushing her.
"There won't be any pain next time," he muttered sleepily into her hair. "I promise you."
A/N: hmm. Rereading, that was painfully sappy. Ah, well. Nearly twelve years; they're allowed to be sappy...
