Home > Bell, Book and Scandal(8)

Bell, Book and Scandal(8)
Author: Josh Lanyon

He said dryly, “I’m happy to hear it.”

I closed my eyes. “This conversation makes me sad.”

I could feel his eyes on my face. He said gently, “Why’s that?”

“Because I know you’re thinking of all the ways I’m not like you, all the ways that I’m not human.”

John said after a moment, “But you are human. I know that. As for not being like me, that’s a good thing. I wouldn’t be in love with anyone like me. It still amazes me that you are.”

I opened my eyes. “I love you more than anything in this world.”

His gaze was grave and maybe just a little perplexed. “I know. Sometimes I think it must have been you who was under a love spell.”

I laughed. “No. Maman said not, and she would know.”

“Then I guess you just have truly terrible taste in men, ma belle.”

I wrinkled my nose at the feminine noun. “You do know belle is for women.”

“I guess. It means beautiful, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think it’s the right word.”

I snorted.

John drained his glass, set it on the table, and rose. He reached a hand down to me. “Come to bed, my wicked witch, and I’ll show you how much I love you.”

I took his hand and let him draw me to my feet.

 

 

The bedside lamp cast its own sweet, shadowy spell of satiny light and gentle shadows. That mellow radiance caught the glint of John’s eyes and teeth and hair, the gleam of taut, polished skin and hard muscles. The sheets tangled around us, a different kind of handfasting, binding us together.

Till death do us part.

John’s cock rubbed up against my own, sending an electric tingle shooting from the base of my spine to the base of my skull. “Now that’s magic,” John’s voice was deep and husky.

I sighed, “C’est beau, mon amour”—he had this thing about la langue française pillow talk—as I smoothed my hands up and down his wide, muscular back. He was so beautiful. A lean, mean killing machine.

My hands froze. Where had that terrible thought come from?

“Nice,” John murmured. His mouth brushed mine, once, twice, thrice… Sweet, coaxing, cherishing kisses, speaking to me in our own language. “Everything about you is so nice.”

Who would think nice could be such a compliment? Such a little, loving word? But that was how John paid out his compliments, these small, scattered gems. Like a dusty prospector paying for his provisions, his necessities, in tiny uncut diamonds.

His hand pushed between my thighs to caress my balls, and I groaned, instinctively shoving into his hold.

Our mouths met again in a kiss that soon grew wild, impatient. What was it when you were getting everything you craved, but it still wasn’t enough, you still wanted more? John broke away to trail hot, hungry kisses down my throat, my skin burning everywhere that fiery butterfly lit.

“How is it possible to love someone this much?” he whispered, and he sounded truly bewildered.

“Comment remets-tu en question l’amour?” That was not pillow talk; that was genuine puzzlement. How do you question love? Why would you question love? “Is it not like questioning oxygen?”

“More like questioning fire,” he muttered.

His hand found and stroked my cock—already as thick and straight as a witch’s staff—painfully hard, painfully rigid, close to bursting with the spell it wished to cast. And as though wishing to control that power, John’s hand pumped me—just once—down and up, big fist grazing my belly and then sliding up to the sensitive glans. I shuddered from head to toe. “John…”

His hands moved over me, urging me up, helping me into position, and it was easy and familiar as I maneuvered into place between John’s powerful thighs. John’s cock nudged my ass, and John spoke soft words, nasty words against my ear. I laughed, my breath caught, I laughed again.

Sex. There’s really nothing like it. You say the things you would never otherwise speak aloud. You show the things you would never otherwise reveal. We are naked in sex as we are naked nowhere else.

He said, “There are days when it’s all I can do to concentrate on anything but this.” His cock scraped lightly down the crack of my ass, seeking entrance, trying for that opening spell.

“But of course,” I said. “This is yours. I am yours. As you are mine.” So mote it be.

I couldn’t help the instinctive arch as John’s thick cock pushed into my body, piercing me, but slowly, savoringly, John’s breath catching, his heart thumping against my shoulder blades.

“Jesus. God. Cosmo…” His voice was rough, unsteady.

I uttered a throaty moan of stung pleasure.

John responded instantly, unleashed, thrusting in fierce, deep strokes, and I slammed back against him. For a few seconds it was simply fucking, something more like a fight than making love. Both of us shoving, crowding, insisting I must have this…

But then the tempo changed, the emotional tempo as well as the rhythm of our humping bodies, and we fell into sync, into an after-you-no-you-first that was more like a dance. A dance where each time we learned—taught each other—new steps.

This was the truth of coupling. Sometimes it was rough and clumsy, and sometimes it was graceful and…attuned. But so long as there was love, the physical exercise itself did not matter.

“Parles-moi,” John gulped, and I laughed because John did not speak French and would not understand what I said, and yet he loved the sound of me speaking French.

My laugh was shaky. “Il fut un temps où…” Once upon a time. “Il y avait un brave soldat…”

John nuzzled beneath my ear, making my whole body feel flushed and damp with our exertions, and his hand covered mine, taking control, pumping my cock in hard, strong strokes, an efficient milking. Glittering drops formed at the slit of my throbbing penis.

And then John’s whole body stiffened, he cried out, and I felt the jolt of his orgasm thrumming through my body, singing through me, setting me alight. I too began to come in heated, sparkling spurts.

It seemed to go on and on, and yet was still over far too fast. John’s thrusts began to slow. He shuddered. Thrust against me sharply, once…twice… Shivered again.

Still joined, still one, we collapsed into the downy cloud of the bedclothes, and John’s face nudged mine, John’s mouth latching on, sweet, but still hungry as though it was not enough, could never be enough. My chest tightened in crazy emotional response.

My own erection was retreating fast, moving to a safe distance, and after a few moments John’s stiff length softened, slipped out of my body. He pulled me into his arms, rested his flushed face against my damp hair.

 

 

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

John’s eyes glowed yellow in the firelight. His smile was cruel as he watched Lachlan jab the fire, then raise the sizzling red-hot tip of the spit to my eyes. I tried frantically to pull away, but the witch collar held me fast. My screams echoed off the stones of the dungeon walls.

 

 

“Cos. Cosmo. Cos. Open your eyes.”

Did I know that faraway voice?

“Cos. Sweetheart. It’s me. You’re dreaming.”

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