The Dark Huntsman: A Fantasy Romance of The Black Court (Tales of The Black Court Book 1) (13 page)

“Not much. I was very young at the time. I’d just lost my parents and went to live with my cousins. That was when we still didn’t know how bad it was going to be. When my uncle was still alive.”

She got up and began to clear. Depositing leftovers into bowls, she leaned over to place them in the small old-fashioned icebox. Her short skirt swayed with her body’s movements, outlined her hips, and brushed her thighs. He shifted in his chair, clenching his hands into fists so he wouldn’t snatch her up and pull her into his lap. Push her skirt up and run his finger under the thong that he knew was all she wore under her skirt.

“Well, do you know anyone who might know who it was? I don’t want to contact your family, but is there anyone else who might be able to help?”

“I think my aunt found out at one of the Great Meets we have every few years. All the gypsy tribes send representatives to hash out treaties on territories and feuds, and to arrange marriages.” She leaned over and ran a cloth over the table, sharing another blood-stealing view of her breasts. “I haven’t been recently, but that’s where I’ve seen a few of your kind. They party with the humans when they aren’t acting as liaisons for the court. Or they come for services that we can render.”

“I remember the meets. I’ve been to a few. Lots of business mixed with pleasure. If there’s one coming up soon, I’ll go and dig up some information on this woman.”

“That’s a fantastic idea. We have to go!”

“Not you. If the queen finds out you’re alive, she’ll kill you, and then me. If you recall, she thinks you’re already dead by my hand.”

“Everyone thinks I’m dead. Instead of helping my family, I’m stuck here cleaning for you. I’m tired and dirty and there’s no shower!”

Tears glimmered in the corners of her eyes. One slid out, freed. Then another. Suddenly, they were everywhere, rushing down in a bewildering torrent.

Logan’s breath hitched to a halt.

He could feel her pain. Every tear etched inside his heart, where he hadn’t felt anything since he was small and hiding from his father.

She was falling apart into tiny, fragmented pieces and he had to stop it before the pain in his chest took him with her.

Chapter Seven

Logan stood, pushing away from the table, rising panic constricting his chest. He had no idea what to do, but he crossed the few feet to Trina and wrapped his arms around her, hoping it would be enough to stop her tears and ease his stress. She stiffened, but didn’t pull away. He tightened his embrace with each of her hitching breaths in an attempt to contain her misery. Still she cried. And the responding pain in his chest swelled.

Then she went limp and started wailing huge sounds of distress that rang in his super sensitive ears and left him even more bewildered. Her whole body racked with emotion as he held her, afraid to hang on, but even more afraid to let go and watch her fracture.

“Whist. It’s all right.” He whispered, tucking her tiny feminine frame under his chin and rocking her slowly, like a boat on the night sea. Her shaking misery put off his arousal and sharpened his distress to a near impossible edge.

He couldn’t remember comforting a woman before. They were for pleasure, not this terrible feeling of anxious helplessness. He cursed silently and held on as she clung to him and cried, pouring everything out onto him as he rubbed her back in the soothing circular motions he would use to calm a frightened animal. His shirt became soaked with her warm tears, and finally, he accepted that he’d have to wait for what he needed. The witch was too upset for any seduction.

Trina’s crying became less of a deluge and more of a sprinkle. She tugged out of Logan’s hold, her tears drying on her skin, her eyes hot and sore. Behind the bewildered, out-of-his-depth expression, she thought she detected something that resembled a painful form of caring.

This man was the faerie queen’s executioner. He would have killed her had she not taken his forced bargain of near slavery. And now he smoothed the last of her drying tears from her hot cheeks, stepped behind her, and used oddly gentle hands to unfasten her hair.

He stroked it back from her face, finger-combing the ripples out and skimming the skin on the nape of her neck with light, soothing touches that soon had Trina quivering. Turning her to face him, he reached for her again, and she went into his embrace like a ship into a dock, shaking and trembling from her conflicting emotions.

They rocked from side to side, hips pressed together in a slow, easy rhythm. Her tension slid away. Against her belly, his arousal grew, and her resolve weakened.

“Feel better?”

She nodded. Afraid that speaking would shatter the moment, she kept her face pressed against his chest and listened to his heart thumping through his shirt. Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud. Her heart changed its beat in response, matching his rhythm beat for beat. She inhaled the smoky, hot smell of leather and the scent of his skin and she softened between her thighs, becoming slick, hot, and wet.

The smart thing to do would be to step away.

Crying had opened up a deep, emotional hole inside her, a hole she might never fill. But sex would help. She hadn’t planned on this, but nothing in her life had turned out as planned. Screw it.

She was far from home and family and he was far from the man she might have chosen. But sex with him would be a temporary stop-gap and fill the huge void of emptiness inside her. She would take what she needed. Now.

She slid her tongue out, licking salt from her lips, and gave him the invitation he waited for. That she had waited for.

He drew back. His fall of long black hair almost hid the ferocious hunger in eyes that delved deep into hers, searching and finding her answering desire for his lips, his touch, his body. He leaned down and brushed her open mouth with an exquisite tenderness that resonated deep inside her. She sighed, and pretended it was real.

His embrace tightened and he came in faster, harder, increasing the pressure of his lips into a force that she welcomed and opened for. Small, soft uncontrolled moans rose in the back of her throat. The heat of his kiss liquefied her bones, stealing her strength and the last bits of her resolve.

She didn’t know if it was because she was lonely and scared or if it was his magic that had her desperate for him in a way she’d never been desperate for a man’s touch before. And she didn’t care. Her skin burned. She was too hot, too needy, too hungry for him to wonder about the reasons. Clinging to him she pressed her hips into his arousal, and lost the ability to stand. His stroking hands moved down to her ass and pressed her against him in an iron grip. She moaned, his erection leveraged hard against her, and she rubbed against him with her face, her breasts, and her hips.

Needing his touch.

Craving his touch.

She grabbed his hand and led him to the couch, all worries and thoughts gone now that she’d decided to take advantage of her situation and steal his comfort. He sat down and lifted her on his lap, her skirt riding up over her thighs. He ran a finger under the edging of lace that ran along her ass and she shuddered.

Her breath coming in fast, short, pants, she fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, pulled the fabric apart, and explored his chest with feverish nips and kisses that had him shaking under her touch. His chest was smooth, just a few rough hairs providing texture under her palms, teasing her skin. He unzipped the back of her dress and undid her bra. She helped, not caring as the dress tore when she pulled it off to pool at her waist and lay her breasts bare. He pulled one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking and licking until she cried out her pleasure and rocked harder against the bulge of his hard-on.

Their clothes ended up thrown carelessly on the floor. They were naked, hot hands and fingers stroking until she burned with need. The tip of Logan’s cock pushed at her and she tried to maneuver him inside where she was ready, wet, and aching.

She’d made her decision, no waiting anymore. She wanted him to take away her fears and worries, take her into oblivion.

Hands on his shoulders, she held on while he gripped her ass and angled her down and onto him. His hands bruised, urging her to move.

He felt so good, so right, deep inside her as she moved up and down his shaft. So right she didn’t remember why this wasn’t a good idea. All her doubts and fears fell away, leaving her to enjoy the moment, the man between her thighs, and her orgasm building stronger and stronger. She came, clenching her hands on his shoulders. His kiss swallowed her moans turning to screams. Sucking them into his mouth, he shuddered in simultaneous release.

They sat locked together, Trina’s face buried in the damp, salty skin of Logan’s neck. Heartbeats and breaths slowed together as they recovered. Trina leaned back, smiling and secure in his arms. She looked at his face and stiffened as she recognized that smug smile that men couldn’t keep to themselves when they got what they wanted from a woman.

“Maybe keeping you wasn’t a bad idea after all, Trina MacElvy.”

She sagged down.

This had been a mistake.

Logan’s grip relaxed and she took advantage, moving in a sudden tumble to the floor. She hopped up, grabbed her clothes, and aimed for the bathroom. Then she remembered there wasn’t one
.

“Great, just great.”

She wrestled herself back into the torn, clingy dress, struggling behind her back with the zipper and muttering low, violent curses.

“Where are you going? Why are you getting dressed?”

“The facilities are outside, remember?” She snarled. She didn’t look at him as she grabbed the lantern from the table and went outside, leaving him in the dark. She got three steps beyond the door before turning around and coming back in.

“I’m borrowing your boots. There’s no way I’m using an outhouse bare-foot.”

His smug smile faded.

Trina clomped out of the house in the over-large black leather boots and pushed her way through the enormous hounds settled in sleepy piles on the front porch, so angry with herself she didn’t care about their otherworldliness. They were just dogs, he was just a man, and she was an idiot.

She found the outhouse and took her time, grateful that someone had left something so modern as toilet paper in it. And decided that the elf owed her shoes.

She hesitated on the porch of the cottage, surrounded by sleeping, magical hounds, and braced herself for the argument about to happen. She’d jumped the bones of the man who had been trying to kill her and had the most intensely physical sex of her life. She had no leverage now. He thought she was just an easy lay. She’d screwed up. Again. Now she had to go in there, face him dead-on and tell him no more sex.

And the worst part, although it was bad enough, wasn’t that she would have to spend the rest of the year fighting his elven attraction. The worst part, was now that she knew what it felt like to kiss him, to touch him, to have him inside of her, now she’d be fighting her real desire to do it again.

But she couldn’t. She sagged against the door. Not unless she wanted to live the rest of her life with the betrayal of her family and the weight of her guilt.

Chapter Eight

Haddon’s day as the queen’s right-hand man had gone from tolerable to horrendous.

It began to go wrong early in the afternoon when the shadows from the tall trees shading the large reception area lengthened and a small grey cavern gnome was admitted for an audience. As soon as Haddon saw the sniveling, cringing gnome make his requisite, crawling bow he knew the day was about to go to shit.

The gnome’s master was Prince Kian, the queen’s only son and most important prisoner.

The queen was in her more approachable Aeval aspect and Haddon witnessed the fool’s relief written all over his face before he lowered it to the grass. Obviously, the gnome had something to present from the prince and he thought he stood a chance with Aeval.

Haddon knew better. It would make no difference. If the queen wanted to have a temper tantrum, she would. It pleased the queen to have the court tiptoeing around her, pacifying her. And if there was anything guaranteed to set her off, it would be a request from her son, the ungrateful sod.

At the sight of Kian’s servant, the ends of the queen’s kinked, purple-red hair lifted with electrical static. This was not a good indicator for anyone standing close to the throne, but Haddon kept his face smooth. He wouldn’t have lasted an hour with the queen had she been able to read his fear of bad hair days.

The queen frowned and lifted a delicate hand to smooth out the slight frizz. Her Majesty was already showing signs of irritation and the gnome had yet to open his wide-lipped mouth. She left the gnome groveling and grinding his face into the grass for ten excruciating minutes before allowing him to regain his feet and state his business. The shaking gnome rose but instead of speaking, he stared at the hot pink flowering vines covering the base of the thrones.

The queen rapped long, hard fingernails on the polished wooden root that formed the arm of her throne. “Well, speak up!”

The longer the gnome abased himself, bowing and not speaking, the more the queen’s hair calmed down. For a moment, Haddon thought he’d been wrong, that the gnome was merely nervous and he didn’t have anything special to present, other than his regular quarterly report on the prince. But then the pathetic gnome pulled out a worn piece of parchment, sputtered a little, and cleared his throat before proceeding to read an obviously prepared statement.