Sticks and Stone Page 2

  He felt the cool wetness of tears running down his cheeks as his head thrashed wildly from side to side. He was blubbering like a baby. That’s all he was, a baby. He wasn’t man enough to come inside her.

  “Please Tami,” he begged. “Make me come.”

  Her fingers tightened on his nipples. With a hard thrust, she took his cock deeper than ever, until even his balls nestled in the wet welcome of her flesh, at the same time she savagely twisted both his nipples. White fire flashed a burning path to his groin, where it sparked an explosion he couldn’t contain.

  His body arched up from the floor and she covered his mouth with her own, swallowing his hoarse cry. Then he was coming, flooding into her, his entire body rigid and shaking as the orgasm tore through him.

  Her inner muscles clenched around his cock, pulling the last of his come from him. Then he was swallowing her cries as she shuddered and shook above him, at last collapsing limply on top of him like a quivering human blanket.

  Their fused mouths gentled, becoming a slow, deep kiss. Dermot sighed as their breathing faded to normal, and Tamara lifted her head.

  She smiled with an almost feline expression of satisfaction. “My poor sweetling, I made you cry.”

  Her tongue swept over his cheek, gathering the dried salt of his tears. He closed his eyes and groaned.

  “Yes, you did. Please, do it again.”

  Dermot smiled, warmed by the memory. Then he realized he’d stopped walking, and had been absent-mindedly rubbing his cock while he was lost in the past. His rigid cock was stretching the lines of his Armani slacks in a way the designer had never intended.

  He cupped his balls, thrusting against the heel of his hand. What the hell. Maybe he should find a nice, dark tree to lean against, drop his pants, and toast the bride the way she deserved.

  He lifted the lantern in his other hand, looking for a suitable spot, when a flash of white to his right caught his attention.

  He dropped his hand to his side. He wasn’t letting some paparazzi catch him fondling himself in the woods. Shrugging out of his suit coat, he draped it over his free arm and held it before himself to shield his erection from sight.

  “Who’s there?” he called.

  A woman’s silvery laughter floated through the trees.

  He turned off the faint path he’d been following and threaded his way between the wych elms, ashes, and sycamores. Their branches swayed suggestively, urging him on, as if someone had run between them a moment before.

  He burst from the trees into a small clearing, no more than eight feet across. The twined branches of the trees on the far side of the clearing formed an impenetrable wall. The woman he’d followed had disappeared.

  “Where are you?” he called.

  Airy laughter tinkled from his right, very close. He lifted the lantern higher, throwing a beam of light to the far end of the clearing, and realized an elm he’d thought was part of the surrounding trees was actually a foot or two inside the clearing. The woman must be hiding behind it.

  “Who are you?” he asked again.

  The beam of his lantern revealed her pale face, peering out at him over a fork in the trunk.

  He stepped closer, and realized she was not standing behind the tree, looking over it. She was standing inside the tree.

  Now that he knew what to look for, he saw that the forked limbs of the tree looked remarkably like uplifted arms, and the smooth gray bark of the trunk resembled the curves of a woman’s body, concealed by a flowing garment of bark.

  “A dryad,” he whispered.

  His heart hammering in his chest, Dermot slowly set the lantern on the ground, his gaze never leaving the dryad’s. Moving as if he was forcing his way through liquid resin, he took one step closer, then two. Then he was standing in front of the dryad’s tree, near enough to touch her if he dared.

  Dermot had been accused of plenty of personality faults by his competitors or the press, but no one had ever called him timid. He lifted a hand and touched the dryad’s cheek.

  Her silvery laugh cascaded over him, along with a confetti of leaves and seed pods that fell from the branches above. She stepped forward, passing from tree to human form so smoothly that she seemed to simply appear before him.

  Her white skin gleamed in the reflected lantern light, like a moving, living statue. A naked statue.

  She had a slim, slight build, what he’d previously called “willowy.” Inanely, he wondered if “elmy” was a word, since she obviously lived in a wych elm, not a willow.

  The dryad had wild brown hair, reminding him of an out of control chia pet, framing a face that could have been carved by Michelangelo. In a less jaded age, men might have been reduced to tears by the sight of such beauty. Even Dermot, who had known his share of beautiful woman and recipients of the plastic surgeon’s art, felt an urge to fall to his knees before her and beg to be allowed to worship her.

  His gaze traveled from the dangerous perfection of her face, to the safety of her delicate breasts. They swept up in graceful symmetry to her pointed nipples, already tight and hard with arousal.

  He swallowed, flexing his fingers as he imagined playing with those nipples. His cock surged with anticipation as he pictured his mouth closing over one of the dryad’s breasts, while he tugged and fondled the other.

  He wanted to go to her now, to begin loving her immediately, but knew that a creature of such perfection would never allow the coarse touch of a human lover. It was enough to admire her, and imagine himself loving her.

  He let his gaze drift lower, admiring her trim, flat abdomen, then lower still.

  Dermot blinked. Her body was completely hairless. Her legs joined smoothly, like two branches meeting at a fork. A pang of frustrated desire shot from the back of his throat to his groin, as he realized she might not even be capable of making love in the human way.

  As if she knew what he was thinking, the dryad swept one hand across her smooth abdomen, then beckoned him forward.

  Dermot swallowed. His cock, already primed by his memories of Tamara and his admiration of the dryad’s body, surged to full readiness, jutting forward like a mighty oak. Throwing his jacket aside into the wall of trees surrounding them, he revealed the bulging eagerness of his cock. He pointed to his tented slacks, then to her, and raised one eyebrow. The dryad nodded.

  Hardly daring to believe his luck, Dermot undid his belt and dropped his pants and drawers, ruthlessly kicking the fine Armani into the fallen leaves and other debris ringing the dryad’s tree. Lifting her arms above her head, she wordlessly offered him her body.

  He stepped forward, the tip of his cock just touching the flat plane of her stomach, and skimmed his hands over her hips. His eyes told him he caressed a woman’s body, but his fingers said they glided over the smooth contours of polished wood.

  The dryad stepped closer, trapping his cock between their bodies. Dermot drew in a shaky breath, as his hard cock pulsed against her equally hard flesh. She wound her arms about his neck, and pressed her lips to his. Warm, living lips, as hard and demanding as he might dream.

  He slid his hands higher, over her smoothly polished skin, and cupped her breasts. They fit perfectly in his hands, the hard, tight nipples nestling in the center of his palms.

  Her head tilted back as she sighed like leaves in the wind, urging him to further exploration. He rotated his palms over her nipples, wringing a low, rustling moan from her.

  Dermot was momentarily thrown by the way her breasts remained stationary, with no bounce or jiggle to them. But the dryad seemed to like having him play with them, just like a human woman would, so he continued.

  Lowering his head, he replaced one hand with his mouth. Her breast was smooth and solid beneath his lips and tongue, more like a carved statue than a living woman. But her shuddering sighs were growing in volume and intensity, now sounding like storm-tossed branches, so he ignored the strange sensation. He circled the hard peak of her nipple twice with his tongue, then started to suck on her brea
st. His other hand tugged her opposite nipple in time with his mouth.

  She swayed backward, drawing Dermot after her, until she bumped into the solid trunk of her tree. Pressing his head against her breast with one hand, she arched toward him, urging him to draw her breast deeper into his mouth.

  He tried to suck harder, but his lips slid off her rigid breast. So instead, he bit down on her nipple, using that as an anchor.

  She whispered something in Gaelic, and sweetness filled his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, then realized he was drinking the legendary ambrosia of the gods. The fluid, thin and sweet like watered down maple syrup, poured from her breast. He bit down harder on her nipple, sucking her sweetness, eager to swallow every last drop. He could feel the ambrosia coursing through him, heating him and hardening him, making him the proper mate for an immortal faerie.

  He pumped his hips, stroking the oaken length of his cock along her stomach. She lifted one leg over his hip, urging him to plant his cock in her fertile valley.

  Dermot slid his free hand down, between her legs, and felt for her opening. It was there, right where it should be, as rigid and unmoving as her breasts.

  He circled one finger around the smooth curve of her opening, gauging its size. It would be a tight fit for his cock, but pleasantly so. Sliding in and out of her rigid ring would feel similar to a human lover’s encircling thumb and forefinger, stroking his cock from the base to the head and back again until the teasing pressure drove him mad and he exploded in her hands.

  Dermot slipped two fingers inside the dryad, testing her readiness. Her inner space was snug, not much bigger than the opening, and coated with a thick, slightly sticky fluid.

  He swallowed another mouthful of ambrosia from her breast, and hungrily tongued her nipple, wondering if she would allow him to feast on her other nectar after he’d satisfied her with his cock the first time, before he took her with his cock a second time and finally came himself.

  Removing his fingers, he guided the head of his cock to her opening, then slowly slid inside. The hard ring of her opening caressed the rigid length of his cock, and her wet, sticky walls held him in a deep embrace.

  She sighed, a soft exhalation of rustling leaves, as he groaned. He’d never felt anything so good. She was the perfect woman. She might even make him come the first time, although he hoped not. He wanted to prolong this pleasure as long as possible.

  He slid mostly out of her, her rigid ring stroking the length of his cock all the way to the head, then thrust deeply into her waiting wetness, her opening stroking him down to his balls.

  Dermot lifted his mouth from her breast, throwing his head back and groaning. “Oh, God, that’s good.”

  The dryad moaned something in Gaelic, and stroked his shirted back with her stick-like fingers. Her hands roamed downward and cupped his ass.

  Dermot sucked in a quick breath, hope swelling in his heart. It was too much to ask for, to expect that this beautiful, ethereal creature would—

  Smack.

  The dryad slapped his ass, the openhanded blow striking his bare skin as if she was beating him with a whisk broom.

  Dermot gasped as she hit him on the other side. Then she found her rhythm, her stick-like fingers slapping his ass again and again, a rain of fire on his tender flesh.

  He began moving with her, each blow on his ass driving his cock through her hardened ring, sheathing his full length in her sticky depths.

  “Oh, God, yes,” he begged. “I’ve been a bad, bad boy. Hit me again.”

  The dryad complied, her branching fingers caning his ass until the skin burned and he was floating, flying, transported by the pain to a place of such unutterable beauty he knew he must have reached the faerie realm.

  A different kind of pain, deep in his scrotum, wrenched Dermot back to the forest.

  He was no longer moving with the dryad’s beating. In fact, he was no longer moving at all.

  Something warm and wet flowed down the back of his legs, each stroke of the dryad’s hands adding another trickle. She’d whipped his ass until he bled, and showed no sign of stopping.

  He started to pull out of her, until the agony in his scrotum stopped him. Blind panic consumed him. He was stuck!

  He reached between their bodies, feeling where they were joined. Either he’d swollen or she’d shrunk, but there was no way his cock was sliding through her ring.

  “Wait. Stop!”

  She continued beating him, and Dermot grabbed her arms to make her stop. The dryad growled, at least that’s what he thought the noise of clattering, lashing branches translated to. Her face was distorted by fury, and he wondered how he’d ever seen it as beautiful. Terrifying and alien, yes, but it wasn’t remotely beautiful now.

  She fought him, her hands clawing and whipping at his chest and back, tearing the fine cotton of his dress shirt. Finally, in desperation, he let go of one of her arms and punched her, a swift right cross to the jaw.

  “Ow!”

  It was like slugging a tree.

  Dermot cradled his injured hand beneath his other arm, whimpering. It felt like he’d broken all four fingers.

  The dryad began lashing his ass again, all semblance of erotic play gone. Each blow made his vision swim in a wash of red pain. If he’d been capable of it, he’d have fallen to his knees.

  He stopped trying to resist, his mind floating in a hellish parody of his earlier ecstasy. Idly, he wondered why his state of abject terror hadn’t reduced his cock to the size of his thumb. Then he wondered what the tabloids would make of the manner of his death when his body was found. He’d wanted to accomplish so much with his life. He’d made a good beginning, started a number of new projects and initiatives within the company and accumulated a sizable reservoir of personal favors among the rich and powerful while building his share of the family fortune. But none of that mattered. Instead he’d be remembered as a blight upon the family name, the Stone who died in the bizarre Irish sex scandal.

  A Gaelic shout pierced the fog of his pain, causing the dryad to redouble her efforts to beat the life out of him. The shout was repeated, followed by an angry confrontation between a cloaked woman and the dryad. The golden-haired woman held up her fist, bright blue light radiating from between her clenched fingers. She shouted again, and the dryad held up one arm to shield her eyes.

  The ring around Dermot’s cock loosened fractionally.

  Crying with relief, he jerked his cock free. He turned to run from the dryad, but his legs gave out and he collapsed on the ground, sprawling in the wet mud. The abandoned Coleman lantern still burned where he’d left it, casting its dim radiance in a small circle around it. In its light, Dermot could clearly see the sticky black mud for what it was—his blood mixed with the dirt of the forest floor.

  He looked up, just in time to see the dryad fleeing back into her tree. The woman who had saved him hung the glowing blue crystal from one of the branches, then turned to face him.

  “Help me,” Dermot croaked. Then the last of his strength deserted him, and he sprawled face down in the bloody mud.

  Chapter Two

  Eileen pushed back the hood of her cloak and surveyed the scene. She’d managed to intervene before the dryad had killed the man, but it had been a close thing. He was sprawled face down in the mud made from his own blood, his shirt slashed to tatters, and his otherwise fine looking ass scored with bloody welts. He’d tried to fight at the end, rather than being completely under the dryad’s spell. Eileen hoped he’d continue to be a fighter, because he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

  She gazed at the pool of bloody mud and shook her head. “Fertile ground, indeed. Come springtime, we’ll see how many new dryads your foolishness has seeded.”

  She picked up his discarded pants, then bent to pull him to his feet. The man groaned, and staggered upright. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders to help support him, she led him to her cottage.

  “It’s a good thing for you I found you when I did. Dryads plant their seedl
ings in mud formed from the decayed leaves of their tree and the blood of their human mate. It’s the rare man who survives the encounter.”

  “I didn’t know,” he whispered. “That was never mentioned in the legends.”

  “It wouldn’t be, now, would it?”

  They reached her cottage, a traditional square stone building with a thatched roof. The only obvious concession to the twenty-first century was the satellite dish attached to the chimney.

  She pushed open the door and led the man through the living room and kitchen, and into the small bathroom.

  “Into the shower with you,” she ordered. “That mud’s got to come off so I can clean your cuts.”

  She slid his arm from around her shoulder and stepped back, so he could remove the remains of his shirt. It was the first time she’d gotten a good look at his face.

  Even with mud caked in his wavy dark hair and smeared across his classically proportioned face, he was handsome. And vaguely familiar. She didn’t know any Americans, which his accent clearly proclaimed him to be. Even if he hadn’t spoken, who but an American would be wandering around the woods in designer slacks and dress shoes?

  There’d been some sort of posh wedding held at one of the nearby estates. Helicopters and limousines had been ferrying guests from Gatwick and Shannon for two days. He must be one of the rich and famous wedding guests. That was why he looked familiar. She’d probably seen his picture in the news.

  He winced as his tattered shirt ripped free of the blood congealed on his body, then kicked off his muddy shoes and socks and stepped into the shower. Eileen turned the shower massage to a warm mist, and opened the taps.