WyndRiver Sinner: 1 (WesternWind) Read online

  Aingeal thought he was going to hit her and cowered away from him, shielding her face with her free arm, but as soon as she felt the constriction around her body she yelped, reacting so powerfully she managed to yank her hand free of his hold. She stumbled back, her eyes wide and her mouth open.

  “How did you…?” She stared down at the jeans and white cotton shirt that covered her body.

  “Don’t you ever do that again,” he said, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Do you hear me?”

  She ran her hand over the crisp white cotton and slowly lifted her head to stare at him. He was glaring at her, but it wasn’t anger shifting through his amber gaze. She flinched when he snaked out a hand and captured her wrist once more, pulling her behind him back to the camp. She stumbled along, unable to speak for the rasp of the jeans against her bare legs and rump was sending sensations that curled in her belly.

  “Damned women are always more trouble than they’re worth,” he muttered to himself as he walked.

  Aingeal took exception to that. “I didn’t ask you to come looking for me.”

  He stopped and she almost collided with his back. “While you are under my protection, you’ll do as I say. Is that clear?”

  “I hadn’t bathed in over a week and I wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass me by!” she threw at him. “How was I to know you’d get all bearish about it?”

  “Stay out of the damned water, wench!” he said. “I mean it. If you need a bath, we’ll find you a fucking tub!”

  “All right!” she yelled back at him. She was still clutching the gooey soap and rag in her left hand and swatted him with the wet mess. “Now let go of me!”

  He ground his teeth but he let go of her wrist before turning around and stalking off, listening for her to make sure she was following. There was a wet blob on his chest where the soap had struck him and that annoyed him more than anything.

  Grumbling under her breath, Aingeal walked behind him. She liked the way the coarse denim felt against her, but it was stirring up heat she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

  “Couldn’t you have fashioned me some underwear?” she complained.

  “I don’t have a clue how to do that,” he snapped. “Shirts and britches are easy. Such things as you’re talking about aren’t something I wear.”

  “Do all Reapers create clothing out of thin air?”

  “Some can,” he replied as they reached the smoldering campfire. “It takes practice. If you can shape-shift, you can rearrange molecules to make garments.”

  Despite her annoyance with him, she was intrigued by his explanation. “What do you mean shape-shift? Shift into what? What’s a molly cool?”

  “Moll-uh-quel,” he stressed as he began kicking sand over the campfire. “To put it simply, it’s what everything in nature is made up of.”

  “Molecule,” she repeated. “It sounds stupid.” She frowned. “You said you could shape-shift.”

  “Into a wolf, an eagle,” he grumbled.

  “You can really do that?” she asked, her face glowing.

  “You’ve heard Reapers Transition,” he snapped. “We change. We shape-shift.”

  “Aye, but I always thought it was into some rampaging beast…” She stopped. “Ah! Now I understand.” She hurried up to him. “Can I see you do it? Can I? Can I?”

  “Hell, no!” he thundered, spinning around to fix her with a glower meant to turn her into a quivering mass of whimpering womanhood.

  “Ah, why not?” she asked, pouting, and had the audacity to hit him on the arm with her fist. “You won’t scare me.”

  Cynyr reacted before he thought. He grabbed her, slamming her against him and walking her over to an oak where he pressed her back to the trunk and leaned into her. Her free hand was pressed to his chest.

  “You want to see my fangs, milady?” he snarled, and opened his mouth to exhibit the sharp lateral incisors that suddenly burst forth. “How about my claws?”

  Aingeal stared wide-eyed at the hand he raised in front of her face, her lips parting as five very lethal looking claws shot from the tips of his fingers to curve downward toward her nose. “Damn,” she said, but the word was one of amazement instead of the fear he had intended. She looked into his eyes. “No wonder you guys are so feared. Bet you could open a can of beans with those in a heartbeat, huh?”

  The Reaper groaned with frustration, re-sheathed his claws and retracted his fangs. He was pressed tightly to the female—his lower body grinding into hers—and he wanted nothing more than to slant his mouth across hers and taste the sweetness of her breath that was fanning the hairs at the base of his throat. She was gazing up at him with a look unlike anything any other human had ever bestowed upon him, and he was fast losing himself in her pretty gray gaze.

  “Are you going to bite me?” she whispered.

  He almost winced when he asked, “Do you want me to?”

  “Will it turn me?” she asked, her hand caressing his hard chest.

  Cynyr still had hold of her left wrist, keenly aware that he had dragged her arm around his waist and was holding it behind him. He was staring down into her face, his gaze wandering over high cheekbones, long, spiky eyelashes and a pert little nose that tended to wrinkle when she spoke.

  “You clean up nicely,” he heard himself say.

  “Will it turn me if you bite me?” she repeated, her lower lip tucked between her teeth.

  He shook his head. “It takes a hell of a lot more than that, wench.”

  Aingeal’s thumb had slipped past the gap between a button on his shirt and the front placket and was rubbing lightly at his chest hair. She smelled of his soap and wet hair.

  He lifted his hand and took a long strand of her damp hair between his fingers, studying it. The feel of it pleased him and he wound it around his middle finger.

  “Are you sure Reapers don’t mate?” she asked breathlessly.

  His eyes leapt back to hers. “Do you have any idea what it is you’re asking?” he questioned.

  She shrugged, and he could feel the tips of her breasts boring into his chest. “No one should have to go through this life alone, Cyn,” she said. “Not even a Reaper.”

  “Reapers are killers, wench,” he said. “They maim and destroy and—”

  She brought her hand up his chest and laid the tips of her fingers across his lips, silencing him. “They are also defenders. They protect and guard and—”

  He would later wonder if it had been the gentleness of her words—the fact she seemed unafraid of him—or the hot glow in her eyes that made him swoop down to claim her lips. He ached to taste her and as his tongue invaded her mouth, he felt his shaft harden so tightly it nearly buckled his legs.

  And Cynyr Cree was lost.

  Aingeal’s left hand was clutched in the back of his shirt as he held her wrist to him. She could feel the play of his muscles as he strained against her and the rock-hard rod pushing into her belly brought waves of desire shimmering through her. Her other hand was trapped between them—her fingers at the hollow of his throat—and she could feel the thunder of his pounding heart as he kissed her. His tongue was dueling with hers and his teeth nipped lightly at her upper lip when he pulled away.

  “This is wrong, wench,” he said, his lips trailing kisses over her chin and cheeks.

  “Who said so?” she countered, kissing him right back. She flicked out her tongue to taste the texture of his upper lip and his instant groan made moistness ooze from her core.

  Cynyr was not a novice to sex but the only times he had known such fulfillment had been in the mouths of whores he’d paid to relieve him. He knew better than to mate with one of the willing women, for once a Reaper mated, he mated for life, and very few allowed themselves such a luxury. Giving in to the desire to protect a woman, to care for her, to live with her, was discouraged, for it was believed a Reaper lost his edge that way. The High Council thought it made him more cautious than he should be and less inclined to take chances.

 
“The gods help me,” he muttered, and moved back from her, putting distance between them. “I shouldn’t be doing this. I know better.”

  Whimpering, Aingeal reached out for him, afraid he was going to deny them both, but she drew in a sharp breath as he put his hands to his shirt and ripped it from his body. The sound of tearing silk made her tremble, and when his fingers went to the buckle of his gun belt, she hunkered down to quickly untie the leather thong wrapped around his thigh. Slowly she stood up as he worked his way through the button fly of his leather britches, his cock springing free as though it had a mind of its own.

  One moment the denim jeans and white cotton shirt were covering her body and the next the jeans were gone, vanishing with a quick wave of his hand, and the shirt was hanging open on her chest. He pressed her back against the tree.

  “What I wrought, I can undo,” he said in way of explanation, for she was staring at him in awe.

  His hands went under her rump and he lifted her, poising her velvety sheath over his straining rod as though she weighed no more than a feather. She locked her legs around his hips, sliding her sex down him before he could change his mind.

  The feel of her enveloping him sent tremors through the Reaper’s body. Nothing and no one would ever be able to take this woman from him, for he was seated firmly within her, his cock already claiming her. She was his and would remain his for as long as they both lived.

  Aingeal had known many men since her husband had sold her to the Jakotai. Not once—not even with the man to whom she had been legally joined—had she ever known the pleasure of a man’s body. Donal had rutted with her more from a sense of duty than any real desire, and Otaktay’s brutal sex had been painful at best. His tendency to lend her to his friends for a bottle of firewater or on the loss of a roll of dice had handed her over to men who cared for nothing save their own enjoyment. Not once in all the years since she had lost her virginity on her Joining day had she known what delight a man’s body could bring.

  Cynyr’s cock was hard and smooth, his flesh hot within her body. The tip of him was pressed against the entrance to her womb and causing such delicious spasms of satisfaction to clench within her, she thought she would swoon. His hands were kneading her ass with every thrust of his powerful body against hers, his fingers tightening on her flesh. Her head was on top of his, the side of his face sliding between her breasts. She could feel his tongue laving her nipple and the sensation was unbelievable as her body clenched around his.

  She had buried her hands in his thick brown locks and was holding on as he rocked against her. There was a building itch starting low in her belly and she wriggled against him as he lifted her and slammed her down upon his hot rod.

  “Cynyr!” she called out, feeling the beginning of a ripple flowing through her lower body. Her eyes flew wide as the ripple became a steady wave that crashed over and over and over as he pushed up into her as far as he could go.

  Never had he known such wondrous delight, he thought as the tiny little squeezes undulating around him became a strong pulsing clutch. He was buried to the hilt within her hot little body, his cock straining to go higher still as he thrust one last time then held her steady over the spurt of his cum shooting deep within her. He let his head fall back and he howled with his release, the joy of it sinking deep into his soul.

  Trembling, he stood there holding her, his breathing so erratic he thought he might pass out. He was panting, his hot breath coming out loudly. His knees felt as though they were about to buckle so he turned, with her still attached to his body, and slid down the trunk of the tree, barely noticing the roughness of the bark gouging his flesh or the splitting of his leather britches ripping at the inseam.

  Her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck and her breasts sticking to his sweaty chest. She seemed as loathe letting go of him as he was of her. To avoid having the soles of her feet scratched by the tree trunk, she had moved her feet to his hips as he began to squat so that her knees were under his armpits, pressed closed to his side.

  They sat like that until his cock slid from her wetness to lay its tired head against her thigh. Their breathing slowed, their foreheads pressed together, they were lost in a world of their own making.

  “So much for you going back east,” he said. “No way in hell is that going to happen now.”

  “I had nothing to go back to anyway,” she reminded him. She reached up to touch his lips. “Do you believe in the old saying ‘what will be, will be’?”

  “I believe in myself, wench, and that’s about the extent of my beliefs.”

  “I wasn’t afraid to follow you last night. Somehow I knew we were meant to be together.”

  “Aye, well, I normally would have put a hell of a lot of distance between me and the town I was last in, but last night I lagged behind,” he admitted. “I knew you’d follow me.”

  “You were waiting for me,” she said, stroking the cleft in his strong chin.

  “Aye, I believe I was.” He drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly. “I live in Eurus,” he told her. “I have a ranch there. You will like it.”

  She reached out to smooth back a lock of his damp hair. “Is that where you are from?”

  “I was sent from beyond the stars, wench,” he told her. “Many, many years ago.”

  Aingeal knew little of the world in which she lived and almost nothing about the all-powerful High Council who governed it. Since the war had devastated three-quarters of the world’s population, life on Terra had reverted to a time long before such things as star travel. The old ships might still be around but the knowledge of how to fly and fuel them had long been lost—just as it was with all the machinery that lay in ruins in the large cities beyond the plains of Terra.

  “Perhaps one day you will tell me of your life beyond this world,” she said, caressing his face.

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. He stared into her eyes for a long time then gently urged her to move off him.

  She stood up and stepped back, unselfconscious about her nudity as he looked at her. She knew her muscle tone was good, for hard work was part of a Jakotai woman’s life. Though she realized she was too thin, her breasts were large and her ass nicely rounded. Her hair fell to her hips in curly waves. She hoped her appearance pleased him.

  “You are beautiful,” he said, reading her thoughts.

  “Aye, but a bit cold,” she said, wrapping her arms around her.

  He waved his hand and once more the dark blue denim wrapped around her lovingly, clinging to her curves. This time he even provided a pair of leather boots, which fit her like a glove.

  “That’s a very handy trick, Cyn,” she said, grinning. “No need to spend money on fashion.”

  “You imagine it in your mind and I’ll provide it, wench,” he said, pushing up the tree. Once more he waved his hand and a new pair of black leather britches and black silk shirt covered his muscular body. “You want undies?” he asked, blushing. “If you do, just think what they look like and…”

  “No I’m getting used to the feel of my britches, but I do need a hat,” she suggested, and in the blink of an eye, a jaunty suede hat was perched atop her head.

  “Wanna a bandana too?” he asked, then provided a bright red paisley print that hung gently around her neck.

  “You are wicked! By any chance do you have the ability to conjure up breakfast for us?” she asked hopefully.

  He smiled and looked ten years younger. “Not in any way you’d want to eat it,” he replied. He nodded toward his saddlebags. “There is some hardtack and jerky in there, if you want it.”

  She made a face. “No, thanks. I’d like to keep my teeth as long as I can.” She smiled broadly.

  “They are very worthy teeth, wench,” he said.

  “The better to bite you with, Reaper,” she replied in a harsh tone.

  Snorting at her answer, he walked over to his saddle and lifted it up along with the thick saddle blanket. “Briscoe isn’t too far away. We can get something to ea
t there,” he said, carrying the saddle to his horse.

  Aingeal stood back as he swung the saddle into place and began working and tightening the cinches. She reached up to pat the horse’s head. “What’s his name?”

  “Storm,” he said as he went back for his saddlebags and bedroll. “I found him down in a gully during a downpour. His hoof was caught between some rocks. If I hadn’t come by, he’d most likely have drowned. I set him free and he followed me home.”

  “Storm,” she said, and nuzzled her forehead against the stallion’s. “It fits him.”

  “He’s got a devilish temper,” Cynyr said. He slung the saddlebags over the horse’s back then rolled the canvas up and tied it with two leather thongs atop the saddlebags.

  The saddle in place, the Reaper told Aingeal to climb up. “You’ll be more comfortable sitting in front of me than behind,” he said as he cupped his hands for her to step up.

  “Aye, and you can fondle me the better, huh?” she said, rolling her eyes. She put her foot in the valley of his palms and swung her leg over the beast’s back.

  “Well, that hadn’t occurred to me, wench,” he said as he untied his mount’s reins from a small sapling. He climbed up behind her. “But now that you mention it…”

  His hands went to her delightful mounds and he molded them gently, running his thumbs over the erect peaks. “Sweet,” he said, before pulling on Storm’s reins and giving the stallion a light kick.

  “I guess I don’t have to worry about my breasts getting cold,” she said with a sigh.

  Chapter Three

  Briscoe was a much larger town than Dyersville. It boasted two eating places, two saloons, two boarding houses and two mercantile stores. It seemed to Aingeal that it had two of just about everything.

  “Rival competing families,” Cynyr told her. “Makes for interesting bargaining among the locals.”

  “You set a price and I’ll beat it type thing?” she queried.

  “That’s the way of it.”

  Cynyr stopped in front of O’Hare’s Eatery and dismounted. He tied Storm to the hitching post then came back to hold his hands up for Aingeal.