Page 103 of Queen of the Shadow

Scáthach wanted to touch him as he touched her—to explore his body. But from her memory lifted the scene she’d interrupted where Aife was atop him. Using him. Touching him everywhere. Taking and not giving.

She would not treat him with such callousness. Scáthach caressed his shoulders and, as he kissed along the sensitive line of her neck to finally return to her mouth, she wrapped her arms around him. Not tightly. Not imprisoning him. Instead she used featherlight touches to trace the strong lines of his back down to his muscular ass.

“Yes,” he murmured against her lips. “Yes.”

His hard cock rested against her center, and she lifted her hips so that the damp head of it slid between her folds. She moved against him, rubbing her clit against his cock, rhythmically rocking until her pleasure gathered and gathered—and then her orgasm exploded again. She clung to him, whispering, “Sentanta, my Sentanta,” while her body thrummed with release.

He lifted himself so that he could look into her eyes. “You are magnificent,” he murmured.

Her hand moved from his shoulder down his back and slowly slid between them where his cock pulsed. She locked her gaze to his as she grasped it. He sucked in a breath and his body went very still.

“Sentanta, may I touch you here?” she asked.

His gaze never left hers as he nodded.

She explored his length, loving the slick softness of the taut skin that sheathed such hardness. He was thick and more than ready for her. She caressed the head of his cock, using the drops of desire that had formed there and her own wetness to lubricate her hand while she held him more firmly, stroking the length of him.

He did not look away from her, though his breathing went fast and heavy, and sweat slicked his skin.

“I want you closer,” she told him. “Inside me, filling me, bringing me to orgasm again.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes.”

Scáthach guided him to her opening. She used the head of his cock to part her lips, to teasingly press against her as she moved her hips so that he slid along the wet length of her without entering.

“Yes,” he whispered again. “Yes, now.”

She positioned him against her entrance, spread her thighs wider, and then with their gazes locked, he thrust into her. Together they gasped at the spike of pleasure, and then Scáthach wrapped her legs around him, and he began moving with her in a dance older than swordplay. At first they teased each other. He would pull almost out of her body, and she would lift her hips and tighten her legs, encouraging Cuchulainn to thrust back into her. He filled her completely and never looked away from her gaze. Never closed his eyes. Even when their rhythm increased.

“You are everything,” he murmured to her. “You are my truest joy.”

Her hand found his. Their fingers entwined. Their bodies gathered together. They surged against each other, waves crashing against a welcoming shore, until pleasure exploded between them. They cried each other’s names as kisses muffled their words. Only then did Cuchulainn close his eyes and roll onto his back, taking her with him. He wrapped her in his arms. She curled against him. Her hand went to his temple, where she rubbed soft circles, expanding them so that her fingers sank into his hair and she massaged his scalp.

Scáthach knew the instant he slept. His relaxation was deep and complete. That night she didn’t stay awake and watch him. That night she fell into a deep, delicious sleep with her hand still buried in his hair and her body fitted perfectly against him.

* * *

Thirst woke Scáthach. Moving slowly and carefully, she disentangled herself from Cuchulainn’s arms and legs. They were lying on his cloak and, though they’d been using hers as a blanket, sometime in the night they’d kicked it off so that it pooled at their feet. Scáthach wrapped the cloak around her and hurried through the fog bank to relieve herself. Outside of their cocoon of fog it appeared to be the middle of a dark, frigid night. She returned to their secluded spot, where she brought a waterskin as well as the skin of mead with her to the fireside. There she sat, facing the roaring fire, drinking deeply from the waterskin and then, thirst sated, sipping the mead.

“You look impossibly beautiful sitting there silhouetted by the fire with your hair wild and free and that cloak slipping off your bare shoulders.” Cuchulainn’s voice was low and intimate as it drifted to her.

She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” She opened one end of her cloak. “Join me?”

With endearingly boyish enthusiasm, he stood, stretched, shook back his own mane of hair, and then sat beside her, snuggling close so that her cloak could be wrapped around him, too.

She offered him the mead, and he drank thirstily. Scáthach studied him, seeing only the handsome young warrior who had worked his way into her heart. “Are you well, Sentanta?”

He leaned into her. “Yes. Very well. You?”

“I have been thoroughly loved this night, which means I am excellent.”

He tilted his head so that he could meet her gaze. “No one except you calls me Sentanta. I’ve been meaning to ask, why do you?”

“Because Cuchulainn is a construct formed by the expectations of others. Sentanta isyou.” She pressed her hand against his bare chest, and he covered it with his as she continued. “Sentanta is the fisherman warrior who only wishes for a place to call home and a family who loves him. Cuchulainn struggles to fulfill his father’s desires and live up to the hero worship of Ulster’s warriors. Sentanta knows that he is enough without worrying about the opinions of others.”

“You’re so wise,” he said softly.

“I had wise teachers,” she replied.