Sticks and Stone Read online

  Dirt and blood washed down his back, pooling around his feet. With the filth rinsed away, she could finally see the extent of his injuries. It wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. Vicious welts crisscrossed his back and sides, but it looked as if his shirt had protected him from the worst of the dryad’s attack. His ass was red and starting to swell, covered in welts and shallow cuts, but only three or four of them seemed at all deep. Some antiseptic and bandages would take care of those. It would burn like hell, but maybe that would teach him not to go sticking his cock into places where it didn’t belong.

  While the gentle mist of water dissolved the last of the mud and blood sticking to his back, she distracted herself from the sight of his naked body glistening beneath the steaming water by shaking out her cloak and carefully hanging it over one of the pegs on the wall. It was smeared with mud where his arm had rested across her shoulders, and where his side had pressed against her. The sight reminded her of the strength she’d felt in his lean muscles, even though they’d trembled with exhaustion. Strength enough to sire a dozen dryad saplings.

  “Turn around,” she snapped. “You’ll be needing to rinse all the blood off before I start fixing you.”

  Bracing himself against the wall with one hand, he slowly pivoted to face the spray. Muddy blood coursed down his chest in thick streams, dividing to flow down either side of his swollen erection, encased in drying amber.

  Eileen’s eyes widened, as she realized what this meant. She’d freed him from the dryad’s embrace before he’d come. The good news was, there would be no young dryads sprouting in the spring. The bad news was, if the dryad’s sap hardened around him, he’d be dead well before spring.

  She needed to sit him down and clean off the sap, but where could he sit with his ass torn to ribbons? The hard wooden chairs in the kitchen were out of the question. The ergonomic chair in her study was designed for long hours in front of a keyboard, but would make cleaning his cock extremely awkward. Then she remembered the boudoir chair in her bedroom, the normally useless piece of furniture good only for collecting laundry. The soft round seat, high cushioned back, and lack of arms made it perfect for what she needed to do.

  She picked up a washcloth and swiped it over him, washing away the last of his grime, then turned off the shower. As he stepped onto the braided rag rug, she handed him a towel.

  “Follow me.”

  She led him into her bedroom next door, and sat him on the boudoir chair. He collapsed onto the cushioned pouf of rose-patterned chintz and stared dully ahead, the towel grasped limply in one hand.

  Leaving him there, Eileen gathered a fresh washcloth and an enameled basin filled with warm water. He was sitting exactly as she’d left him when she returned.

  “Spread your legs,” she ordered. “I have to clean your cock. The dryad’s sap is stuck to it.”

  He looked down with mild interest. “Is that why it didn’t shrink?”

  “Yes.” Kneeling between his spread legs, Eileen dipped the washcloth in the warm water then stroked it over his cock.

  She tried to remain impartial and professional, like a nurse, but soon lost that battle. The man was leaning back, his eyes closed and the back of his head cradled by the top of the chair, in a posture of complete exhaustion. As the washcloth rubbed up and down his cock, he sighed softly. The amber melted away. Eileen’s brisk abrasions gradually turned to gentle fondling, stroking him from his balls to the slit head.

  He had a beautiful cock. Not overly long, and nicely thickened, it was the perfect size and shape for sucking. As the washcloth glided over him, she imagined it was her hot mouth cleaning him, until she ached with frustrated desire.

  She rubbed her thumb over the wet, velvety head. Was that a trace of sticky sap she detected? There was only one way to be certain she’d removed all of the dangerous substance.

  Dropping the washcloth into the basin, she ran her fingers up and down the length of him. The man sighed again, and his cock twitched in response.

  Eileen bent her head and opened her mouth, sliding her lips over the head of his cock. With her tongue, she slowly circled the delicate skin, tasting the faint sweetness of the dryad’s sap. She licked him until all she could taste was warm male, then slid her tongue into the slit, probing for any lost droplets of amber.

  The man gasped and jerked awake.

  “What are you doing?” he yelped.

  Eileen reluctantly let his cock slide out of her mouth. The wet head bobbed tantalizingly in front of her, and she licked her lips, eager to take more of him into her mouth. But first, she had to explain.

  “I washed off as much of the sap as I could. But the only way I can be certain it’s completely gone is to use my tongue. Human saliva dissolves the sap better than plain water.”

  He frowned. “That doesn’t seem right. What if I didn’t have someone to lick me clean?”

  “Any human fluid will do,” she admitted. “If you’d rather do it yourself, just make sure you spread your come evenly over your cock.”

  The man flushed and looked away, then mumbled, “You’d better do it.”

  “Do what? Make you come?”

  His flush deepened, and he seemed to find the plants on her windowsill utterly engrossing.

  “Well?” she prompted.

  “Use your saliva. I have…difficulty coming. It takes a very long time.”

  Eileen’s eyes widened. She’d heard of men who had trouble getting hard. But she’d never heard of any who stayed hard yet couldn’t come. She’d have suspected him of trying to trick her into sucking his cock, except he was obviously extremely embarrassed about admitting to his trouble.

  She’d see if she could find any references in her books for such a problem, and if there were any spells or herbal remedies that might fix it. Later. First, she had a hard, wet cock to finish licking.

  Running her tongue over her lips again, an eager wetness blossomed between her legs. She wanted him in her mouth, but if he really did have trouble coming, maybe he’d stay hard long enough to take her up the vagina, too. Her mouth watering at the possibility, she leaned forward, parted her lips, and let his wet cock slide inside.

  She started where he’d interrupted her, pushing her tongue into the slit in the head of his cock. The man whimpered, and his cock twitched, thumping against the roof of her mouth.

  Deciding that might be too much stimulation for him, she slid her lips further down his shaft, and licked the soft fold below the head. He sighed in pleasure, his skin warm and pliant beneath her tongue, over an inner core of ironwood.

  Slowly, a quarter inch at a time, she crept down his length, pulling his cock deeper and deeper into her mouth. Each time, she stroked her tongue over, under, and around the newly devoured skin.

  He was very vocal, moaning and whimpering with each sweep of her tongue. Her sex trembled in aching sympathy, clenching every time he moaned, dripping hot lubricant every time he whimpered. She’d never been so turned on by sucking a cock, and she redoubled her efforts, seeking her satisfaction in his bursting climax.

  He didn’t come. She reached the base of his cock, then took a deep breath and relaxed her throat to let him slide all the way to the back so that she could lick his balls. She thought she’d go insane from the perfection of holding his entirety in her mouth, tonguing his balls in their nest of rough hair while the tip of his cock slid up and down against the back of her throat. The ache between her legs built to an insatiable demand that only this perfect cock could fill.

  Opening her eyes, she looked up at him. His fists clenched the chintz cushion and his head rolled restlessly from side to side.

  “Please,” he whispered. “Oh, please. I can’t take it. Make me come.”

  Eileen pulled back, letting his cock slide out of her mouth. It glistened, red and wet and impossibly hard, bobbing and swaying gently before her. He flexed his hips, blindly seeking the hot cave of her mouth.

  “No…” he moaned.

  She stood and unzipped her j
eans, then quickly stripped them off. Her damp panties followed, as did her T-shirt and bra, until she was as naked as he was. Reaching down, she wrapped her fingers around his cock. He moaned again and thrust forward.

  “Not here,” she cautioned. “Come to my bed.”

  He opened his eyes and stared at her in glazed confusion. “What?”

  “Make love to me.”

  He blinked. “But…protection?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “The only thing your seed is good for at the moment is making saplings.”

  Groaning, he staggered to his feet. Eileen kept her hand wrapped around his hard cock as she backed toward her bed. She liked leading him across her room this way.

  With her panties no longer absorbing her lubrication, she could feel her readiness slicking the skin of her thighs as she moved. She could hardly wait to have him inside her, filling her the way he’d filled her mouth moments ago.

  Her legs bumped the side of her bed, and she awkwardly clambered up, never releasing her hold on his cock. Lying on her back on top of the rose-patterned duvet cover, she bent her knees and spread her legs, then guided him in.

  His thick cock slid smoothly through her eager opening, until he was fully sheathed within her. They sighed in unison.

  Slowly, he began pushing his cock in and out, teasing her the way her tongue had teased him. Eileen moaned and flexed her hips, urging him onward.

  “Faster,” she begged.

  He complied, increasing the speed and force of his thrusts.

  “Faster,” she insisted. “Harder.”

  His cock pumped in and out of her, wet sounds of suction accompanying his harsh grunts. Her desire rose, pulsing waves of need gripping her until she shook and shuddered beneath him. But something was wrong. She sensed, with the same sense that had led her into the woods that evening, that his pleasure was not building the way hers was. He wasn’t going to come.

  “What…is it?” she gasped.

  “I can’t,” he said, his voice tight as if he was fighting back tears. “Not like this. Please. Would you please, slap my ass?”

  Surprise almost broke her out of her building passion. Almost. But his cock was still pumping in and out, driving deep and hard, each stroke carrying her closer and closer to the release she strained for.

  “But…you’re hurt.”

  “Not enough. Please.”

  Not really sure what he was asking for, Eileen lightly swatted his pumping ass. His cock jumped inside her, and his eyes crossed in pleasure.

  “Harder,” he grunted.

  She slapped him again, hard enough to sting her palm. His cock jumped again, and they both moaned.

  Soon, she had her legs locked around his hips, holding his cock firmly seated inside her. Slapping his ass with both hands, she rocked his rough pubic hair against her clit and made his cock surge and thrust within her. Her hands moved faster and faster, until they were in constant motion and she and he jiggled and shook, gasping and moaning. She tightened around his cock, squeezing him until he whimpered and begged, and she whimpered and begged him to come now, please, now.

  With a hoarse cry, he exploded within her. She clung to him, shaking, as her orgasm ripped through her, a second one following immediately afterwards. And still his hot seed spurted into her, filling her completely and spilling out to pool beneath her hips.

  They were crying, sobbing with the glory of their final release, holding each other as the tearful shudders finally subsided. Still locked in an intimate embrace, they rolled beneath the covers and slid into exhausted sleep.

  * * * * *

  Eileen woke to a confused sense of being trapped. She opened her eyes to see the man she’d rescued during the night sprawled beside her, the tangled bedclothes pulled over her and around him, pinning her to the bed. Cautiously, not wanting to wake the exhausted man, she inched out from under the cocooning covers.

  As soon as her arms were free, she pulled herself into a seated position. She reached to push the covers off of her legs, then saw the rusty stain flaking off of her palms. Blood. The man’s blood.

  “By the sacred circle,” she whispered. “What have I done?”

  She buried her face in her hands, unable to look at the evidence of her shame. That she, not just a practitioner of the light but a guide to thousands of others through her books and lectures, should have behaved so! She had struck him, again and again, for her own selfish pleasure. She was no better than the dryad, beating him until he bled.

  She felt him stir beside her, but could not bear to look at him, not after what she had done.

  “Good morning,” he said softly, his American accent strangely sharp to her ears. Was he angry at her for using him so?

  Taking a deep breath, Eileen lowered her hands and looked at the man. He was smiling.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said. “For rescuing me from that hideous tree creature, and for what you did afterward.”

  She shook her head, amazed at his foolishness. “I struck you.”

  Rather than showing justifiable anger, his smile deepened. “Yes.”

  He was remarkably dense, even for an American. She held out her hand, still streaked with his blood, and waved it in front of his face. “You were hurt. Bleeding. And I struck you.”

  Now he did frown, but not in anger. His brow furrowed, and he glanced from her hand to her face.

  The warmth faded from his expression. He could have been carved from stone. “I should not have asked you to. I apologize. Thank you for your assistance, and I won’t trouble you again.”

  He turned as if to leave, and she grabbed his shoulder, wrenching him back to face her.

  “Are all Americans as thick as week old pudding? You apologize, when it is I who have injured you? And I a priestess!”

  He blinked. “A priestess? Of…what, exactly?”

  “Of the light, of course. Did you think Ireland just happened to be filled with stones that glowed of their own will and power?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Eileen took a deep breath. “No, of course you’d not. I’m a priestess of the light, what you would call a witch. One of our most sacred tenets is ‘Do what thou wilt, an it harm none.’ And I have harmed you. Now, are you seeing my wrong?”

  He shook his head. “Honestly, no. I don’t see anything of the kind. You saved my life. And I asked you to give me an ass-slapping. Begged you, if I recall correctly.”

  Heat blazed in her cheeks and she looked away. She recalled begging him for a few things, too. But in her case, they’d brought only pleasure, not pain.

  She smoothed her hand over the coverlet, flattening the wrinkles, wishing she could restore order to everything so easily.

  “It’s filled with the dryad’s magic, you were.” Hearing herself falling back into the lilting brogue of her youth, Eileen shook her head. “You were not to have known. But I knew. The wrong is mine.”

  The man blew out his breath in a sharp huff. “Fine. If your religion says you were wrong, you were wrong. I assume there’s a penalty?”

  She nodded, and gathered her tattered composure. When she spoke again, she had once again mastered her tongue. “The law of three. All that we do, for good or ill, returns to us threefold.”

  “So you’re saying if I slap your ass three times as many times as you hit mine, we’ll be even and everything will be all right again?”

  Eileen groaned. Americans. “Then you would have caused harm to me, and that harm would be visited threefold upon you.”

  His arm snaked its way beneath the covers to find and caress her hip. Startled, she finally looked at him. He was smiling.

  “I can live with that.”

  Chapter Three

  Dermot grinned at the woman’s wide-eyed expression. He shouldn’t tease her, not when she was so obviously distressed over what she perceived as a fatal flaw in her character. But he seemed unable to convince her that, far from hurting him, she’d helped him.

  Ma
ybe his words couldn’t convince her. But he could show her.

  Gliding his fingertips in soft circles over her hip, he coaxed, “If you’re so convinced you’ve done something wrong, I know how you could apologize.”

  “But I have—”

  “No. We have a saying, actions speak louder than words.”

  Slowly, she nodded. “Ní bheathaíonn na briathra na braíthre. Words do not feed the friars.”

  He pulled her back beneath the rumpled covers, until she was stretched out beside him. His fingers danced over her ribcage to stroke and fondle her breast. Dermot scraped a light circle around her aureole with his fingernail, smiling at her sudden intake of breath. Palming her soft mound of flesh, he rotated his hand slowly, then faster, then slowly again.

  Her nipple hardened against his palm. Lifting his hand, he flicked the tight bud with his fingertip.

  She moaned, and he smelled the sudden musky scent of her desire. This was going to be even easier than he thought.

  Slowly, carefully, he lifted himself up and moved over her, kneeling between her legs. All the while, his fingers continued to flick and stroke her breast.

  Leaning down, he replaced his hand with his mouth. She sighed as he swallowed half her breast, his tongue alternately swirling around it and rasping across the sensitive tip.

  Her fingers crept up, as if moving without her conscious volition, and buried themselves in his hair, pressing his head tight to her breast. She wanted him to suckle her, but that wasn’t what he had in mind.

  No longer needing his hand to play with her breast, Dermot reached down between her legs to find a new playground. His fingers slipped easily through the wet folds, already spread in welcome, and found the swollen bud of her desire.

  His tongue swirled around her nipple, as his thumb circled her bud. Then he flicked his tongue across her nipple, at the same time flicking her heated bud.

  She gasped, her hips rising, and warm liquid flowed across his fingers. His hardened cock jumped, eager to enter her willing warmth.

  A low growl of frustration escaped him. He’d been trying to ignore his cock, focusing on the woman beneath him and her reactions. Now was not the time to search for his own satisfaction. He was trying to show her something.