Promises:
Carina:
If I had heard DG's thoughts on what Wyatt's face would be like during intercourse, I would have happily set her straight.
It wasn't comical at all. It was breathtaking. He was breathtaking.
When he was struggling to maintain his self-control, his square jaw would clench and the tendons in the neck would strain from the effort, which was what he was doing right now as he hovered above me, waiting for my body to grow accustomed to him. I couldn't resist not touching his face when he was like that, warring with himself to put my needs ahead of his own.
I reached up and cupped his face in my hand, rubbing my thumb across his stubbled jaw (Oh, how I loved that I could make him forget to shave!), whispering my permission, "Move, Wyatt."
He did, slowly thrusting in and out.
When he did this, his blue eyes would darken, never closing or rolling back, but boring into my soul like his magnificent cock bores into my slick-and-aching-for-him pussy. He takes in every nuance of my expressions, and his mouth – when not otherwise stimulatingly occupied – quirks in that sexy wolfish smirk of his, thoroughly enjoying the whimpers and curses that his pleasuring of me elicits.
When my walls tighten around him and we fall together, his eyes, his crystal blue eyes truly become windows to his soul, his usually guarded face softens, becomes un-shuttered, vulnerable. He let's go of everything, exposing himself, opening to me, letting me in as I have for him.
The act of making love with Wyatt Cain is beautiful.
When the aftershocks had ceased, Wyatt collapsed on top of me, taking care not to crush me. His head now rested on my chest right above my heart, his ragged breathing tickling me and drying my sweaty skin where it blew across.
Instinctively, my hands began soothing his shuddering muscles, alternating between caressing them and lightly raking my nails up and down his broad back.
He grunted his appreciation for my actions, but still needing to do more, he took my left hand with his right and brought it to his lips, kissing each digit before lacing our fingers together.
We lay like that for awhile, with him still cradled between my thighs, head on my rising and falling chest, our intertwined hands on my shoulder, his rough and calloused thumb rubbing circles on the back of my hand as my free hand danced up and down his back. As he drifted in and out of sleep, I mused on how we came to be here.
Wyatt Cain was the new guy on my father's protection detail when I first knew him. I didn't really get to know him beyond the barest of facts learned from three months of observation before my father shipped my mother and me to a trusted friend's estate. He was happily married, had a seven year-old son who he whittled toys for, and he drank his coffee black.
My mother and I were sent packing because the Sorceress was quickly gaining in power, and my father feared that our being the Mystic Man's loved ones would endanger us. I knew that Mr. Cain stayed with my father for three years before disappearing off the face of the earth and that less than a year later the Great and Terrible, my renowned-for-his-wisdom Papa, was now a member of the pathetic vapor-mad.
The next time I saw Wyatt was at the Victory Gala, held three months after the Eclipse. It had been from afar. He was up on the dais, being declared a hero. But even at that distance I could tell he was uncomfortable with the attention. (His shoulders were stiff with tension and his trigger fingers twitched.) Not long after that, he melted into the crowd.
I was receiving condolences from yet another distant family acquaintance for the death of my parents (my mother died of a broken heart after months of hearing reports of the man she loved deteriorating into an imbecile), when from over the shoulders of this insignificant couple, I caught him staring at me, squinting as if trying to place a name to the vaguely familiar face.
I made my excuses and walked over to him, taking in the lines around his eyes and mouth, the hollowed look of someone who has experienced devastating loss. I knew it well, for it gazed back at me in the mirror every morning.
Smiling knowingly and holding out my hand, I reintroduced myself, "Carina, the Mystic Man's daughter."
His eyes widened in surprise and flickered over my fully-matured body in disbelief.
I giggled. "Yes, a lot has changed since you last saw me."
His ears turned pink, as he realized that his thoughts had been so easily read.
It wasn't all that hard to do really. I had been a coltish sixteen year-old when he last saw me, awkward, shy, and flat-chested. Now I was far more graceful, certainly more comfortable with my long limbs, radiating confidence, and filling out my dress quite nicely.
I was later to find out that it was that dress – its bold redness in a sea of pastel and shades of green had caught his attention.
"There you were, this siren in crimson. Your dark curls were half piled on top of your head, adorned by a simple diadem, and cascading over your shoulders and down your back. Your head was thrown back as you let out the most sensual laugh I've ever heard, your throat gleaming in the moonlight. I was so filled with self-loathing at my reaction to you, feeling a traitor to Adora's memory, that I searched for anything to mar your perfection. And all that I could latch on to was the nagging sense that I ought to know you from somewhere. I thought maybe you were some performer, a singer or actor, that I had seen or maybe a nobleman's escort."
I had laughed and teased him at that last bit, "Either you thought that some nobleman had robbed the cradle, or you judged my age to be quite a bit older than I really am."
His ears had tinged that adorable pink again. And for that reaction alone, I take full advantage of the rare occasions that he is hatless and tease my tin man mercilessly.
My next encounter with the Hero of the Eclipse and recently commissioned Chief Central City Tin Man was when I had a meeting with the Consort.
I am an activist for the children of the O.Z. My latest concern has been the orphans who took refuge in the Unwanted Realm. They are vulnerable to the enticements and promises of the underworld gang-lords. As the Consort also took haven there for some years and knew what a difficult lifestyle it is down there, I sought him as an ally. Wyatt was meeting with the Queen's advisor, Lord Ambrose, to arrange a surprise for Princess DG (a motorcycle).
We met at the front steps (he was exiting, I was entering), exchanged greetings, and then into the awkward silence, I asked him out for a cup of coffee under the pretense (which was mostly true) that I wanted to discuss my father's last years with him.
We met up three days later at a quaint little shop called the Jaded Tea. My pretense lasted about five minutes. There really wasn't much to say beyond "He was a good man, fought the Bitch with every resource he had, even in his dying moments, and he missed his family very much."
We quickly moved on to other topics. I asked about his family. He told me of Adora's death. I shared with him my mother's. He told me of Jeb, finding he was alive, what the boy was currently doing. He didn't say it, but I could tell that the two of them were struggling. But his downcast eyes immediately lit up as he proudly told of his son's acceptance into the local university. To this day, even though he is concerned about the seemingly directionless life his son is leading, he is elated that it is not bent in the direction of violence. He wants so much more for him.
My heart broke for him when he talked of his wife. It did an odd little staccato skip for him when he discussed his son, his voice rough with pride, and when he talked of his friend the Princess, his eyes soft with affection. It nearly beat its way out of my chest when he took an interest in my project, making suggestions and freely offering his contacts and favors-owed.
We met several times after that, having lunches to discuss my "Unwanted Kids." Lunches became dinners; dinners at restaurants became private meals at his place or mine, always the conversation branching off into more personal subjects. And then the night came where we celebrated the passing of the bill that provided funding for my kids to have homes run by nurture units.
One moment we were toasting our success, the next we were devouring each other's lips, and the next, I was discovering the wonders of his hands.
Oh, his hands. His rough, work-calloused hands that are oh-so capable, clever, and eager to touch – how do I love them.
Eight years in that iron suit, totally sensory deprived except for the holographic vision sadistically replayed over and over for him, resulted in him becoming a physically affectionate person. Most people wouldn't believe that of him, but they just weren't paying as close attention to him as I was.
Whenever he was done talking to a subordinate or friend that he respects or his son, he gives them an encouraging pat on the shoulder or squeeze as the situation calls for. He always greets his son with a hug, and if the princess would let him, he would be the one to initiate their embraces every now and then. When he could get away with it, he always keeps an arm draped over his royal friend's shoulder, pinning her to his side as they walk and talk. And now he does the same thing to me – except in a far less platonic manner.
The morning after our slightly intoxicated tryst was somewhat awkward as his chivalrous side kicked in to gear.
But I nipped that in the bud rather quickly, saying, "If we need a bottle of Win-kia's finest to have a repeat of that, I had better buy out controlling interest, because there will be many repeats."
He had raised his eyebrows in an "Oh really? You think so?" expression, but his lips had spread into his wolfish grin, the only warning I received before he pounced and demonstrated his acceptance of my declaration.
And so, a few months later, here we are.
My thoughts were interrupted as Wyatt turned his head so that he could kiss the nearest patch of my skin. I let out an encouraging sigh, as I let my fingers sift through his short titan locks.
He chuckled softly at my response as his lips worked their magic, ghosting along my flesh, his nose skimming along my collarbone, before he began to pay particular attention to the hollow at my throat. Oh, so wickedly magical…
My trip to the heavens was suddenly brought to a grinding halt as the words that Wyatt had mumbled between kisses registered. Surprise was overtaken by disbelief, which was followed by bewilderment. I lay there in stunned silence for I don't know how long trying to figure why Cain would ask me such a thing – because it couldn't possibly be for the obvious reason. I wasn't the One.
When my brain finally came up with a logical explanation, hurt and then outrage swelled up within me, and I grabbed him by the hairs at the back of his neck and jerked his head up. I stared irately into his confusion filled eyes and hissed, "Wyatt Cain, you had better not be asking me that because you're trying to make an honest woman of me."
His blue eyes twinkled with mirth, as he teased, "An honest woman, you? Impossible."
Unamused, I scowled and pushed away from him, futilely trying to scoot out from under him, as I snapped, "So you're question was what? A way to soothe your conscience?" I pitched my voice to sound like a holier-than-thou, pompous prick, "Congratulations, Tin Man, you did the honorable thing and tried to do right by your lover. It's not your fault that she loves her nonconformist life so much that she chooses to live like a courtesan – "
Wyatt had been gaping in disbelief at my bitter diatribe, but now his head was buried in the crook of my neck and his shoulders were shaking with laughter – laughter!
I slapped at him irritably, cuffing his shoulder, "It's not funny!"
He immediately stilled and then reared up and gave me an apologetic kiss as he sighed, "You're right. It's not." And then in one fluent move he shifted off of me and pulled me down so that I was cradled into his side with my head tucked underneath his chin. His left hand holding me to him, his right, running thoughtfully and soothingly through my sweat-drenched and tangled curls.
Murmuring into my hair, he said, "It's just… you thought I asked you to chain your life to me for honorable – misguided, but honorable reasons…I can tell you that my motivations are far from noble." His hand cupped my rear and then dragged my leg so that it was draped over his muscular thigh, and then he breathed huskily into my ear, "I want you all to myself."
I groaned then. His words rang with masculine possessiveness and desire and his hands began to work their magic as they kneaded the tension out of my shoulders and back, "I want to be the only man driven crazy by your zillionth mad dash search for your misplaced shoe or earring, when we're already late because you changed your outfit for the dozenth time out of your need for perfection."
His right hand began to idly caress my breast, sending waves of tingling shivers up my spine, as he continued his bizarre I'm-a-jealous-man speech, "I want to be the only man that gets so under your skin and on your last nerve that you blow your gasket and give me the most eloquently vicious tongue-lashing, the kind reserved only for those to whom you deem worthy of your time and effort of putting 'em in their place."
Note to self: Wyatt is a glutton for punishment. He kind of had a point though. I don't bother reprimanding those that I don't give a damn about. Unfortunately, the more I care, the harsher my invectives are.
"I want to be the only man whose shirts you walk around in, in the mornings, because you can't find your own, forgetting that I always put them in their proper drawer after finding them at the bottom of the closet or over a lamp."
I chuckled. It was true. Our first half-serious argument had been over my less than tidy habits at his orderly apartment. I won, when I impudently told him it was my way of marking my territory. He had grunted and rolled his eyes muttering how he couldn't understood why my love bites weren't enough, all the while neatly folding my night robe and placing it into the left bottom drawer of his dresser, my drawer.
"You do realize that all those charms of mine that you just listed as coveting – wardrobe perfectionism, indecisiveness, tardiness, sloppiness, horrific temper tantrums – are all character flaws?" I noted dryly.
His chest rumbled with amusement as he contemplatively replied, "Well, that's the true test, isn't it? Not to love someone despite their faults, but to love them including their faults and on most days, finding them to be endearing quirks."
My breath hitched at his implied words, but all that I could manage to get out was a less than gracious, "I'll have to take your word for it."
His hands briefly paused in their ministrations as he whispered with sudden understanding, "So that's what's the matter…Adora." And then, he rolled on to his left arm, propping himself up, so that he wasn't crushing me, as I was back underneath him. His eyes darkened to indigo as he gazed at me seriously, "Carina, if there is one thing that I've learned since DG let me out of that iron hell-hole and it's that my heart didn't die with Adora. In fact, it's capable of expanding to include the beautiful woman before me." To prove his point, his lips descended upon mine, devouring them, hungrily and yet tenderly, expressing his desire for me, his need of me, his… love for me better than any words could.
I reciprocated wordlessly, if not soundlessly, communicating my love for him. His hand had returned to my breast, and there was nothing lackadaisical about his caresses now. While vigorously massaging me, he would roll my hardened nipple between his index finger and thumb and then pinch it, following with this little twirl and flick thing with said finger. This highly erotic technique of his had me eagerly arching into his touch and flexing my leg at the small of his back, trying to press him closer to me. I wanted to be fused to him, his flesh and mine to become literally one.
He moaned and jerked his mouth from mine to rumble, "I forgot to mention that I want my name to be the only name shouted at the top of your lungs until the day I'm six feet under."
I ran my hands down his chest, feeling his hardened planes, as I sniggered, teasing evilly, "So the day of…I can scream someone else's name in a fit of heated passion?"
Wyatt growled his displeasure before his mouth once again began plundering mine. His hand left my breast and mirrored my actions, except it didn't settle at my hips or cup my ass. No, it delved into my nether-curls, where his deft finger repeated the torturous little trick he had done to my nipple to my sensitized button.
This time it was I who pulled away, unable to take the added stimulus of his tongue masterfully stroking mine as well as his finger's clever manipulations of my pleasure center. I began to keen when his two (yes, two!) glorious fingers slipped into me and began pumping.
Against my exposed throat, he huskily promised, "Except for my lingering nightmare, it will only be your name I cry into the night as long as I have breath within me… if you'll let me."
His fingers curled inside me then, sending me sky-rocketing into the realms of mind-blanking ecstasy. I saw nothing but the blazing cerulean suns that were his eyes and could remember nothing of what we were discussing.
I finally managed to grind out as I frenetically rode his dexterous digits, "It's maddening that you have the skill to make a girl forget why she's mad at you to begin with, you know."
He chuckled low in his throat appreciatively before asking, "So is that a yes?"
Wanting to return the mind-numbing favor, I reached down and encircle the base of his hardened length with my ring finger and thumb while my middle and index fingers scratched the underside of his balls to the tempo of my rhythmic and methodical pumping.
His whole face went slack and his eyes glazed over, but my Tin Man is not so easily deterred. Groaning, he desperately asked, "Ca-RIN-a?"
My hips arched up, sliding his no-longer-moving fingers deeper inside me, as I coyly breathed against the corners of his mouth, "It's a maybe."
He let out a frustrated snarl as his hand left me to snatch my wrist and pin it above my hand, and then with a quick thrust of his hips, he buried himself in me, filling me completely.
His eyes were narrowed and practically sparking in their fierce intensity, and his voice was rough as he harshly bit out, "Carina, darlin', when I'm done with you, not only will you be hollerin' my name, you will be groaning, moaning, and whimpering 'yes' and begging me to make you forever mine right then."
And then he began moving.
And I am not ashamed to say that I ended up doing exactly as he promised.
In the morning, we realized that Wyatt, who had yet to introduce me to his son, was now going to have to do so with the added title as the future Mrs. Carina Cain. Ozma, help us.