Sticks and Stone Read online

  Again, he flicked both nipple and bud. Again, she gasped and opened more for him. He wasn’t going to be able to resist her body’s mute entreaty much longer.

  His cock hummed like a high tension wire, heavy and hot and aching to slide into her wet depths. And he would, he promised himself. Later. First, he had a lesson to teach her.

  Lifting his head, he stroked her breast with his lips, until only her pebbled nipple remained in his mouth. She moaned, and whispered an incomprehensible Gaelic entreaty. Her hips lifted and fell, seeking fulfillment, trying to drive her swollen flesh against his fingers. But his hand moved with her, riding her, so that her only relief was the teasing flick of his fingers timed with the flick of his tongue. That only enflamed her more.

  Her head whipped restlessly from side to side, and her fingers convulsed in his hair. She began to whimper softly, her cries growing steadily in volume. His fingers slipped, unable to keep his grip on the pulsing bud in the flood of eager liquid flowing from her.

  She lifted her hips, seeking to follow up on her brief advantage. It was the perfect moment.

  Finding the swollen bud again, Dermot pinched it lightly, just as his teeth closed around her nipple in a love bite.

  She screamed, lifting her hips nearly a foot off of the bed, and the hot flood of her satisfaction bathed his hand. She held the pose, her body bent into a quivering arch, for ten long seconds. Then she collapsed. Tremors continued to ripple through her limp body.

  She blinked slowly, gradually opening her eyes and focusing on his face. He tried not to look smug, but suspected his masculine pride still showed upon his face.

  “What did you do to me?” she whispered.

  “Did you like it?”

  “Aye. It’s pudding I am. Hot, happy pudding.”

  Dermot schooled his features to show concern. “But I bit you. And pinched you.”

  “Did you now?”

  She was still too far gone in the aftereffects of her orgasm to understand what he was trying to show her. He’d have to speak more directly.

  “I broke your law. I harmed you.”

  “Oh and truth, there’s no harm done. Quite the opposite.”

  “Even though I bit you? And pinched you? Both of those are painful, aren’t they?”

  She blinked again, marshaling her scattered wits. Then her eyes widened.

  “I thank you for your teaching. There was no harm done last night, was there?”

  He smiled, and stroked her sweat dampened cheek. “Quite the opposite.”

  Dermot trailed his fingers around her ear, pushing her honey gold hair away from her eyes. He hadn’t noticed last night, but it looked like it would frame her alabaster face in soft curls—once it was brushed, that is. Right now, it was flattened from where she’d slept on it and streaked with sweat. The sight made him want to bury his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her, and teasing his cheek with a thousand soft caresses. Instead, he ran his fingers through it, while he studied her face and eyes.

  Wide and clear, her eyes were a peculiar shade midway between blue and green. He wasn’t certain if they were really blue, and only colored with a reflection of the emerald green pillow-case she lay on, or if they were truly so unique. Her nose was small and gently rounded, above dark red lips swollen with passion.

  He remembered those lips, feathering his cock with tender kisses as she slowly swallowed him. His cock jumped, aching at the thought of entering the warm cave of her mouth again. Despite the exhausting events of last night, just looking at this woman was enough to make him hard again.

  He trailed a fingertip across her lips, parting their seam. Slipping his finger inside, he stroked the wet fullness of her lower lip, and pictured the head of his cock teasing her this way. His cock pulsed with swollen desire, a painful pleasure Dermot wanted to extend forever.

  As if she knew what he was thinking, the woman’s tongue wrapped around his finger, drawing it deeper into her mouth. He groaned. Then she began sucking on it.

  His groin was on fire. The leaping flames were swelling his cock like a cooked sausage. He was going to burst unless he cooled himself in her flowing waters. The agony was unendurable. He hoped it never stopped.

  He realized he was grunting softly, in time with the seductive pull of her mouth.

  Pulling his finger free, he silenced himself by closing his mouth over hers. Their kiss was hard, savage, an openmouthed duel of teeth and tongues. He tasted blood, but neither of them could stop now.

  She pulled his tongue deeply into her mouth, sucking hard, and Dermot’s eyes crossed as the pleasure tore through him.

  He covered her body with his, her tender breasts crushed beneath his chest, her stomach quivering against his hard, hot cock. Driving one hand deeply into her hair, he held her head and thrust his tongue as far into her throat as he could. With his other hand, he reached between their bodies, searching for the swollen bud he’d so recently teased.

  As soon as he touched it, she bucked beneath him. He swallowed her sharp cry, their mouths still fused together, and rubbed her—hard. Writhing, moaning, and pumping her hips, she sought relief. Dermot’s fingers kept slipping, she was so wet, unintentionally teasing her to the point of near madness. Twice she shuddered, tremors rippling through her body, only to continue rubbing against his hand after a brief pause.

  She clutched his back, and when that was not enough, his ass. She ground her hips against his, churning against his rigid cock. Dermot’s eyes were closed, but the flares of pleasure were so strong, bursting behind his closed eyelids in neon reds and greens, he was sure he’d gone blind.

  They broke the vacuum seal of their kiss, both of them gasping for air. She shoved at his hips, lifting him from her body, and his trapped cock sprang free to hang between her legs. She moaned, a ragged groan of pure pleasure that begged for more.

  Dermot panted, struggling for control, as he stroked the length of his cock up and down her slick cleft. Her pulsing flesh wrapped around him, caressing him, and his control broke. He thrust inside her. She was so open and eager, she barely felt his entrance, sliding smoothly up the wet passage.

  Another shudder rippled through her. Taking advantage of her momentary stillness, he began slicking his cock in and out. Soon she was moving with him, rising to meet his thrusts as he grunted and pumped against her.

  The damned tears that he never could master pooled in the corners of his eyes. His head spun, crazy colored lights and snatches of songs echoing in his mind. His cock was so huge, he couldn’t imagine how he could fit inside her, and every brush against her hot, wet flesh was like broken glass scraping across his sensitive skin.

  He whimpered, then begged. “Please.”

  On his next thrust, she surged upward, sheathing him to his balls, then wrapped her legs around his, locking him in place.

  Another whimper broke from him. “Yes. Oh, yes, please.”

  Her palm smacked his ass, crushing his balls against her swollen bud, and he cried out as lightning flared in his groin. Wildly, he kissed her face—her cheeks, her chin, her nose, her mouth. Anyplace that he could reach. His hands groped for her breasts, squeezing and kneading until her sharp gasps told him he’d found the most sensitive spots. And all the while, she kept slapping him, the frantic tempo building until he was rutting madly, unable to think of anything but appeasing the pain.

  With a howl torn from deep within him, he came, pouring into her. And still her hands rose and fell against his ass, rocking him against her as her inner muscles clenched and squeezed his cock. Waves of euphoria ripped through him, white-hot and glowing red, carillons of bells and wheeling flights of birds bursting into wing. It was if his entire brain had been rewired, and now he heard with his eyes and tasted with his ears.

  A moment later, her triumphant scream slashed across his senses, and she collapsed beneath him.

  She stroked his back, with the leisurely caress of the well-pleasured. Dermot snuggled against her, nuzzling her neck and licking the s
alty skin. Gradually, he became aware of a chill against his naked back. Lifting his head, he saw that their enthusiastic lovemaking had thrown all the covers from the bed.

  Then he turned to look at the woman beneath him. Eyes closed, she smiled like a sleepy angel. A well-loved and completely sated angel.

  And he didn’t even know her name.

  Dermot groaned. Rolling off of her, he covered his eyes with his arm. God, what had he done? Last night had been…well, he could be forgiven for not thinking clearly after all he’d been through. But he hadn’t been under any enchantments this morning. He could have thanked the woman for her assistance, promised her a check as an expression of his gratitude and to ensure her silence, and been gone.

  But no. He’d gone out of his way to explain his hidden desire, making sure she fully understood how much he enjoyed getting his ass slapped. And then he’d begged her to do it again. Him. Begging for a spanking. God, the press was going to have a field day with this. They loved tawdry sex scandals.

  He could see the headlines now. “Most Eligible Bachelor’s Secret Bedroom Shame” “Kick-Ass Millionaire Enjoys Getting Ass Kicked” “Spanking Makes Stone Hard”

  He’d been so careful. For years, he’d camouflaged his inability to come the normal way as solicitousness for his partner’s needs, and a preference for hand jobs that couldn’t possibly get his partner pregnant.

  He groaned again, as an even worse thought hit him. Last night, the witch had said his seed was sterile, good only for creating saplings with a dryad. But he had no idea how long that condition lasted. Was he infertile for good? Or might his sperm even now be eagerly attacking one of her ripe eggs?

  God. Either one would be a disaster. He slammed his head into the pillow, but it was too late to knock any sense into his brain.

  The woman rolled to her side and brushed her fingertips across his chest. Despite himself, he felt his nipples tensing.

  “Is it a problem you’re having?”

  She sounded like an uneducated farm girl again, which he’d noticed she did under passion. His masculine pride longed to indulge in some puffing and strutting, at this proof of how deeply he’d rocked her with his lovemaking. But now was not the time.

  “We didn’t use protection,” he said, still shielded by his arm.

  Her hand on his chest stilled. “Oh.”

  That answered his question, then. The dryad’s effect was just for last night.

  “I think it will be okay,” she said softly, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as him. “My last period was not too long ago. I shouldn’t be able to get pregnant now.”

  Dermot snorted, thinking of the old joke. What do you call a couple who relies on the rhythm method for birth control? Parents.

  Speaking of which, he could just imagine explaining this disaster to his parents. “Mom, Dad, I met this beautiful Irish witch. She saved me from a dryad and I got her pregnant.”

  He groaned again. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Oh! It’s right you are!”

  She breathed deeply, no doubt making her delicious breasts jiggle and sway most alluringly. Dermot resolutely kept his arm over his face. He would not look. He would not be tempted again.

  “My name is Eileen Daniells. What’s yours?”

  He dropped his arm and stared at her. She watched him out of those guileless blue-green eyes, waiting for his answer. “You don’t know?”

  She shook her head, pursing her lips. He couldn’t think about those lips, where they’d been, what they’d done. He forced his gaze back to her eyes.

  “You looked familiar when I saw you last night,” she admitted. “I thought you had come from that big wedding. You’re obviously an American.”

  There was no point in lying to her. All she had to do was pick up any news account of Tami’s wedding and his photo would be there. The fact that he’d attended his former nanny’s wedding had been billed as a great human interest angle, a softening of the Stone image.

  “My name is Stone. Dermot Stone.”

  She smiled, as if the name meant nothing to her. “Dermot is a good Irish name.”

  “My mother is Irish. Well, of Irish descent. She always makes sure everyone knows her family moved to America long before the potato famine brought so many Irish immigrants over.”

  He worried for a moment that he’d offended her, but she just nodded sagely. “I understand what she means. When the American publishers first started approaching me, one had the nerve to ask if I wanted an American ‘expert’ to ghost write my books, after I’d already sold three of them here. We’re the most literate country in Europe—well, maybe second after Iceland, it depends who you ask—but the fools couldn’t get past my accent.”

  “That’s why you decided to get rid of your brogue?”

  “Yes, they—” She frowned at him. “How did you know that?”

  “It comes back when you’re excited. I figured it was a recent change.” He paused, then asked the question hammering at his heart. “What kind of books do you write?”

  “Some history, but mostly nonfiction references on being a priestess of the light. What my publisher calls ‘New Age’ material.”

  He smiled. Of course. She was a witch. She wrote books about witchcraft. “How are they doing?”

  “They sold very well over here, that’s why Silver Moon was interested in publishing me. My first book of theirs is already in its fourth printing, and they contracted for an open-ended series. The second book will be out in two months.”

  Dermot whistled. He’d heard of Silver Moon. They had double digit growth rates and 20% profits, when most publishers were struggling for any growth and happy to make 8% profits.

  He cast his mind back to the cocktail party cum investment meeting he’d attended in New York, where he’d heard those figures. All but the most inept New Age publishers were doing well, but Silver Moon had a sizable lead over its competitors. One of the reasons given had been their ability to identify talented writers and build a following for them. And one of the writers they’d crowed loudest about had been an Irish witch named Eileen Lyons.

  “You’re Eileen Lyons.”

  She blushed, her fine alabaster skin glowing rose. He was amazed that someone so uninhibited about sex could be embarrassed about public recognition.

  Dermot breathed deeply, the bands of fear that enclosed his chest shattering like sugar candy. She would never expose his secret to the press. Her career depended on her image, and any scandal would destroy her completely.

  “Yes, that’s the name I write under. But how did you guess?”

  “I was approached about investing in the company a few months ago. I remembered the name.”

  She tilted her head, resting it on her bent arm, and studied him. “You’re uncommonly clear sighted for one who doesn’t walk the path.”

  “I pay attention and I know what I want.” He shrugged. “No great trick.”

  “And what is it you want?”

  Money. Power. To make his mark in the world and surpass his father’s achievements. And right now, her.

  “To spend the rest of this day in bed with you,” he admitted. “But I can’t. I’ve already missed a breakfast meeting with our Dublin directors. That was only a status meeting, and I’ll get as much from reading their reports as from listening to them. No doubt they figured I was sleeping off the wedding celebration, and carried on without me. But I have to be in London by one o’clock. I can’t miss that.”

  She rolled away from him, then leaned over the edge of the bed to gather some of the covers. “So you won’t be staying in the area, then?”

  “No. The only reason I was down here was the wedding.” He reached out and touched her shoulder, turning her to look at him. “I’d like to see you again, Eileen. We could meet in Dublin.”

  She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Is it seeing you’ve a mind to do, or could you as easily keep your eyes closed?”

  He blew out his breath in a disgus
ted snort. “Yes, I want to make love to you again. But it’s more than that. Beautiful women throw themselves at me all the time. I don’t need to import lovers. I want to see you again because there’s something special about you, something I don’t have the time to explore right now even though I wish I could. I hoped you might feel the same way.”

  Now she looked at him, gazing deeply into his eyes as if she could read his soul. For all he knew, she actually could.

  But he’d told the truth. The sex had been phenomenal. After all these years of denial, finding a lover who understood and encouraged his desires was like a dream come true. And to have her be an intelligent, successful woman on top of that? If there was one thing he admired more than anything else, it was a person who’d succeeded because of their own tenacity and competence. God, he couldn’t have asked for a more ideal woman.

  A chill ghosted over him, and it had nothing to do with his nakedness. She was exactly what he’d asked for. And the leprechaun had delivered her.

  Dermot leaped out of the bed. His clothes were in the bathroom where he’d left them, although the pants had been hung on a peg to dry.

  “Where’s my jacket?” he asked.

  “You weren’t wearing one. Just your shirt and shoes. You’re lucky I saw your pants, black as they are.”

  “Damn.” Now that he thought about it, he recalled carrying the jacket over his arm as he walked through the woods, his blood warmed by the Irish Whiskey.

  “Are you in such a hurry to be leaving?”

  “No, it’s not that. I wanted to give you my business card. It has my office number, and I’d give you my cell phone number, too, so you can call me no matter where I am. Except the cell phone was in the pocket of the jacket.”

  She lifted the pants off the peg, and held them out to him. The wool blend fabric was stiff with dried mud and blood.

  He took the pants and stared at them, momentarily at a loss. “I can’t wear these.”

  “Then you’ll be walking through the forest naked.”