Wakening Fire (Dawn of Ireland 2)

By Erin O'Quinn

Married life for young Liam and Caitlín O'Neill is just as sensuous as their stormy courtship (Storm Maker). But both of them still need to learn a whole new language—how to show each other their deepest, most secret passions. Liam finds ingenious ways to teach his still-naive wife about his urgent needs, and she surprises him with her own instruction.

But during their quest of each other, they find themselves on a deadly search—for the dark secrets of their old enemy Owen Sweeney, confined to an invalid's cart yet seemingly as dangerous as ever.
Their search for the truth about the brooding half-man leads them back to the history of Ireland's most famous high king, to the grim vengeance of a jealous woman, and finally to the hills of sacred Tara, where a high king and St. Patrick himself compete for men's hearts and souls.

A fantasy romance: passion and raw adventure in the time of St. Patrick.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin O'Quinn
• Release date: Jul 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370213115

Erin O'Quinn

Erin O’Quinn sprang from the high desert hills of Nevada, from a tiny town which no longer exists. A truant officer dragged her kicking and screaming to grade school, too late to attend kindergarten; and since that time her best education has come from the ground she’s walked and the people she's met.Erin has her own publishing venue, New Dawn Press. Her works cover the genres of M/M and M/F romance and also historical fantasy for all ages.

Book preview

The Dawn of Ireland 2

Wakening Fire

Erin O’Quinn

Copyright © 2017 Erin O ’ Quinn

New Dawn Press

ISBN: 9781370213115

Published in the United States of America with international distribution.

Cover Design by Erin O’Quinn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author ’ s imagination or are used fictitiously; and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Wakening Fire was originally published by another press (title The Wakening Fire) . The contract has expired, and so I hereby re-write and reform it in new dimensions via my own New Dawn Press.

Dedication

I dedicate this entire series to the magic realm called Ireland: her language, her people, her history, and her wealth of unique treasures buried in the ancient past, even before a bishop named Patrick dressed her in the robes of religion, literacy, and civilization.

There are voices that sing, pure and sweet, in the rivers and the mountains…in the lightning and the stones…in the mythos which created Cú Chulainn and many other larger-than-life Irish spirits. Sometimes I have awakened them from slumber. I beseech their forgiveness.

Wakening Fire

Introduction

Married life for young Liam and Caitlín O'Neill is just as sensuous as their stormy courtship ( Storm Maker ). But both of them still need to learn a whole new language—how to show each other their deepest, most secret passions. Liam finds ingenious ways to teach his still-naive wife about his urgent needs, and she surprises him with her own instruction.

But during their quest of each other, they find themselves on a deadly search—for the dark secrets of their old enemy Owen Sweeney, confined to an invalid's cart yet seemingly as dangerous as ever.

Their search for the truth about the brooding half man leads them back to the history of Ireland's most famous high king, to the grim vengeance of a jealous woman, and finally to the hills of sacred Tara, where a high king and St. Patrick himself compete for men's hearts and souls .

A fantasy erotic romance: passion and raw adventure in the time of St. Patrick .

Part I

Derry

Chapter 1

The Life Domestic

As I rode from home in the chill morning, my thoughts, as usual, were of Liam. Liam of the mighty clan O’Neill, son of the high king himself. Liam the cattle baron, born to the saddle and open skies of Éire. Liam of the champion shillelagh matches, he of the lean, athletic body and warrior’s thighs. And now Liam, husband of Caylith.

Caitlín O’ Neill. I pronounced my new name, tasting it, savoring the way Liam said it, throaty and blurred at the edges, kotch-len.

Our parting kiss had come as we both stood at the hay haggard, ready to ride our horses in opposite directions. Liam stood close to me and put his hands under my woolen mantle, seeking my breasts. I raised my lips to his, and when I felt his fingers lightly pinch my nipples right through the heavy wool of my tunic, my tongue flared in his mouth.

Mmn, you devil. I continued to be amazed by the depth and strength of his passion. We had made love to near exhaustion only an hour ago.

He responded by nuzzling my face with his short, downy beard. "Shush, a Chaitlín ." He was deliberately teasing me with same words I had used with him earlier that morning.

He ran his tongue along the outline of my mouth, asking entrance once more. I started to accept it, gently sucking. And when I felt his fingers tighten on my nipples, I stepped back, abashed at his brazenness in the open where anyone might see us.

" Slán, a chuisle . I will see you at supper tonight." I seized the pommel of the saddle, and in one swift motion I was astride my mare.

He stood looking up at me, his mouth playing with the smallest of smiles. " A ghrá chaill …O lost love," he said in a mock-mournful way. The way his mouth and throat moved when he spoke, the husky sounds of his words, made my groin tighten and smolder. Then he, too, leapt astride his bay horse. With one pull of the reins across his body, he turned the gelding Angus toward our trench construction site.

I pointed Macha’s red mane upriver, toward the church.

Our growing baile, the town of Derry, spread along the western shore of the swift River Foyle. Cradled under trees and on the hills, small, clay round-houses with thatched roofs sent their tendrils of smoke into the azure sky. Squares and rectangles of well-tended gardens, green even in January, lay side by side with fields of brown, dormant grass and bright winter wildflowers. Horses and goats milled around poultry pens and wooden haggards filled with animal fodder. Here and there a pottery kiln or a smith’s forge sent its own kind of smoke chasing the direction of the wind.

Derry was unique among towns I had seen in Éire, for it was built along the river where the terrain was full of rounded hills, like maidens’ breasts, and low glens, and even rather deep little gullies cut into the land in places where feeder streams had run in days of old. Our workmen had been told to build homes using the landscape rather than to cut away or fill in the terrain. The result was deeply pleasing to me. I thought about the settlements of Bath and Lindum in Britannia, the two towns in my former homeland I liked most. There was something compelling about living in such a wild place, a bally that clung to the errant landscape, its very streets meandering in contour with the hills.

Riding the familiar route between our homestead and the church, I could see the clouds of air puffing from Macha’s nose as she cantered along in the brisk air. She was in an exuberant mood, rearing her head and snorting. My chestnut mare did not like the saddle so much as she liked breaking the routine of milling around with the other horses near our hay haggard.

I owned another mare, Clíona, a strawberry roan, and a once-wild Welsh mountain pony named NimbleFoot. Each one took turns as my steed of the day. Today it was Macha, my gift from Liam when he was still my hopeful swain, when my footsteps first touched Éire.

I smiled fondly, remembering back almost two years ago when my pilgrim’s currach landed in a little cove on the eastern shore of this marvelous island. The first stranger I met was the wild clansman Liam O’Neill, bristling with weapons and full of self-frizzed facial hair. Even beneath the hair and the shapeless léine , he was obviously handsome and athletic, a leader of men. He had accused me of having a bold eye. Yes, bold enough to spot him as a man worth knowing better.

Later, I learned his own impression of me. To him, I was a skinny redhead dressed in baggy deerskin, concealing any signs of womanhood, especially my burgeoning breasts. Much later, he admitted to his cousin Michael that he had seen something more. I vividly remembered his cousin’s translation as we sailed to Éire together, still ignorant of each other’s tongue.

I t took not long to see that the girl was beautiful under all that rough clothing, the deerskin of a man. Her deep green eyes could pull a man under, I tell ye, like a drowning. And her bold mouth, Michael, it set my mind to spinning, what it could do… I thought I might win her after all, if I could but hold me banger steady.

My smile deepened as I thought about his courtship. I still blushed to think of the long weeks of language spoken by sensuous touch and then, much later, the heady nights filled with stormy lovemaking, falling just short of the sin of fornication. Since our wedding was near the end of October, we had been married almost three months, and now that our union was sanctioned by the church, the passion had somehow become even stronger and more wild.

I shook off my secular thoughts of Liam as Macha’s hooves found the church without my guiding her. I tethered her in the familiar spot under one of the old spreading oaks near Brother Jericho’s teach, his little clay-and-wattle house, and I walked to the church.

The large round-house, limed brilliant white, was one of the first buildings we erected more than a year ago when the immigrants were given the lands around Derry. Built of clay and daub, as most of the buildings in this part of Éire, the church could hold about one hundred fifty people. We used it not just on the Sabbath but on days when Commander Gristle called a folkmoot, or what I called a simple assembly of citizens.

I pulled the heavy door open, straining against the gusting wind that wanted to keep it firmly closed. Inside, I felt an instant warmth, seeing the highly polished wooden floors gleaming in the rays of the morning sun that streamed in from several windows. The warm feeling grew when I saw the bulky figure standing near the raised altar.

"Brother Galen! Dia duit ar maidin ."

The large monk smiled back and bade me good morning also. " Maidin mhaith, a cailín ."

Brother Galen, formerly called Séamas Gallagher, was a reformed reprobate. Once given to bawds and brawls, Father Patrick had converted him and even made him a monk. Galen had a merry disposition and a lively intellect that I appreciated more every time we talked.

Brother Galen, I ventured, I know Liam still visits you once a week.

That he does, lass. Every Tuesday. Faithfully and even fearlessly.

I blanched a bit at Galen’s words. Liam’s father Leary, the high king of Éire, was one of Father Patrick’s most staunch opponents. He did not yet know that his son was learning the godspels of Christ.

The lessons had started out as a tongue-in-cheek bargain between Galen and us two would-be sinners. If Liam would come to Galen for lessons, he would be allowed to commit the sin of fornication—but only if I agreed. It was a brilliant stratagem, for the monk knew that I would never allow Liam to go against Christ’s teaching as long as he was learning the ways of our Lord. And of course, the more Liam learned, the more he would understand the nature of sin and turn against it.

When we married in October, Liam did not discontinue the lessons. In fact, every time my husband came home from a session with Galen, he was deeply thoughtful and tried even harder to communicate in my own tongue.

"Well, Brother, I know that Liam is taking the godspels very seriously. But we have such a hard time talking that I know not how to respond to his new learning." In fact, Liam’s knowledge of my Britonnic tongue was far better than my own stumbling Gaelic. I knew it may take me a very long time to speak words deeper than love talk with my new husband. I still needed the help of a third person.

The last time we ran into an obstacle, colleen, ye invited me to supper. And ye had a bit of barley beer to honey the tongue.

At that, I smiled widely. It was time again for Galen to be our supper guest. Then ’tis done, O Brother. Will you join us tonight?

With bells on my bridle, he said gravely. And I will even bring my own beer.

"Let us say one hour after sunset, a Shéamais . I knew enough Gaelic to use the proper form and to pronounce it hay -mish."

He laughed. " Tá go maith ! Very good. You will learn, lass. Just give it time. All good things come with time."

~o~

On the way back home, I decided to stop at the workplace of my old friend Luke.

As usual when I visited Luke, I saw steam billowing from his forge and I heard the clanging of metal hammering on metal. He had often told me that fashioning objects at the forge was his way of meditating about life, his way of finding answers to whatever enigma life might present to him. Luke was both a craftsman in metal and wood and a scholar, equally talented at both professions.

I tried to stand where I would not bother him, but he saw me right away and dowsed his metal piece into a trough of ready water. The steam hissed and rose, and he wiped his face with the back of his arm. Where he rubbed, his sleeve left a long black smudge, and his dark hair stood straight up in several places, stiff with sweat.

Cay! Dear friend, how joyed I am to see you!

I gave him a warm hug. Luke, what are you making?

Gristle has asked me to fashion a short sword, one tempered thin and fine and strong. Not easy, I must say. But I have found how some native smiths combine silver and steel. Here you see the second folding of the metals.

My love of weapons gave me a discriminating eye, and I picked up the sword, turning it in the light of the fire. I could see that this weapon would be a fine one, light yet strong, one that would hold an edge. My own long knife was of similar construction, made by a silversmith in Harborton, the now-vanished land of Faerie.

Marvelous, Luke. But still not quite as wonderful as the war hammer you once made me.

He gazed at me fondly. That was my masterpiece, Cay. One day I may make another weapon as fine as that one, now that I have mastered the steel-and-silver mix.

How is the new school faring, Luke?

A crew of workmen had recently completed a large school, a round-house of clay and wattle, near the church. Students of all ages were learning both reading and writing in Latin and even a bit of Ogham, an ingenious written form of the Gaelige tongue. Luke was one of the teachers, along with Brother Jericho, another talented young man who had been sent to Derry by Father Patrick.

Luke’s eyes lit up. Ah, Caylith, I am myself learning something new every day. Yesterday, in fact, I learned to write ‘In the beginning was the word,’ using the Ogham inscription.

Indeed? I asked, already wishing I had not brought up the subject of schooling. I was a non-student by fervent choice, thoroughly cured of scholarly pursuits when I was a child by well-meaning priests in parchment prisons.

Luke, who had known me longer than almost anyone, must have seen my eyes glaze over, for he changed the subject abruptly. What is on your mind this morning, old friend?

Luke, do you think you could fashion a large cauldron—a very large one?

How large, Caylith?

Um, large enough that I may bathe in it.

You want a bathing tub? Yes, I could do that. One to sit in or stand in?

To sit in, I think.

What ails you, Caylith? I thought the icy River Foyle in January would be no challenge to a woman who grew up using Roman baths.

"The frigidarium of the river right now is a bit too frigid, even for me. I need a tub large enough to bathe in comfortably, but of course it still must get through the door of our teach ."

In Éire, a small or normal-sized house was called a teach , and they pronounced it rather like " chalk ." Liam and I still lived in my original small clay-and-wattle house while his cousin Michael MacCool was building us a large homestead, called a brugh .

I will start right away, as soon as I finish this sword. But the tub will have to be fashioned of wooden staves, Caylith—not of metal, like a cook pot. We would need a forge the size of Vulcan’s own just to make you a copper bathing tub.

Whatever you fashion will be treasured by the both of us, dear Luke. I grinned, imagining Luke as the giant Roman god of fire, bending his massive hammer to the task of making a metal tub in the bowels of Mount Etna. How would Vulcan look with his hair standing all on end?

Tell me, how is Liam doing? I have seen him only once or twice since your marriage a few months back.

In fact, Luke had made us a large elevated bed as a wedding gift, and I blushed to think of the ways we had taken advantage of its size and height. Thinking about Liam gave me a warm glow, and I readily answered my friend. He seems happy, Luke. That is my main concern.

Luke pretended not to see my flush. And why not? He married the most beautiful girl in Derry.

I heard a familiar voice behind me. An’ I have said it often, lad. If ye’d be wealthy, marry a smart woman. If ye’d be a pauper, marry a beauty.

And what of a man who marries a comely woman with brains besides? I asked tartly.

I should be so fortunate as me cousin Liam, straddling two at the same time.

Ryan Murphy and I embraced warmly, both of us laughing. There was often a hint of bawdiness in Ryan’s words, and I was almost used to it. He clasped Luke’s hand firmly. Lad, ’tis good to see ye. I have brought me silver bridle, hoping ye might mend the break.

Ryan, some four or five years older than Liam, had spent most of his life somewhere in a saddle. He was a cattle drover by profession and by choice. Around six feet, he reminded me of the tawny brown expanses of the grazing land he so loved to ride, for he was amber brown of hair and eyes, with sun-browned skin. He sported a short mustache similar to Liam’s but had no beard. To suit the cold weather, he wore leather riding breeches, bríste leathair , and a heavy woolen mantle or brat . His leather riding boots completed the picture of a man very close to his precious cattle.

Next to him, Luke did not seem short at all. In fact, I thought he might be a few inches taller when I measured the strands of hair standing straight up here and there. His eyes and hair were so dark brown as to seem black with shifting hues of steel blue. He wore his customary long bib of leather to protect himself from his own forge work.

I stood listening to my two friends for a while, enjoying Ryan’s light banter and Luke’s more philosophical comments. After ten or so minutes I murmured my farewells and left the two of them talking about silverwork and the future of crop farming.

The chestnut mare shook her head restively when I walked up, her red mane flying in the cool wind. I am sorry, pretty lady, I crooned and stroked her muscled neck. Macha disliked being tethered in an unfamiliar place, and I had left her for at least half an hour. Come, let us go home.

Back at our holdings, I found Michael and his crew of workers, who were laboring to make our brugh . I had first seen a real brugh , a large multifamily dwelling, when I traveled a year or so ago to the cattle lands of Owen Sweeney, the villain who had held my mother as a slave, flouting the new laws of Éire. His extensive holdings, including Derry itself, were now mine, ceded to me and all the immigrants in my name by the High King Leary.

While I was at Sweeney’s, I had become very familiar with the way the homestead was surrounded by defensive trenches, and how the several buildings were integrated to make it a small town within a town. The large home itself contained separate sleep chambers. The outbuildings even included a cook house devoted entirely to the preparation of meals.

My plans for our own brugh went much further, and I had sat with Michael one night going over the details.

"First, Michael, I must have windows. Many windows. And I want them to be just like the ones in your own teach —made of a substance we can see light through."

Caylith, that is called ‘glass.’ It is not my own invention, but it is not often made, for we need a large amount of sand. I have rarely seen it outside of small vials and other trinkets.

Can you do it?

I can try.

I told him other plans I had imagined. I would have window boxes outside each window where I could grow colorful plants and flowers. I wanted three or four bedchambers, private from the rest of the house. Shining wooden floors. A large fire pit, constructed of beautiful river stones. A roof not thatched but wood shingled, like the king’s mead hall in Tara, with a skylight of glass so that I could watch the moon and stars at night. A room built on top of the brugh itself that would be a large private sleep chamber for Liam and me.

"And, Michael, I want you to visit Gristle’s teach . He has had it built on three levels, following the contours of the land. And he even has a small stream running through. That is what I want, too."

I had saved the most important for last. I will be the first in all of Éire to have a Roman-style bath in private rooms. Michael, I will have my mosaic baths, and Jay Feather’s clan will design and build the mosaic.

Michael sat shaking his head, his blue eyes alight with mirth. Do ye remember, lass, when ye asked me to build a fleet of longships, and ye would give me one whole year to complete the work?

Are you saying I may not have the house of my dreams, dear Michael?

I am saying ye need a small army and a large fortune.

Ah, Michael, I have both. When can you start?

And so Michael had brought his betrothed, the lovely Brigid, some three months back, and Father Patrick himself had performed the rite of holy matrimony for both couples. Liam and I had seen that Michael and Brigid had a new teach to live in while he built our homestead. Indeed, he could live in it any time he wanted to stay in Derry.

The building of simple houses was not difficult, for the workers simply erected clay-and-wattle structures, whitewashed to resist the weather. The workers had also built another teach nearby for Ryan to stay in whenever he was in town. Right now, Liam’s brother Torin was staying with Ryan. Thus Liam’s kin had a place to live close to us. I would make sure there was room for his entire large family as time went by. My own kin were another matter entirely…

Now I saw Michael squatting, drawing with his finger in the dirt, talking with a small group of workers. I dismounted. " Dia duit, a chara ," I greeted my friend.

Michael looked up, his brow still furrowed with the task at hand. Ah, Caylith, ’tis good to see ye. We are trying to decide how to create a small waterfall right in your comfort room. I may need to look again at Gristle’s ingenious plans.

I am here to make sure you have enough money, enough workers. Is all going well, Michael?

"It is, cailín . I am not a shy man. When I need, I will ask."

Brother Galen is coming to supper with us tonight. I wonder if you and Bree would join us?

He stood. I will answer for my wife an’ say we will, an’ thank ye.

One hour past sunset, I said. Seámus is bringing barley beer.

Thank ye again—for the warning. I will try to keep both boots on this time.

I looked up at my old friend, at his laughing blue eyes and dark hair, and I reached out my hand partway to his face, betraying my fondness. Michael’s expert boat making had brought us to these shores, and I cherished his friendship. That is not so bad as your cousin Ryan. He seems to misplace his left foot.

We laughed and hugged each other in parting, and I rode to the little teach that Liam and I called home.

Chapter 2

A Wildness Inside

The teach where Liam and I lived had been built for me more than a year ago when I first moved with the rest of the immigrants from Emain Macha, Father Patrick’s monastery. My friend Magpie and her sisters had found a way to mix plant dyes with the lime and chalk to give the home a soft saffron color, unique in all of Derry.

The house was otherwise plain and very small. It contained but two windows—one east, one west. We had three benches and a table to accommodate guests. If more were present, some of us sat on the floor. It did boast a large oak bed, fashioned by Luke, built to rise almost two feet. In fact, the bed was so large that it had to be brought into the house in three pieces and bolted together in place.

Other furniture included my own tiny clothes cabinet and two other pieces made by Luke—a large chest and a large cabinet where Liam and I kept our clothing and other personal belongings. A table near the bed held a water basin and ewer. Our weapons were arrayed not in a rack but against a wall. Besides a round, stone fire pit that stood in the middle of the teach , there was nothing more to adorn our tiny home.

I had not asked Michael when the new homestead would be finished. First, I did not want to rush the man. But my second reason was more superstitious. I felt that asking was the same as inviting ill fortune. A home was ready when it was ready, pure and simple. Besides, the construction work was only two months old.

I unsaddled Macha and curried her glistening coat. The wind had not abated, and the manes of the palomino pony and the two mares lifted and flew in the stiff, cold breeze. As I curried, I sized up my thriving garden some fifty feet from the horse stalls, thinking about tonight’s supper. I decided to harvest onions and carrots and a head of cabbage. Later I would sink my line in the Foyle and see what kind of fish we would enjoy tonight.

At last Macha seemed settled, and I fetched a few dried apples from our little root cellar to treat her, Clíona, and NimbleFoot. Finally, I sought the warmth of the house. This morning’s fire had almost guttered out, and I stirred it to rekindle the flames and fed it with stout pieces of oak. When a nice fire was blazing, I set a cauldron of water to boil for tea and changed my clothing.

This morning I had worn a simple but pretty léine of heavy wool. Both men and women in Éire wore them—full-skirted tunics with multicolored sleeves that trailed almost to the ground. The tunics were belted, and extra material was gathered into the belt to whatever length the wearer wanted. The result could be baggy or attractive, according to the cut of the tunic and of course the one who wore it. To be extra dressy, a woman would wear a gúna or gown over the tunic, sleeveless to allow the sleeves of the léine to emerge.

Under my woolen léine today I had worn a plain, ugly undertunic that Magpie had made for me as a deterrent to love play months ago when Liam and I were struggling to abstain. I used to call it my hair shirt, but I had to admit it was warm on a cold morning. Shrugging off both layers of clothing, I pulled on my winter leggings. I had never seen a woman wearing triús —trousers—but I had decided long ago that men were more practical in their clothing style than women. The triús were molded to fit the lower legs and thighs rather tightly, but they flared out at the hips. Like my other garments, these had been fashioned by Magpie and her talented sisters.

Over the trousers I wore a short leather tunic, belted, and I slipped a pair of laced leather bróga on my feet. Now I was almost ready for the winds of January. I sat drinking a heady infusion of mint tea, thinking about my frisky play with Liam this morning.

We had awakened to a cold room, so cold that I huddled next to Liam’s body to soak up his warmth and pulled our woolen blanket up to my chin. He was facing me, and his groin woke instantly, an adamantine force to reckon with. I felt his silky mustache on my face, and his soft, little beard, rubbing gently, teasing. " Maidin mhaith, a ghrá , he murmured into my ear. Good morning, love." He licked it then caught my earlobe between his teeth and nuzzled it, pulling and sucking.

Still cold, I strained closer to him and turned my head just a bit, wanting his pliant tongue. I opened my mouth a little and took it in, not ready for the way it began to thrust insistently, rhythmically, while his loins took up the same urgent motion.

I had never liked sudden satisfaction, for it never was—not for me. Fire! I managed to gasp, and I rolled over, out of his reach. I pulled one of the animal pelts from the bed and, holding it against my nakedness, I walked to the fire pit. The embers were long dead. I sighed and reached for the woodpile next to the pit. Before I could build a pile of kindling, Liam was next to me. He quickly built an interlaced structure of wood pieces and struck the stone and flint he had taken from the tinderbox.

I stood back a bit and watched him. Never a slave to modesty, Liam proudly wore his nudity like a king’s mantle and his erection like a shillelagh. At more than six feet, he seemed to tower over me, and I had to stand on tiptoe to give him a thank-you kiss.

The teach had been dark, but the fire pit’s flames cast a light that bathed him in a flickering, shifting glow. I loved the way the dark-auburn hair at the crown of his head fell in soft, curling strands against the lighter golden brown of the rest of his hair. His nipples showed up brownish pink against his large chest, and the hairs around his groin were a short, downy version of his auburn crown.

I was drawn to his stiff nipples as though they spoke to me of some inchoate need. I began to lick and suck them, going from one to the other, slowly at first then more and more hungrily. He held my back and shoulders, moving me in a rhythm he liked, and I heard him utter a soft moan that immediately kindled my entire body.

He stooped and gathered me into his arms and carried me back to the bed, laying me on my back. He took a tall candle back to the fire pit and tipped it into the flames, then set it in a holder on the table next to the bed. He stood there a moment, looking at me. Then he straddled me, resting on his elbows, and lowered his mouth to mine again, this time more unhurried. He knew I liked to start slowly, and his soft little bites on my lips and tongue made me start to move up and down against him. Slowly, slowly, his mouth made its way to my breasts, and that is when I could not help a sudden moan. Oh! There, I said when his hot mouth took my nipple and half the breast besides.

First one breast then the other was enveloped in his soft, wet, undulating mouth. I let the flames shoot through my body, wanting