Sins Against the Sea (26 page)

She took a moment to admire him. He was just as handsome and just as buff as the night she’d found him blackened by oil in that cave. Sometimes, she wondered what her life would be like now if she hadn’t gone up the hill that night. Would she still live in her tiny apartment in Belmont Shores? Would she still fear the ocean? Would she still be alone? Would she still think of Jared as the one who got away?

Maybe and maybe not. This much, however, she knew for certain: she would not still be working for Conch Oil. The boycotts and fines resulting from the stunt they pulled in the Minch put them out of business. After the Scottish Maritime Authority dismantled the drilling platform, Peter Blackwell, who turned out to be all-too human, hung himself in his cell.

She let her nightgown slide to the floor before tugging off Cuan’s pajamas. A shudder went through her as her gaze landed on his erection.

“Would you like me to suck your dick?”

He smiled as his gaze skittered over his pregnant wife’s naked body. “Is that a trick question?”

“Sit up.”

Scooting to the edge of the bed, he dropped his legs over the side. She kneeled between his knees and gazed up at him from under her lashes. Passion smoldered in the deep, blue-green pools of his eyes. As she took him into her mouth, his breath hitched, sending a sensual shiver through her. She loved doing this to him. Loved reducing her big, powerful merman to a helpless guppy. She closed her eyes and sucked hard, teasing him with her tongue as she took him deeper.

He grasped her head with both hands and flexed his hips, pushing himself deeper into her mouth. “I do so love the sight of my
bod
sliding in and out of your mouth.”

With a low groan of pleasure, he pulled partway out of her mouth before pushing deep again. She bared her teeth and let her teeth skim lightly over his shaft while teasing the head with her tongue.

Releasing her head, he sat back, buttressing his upright posture with his arms. She took him deeper and withdrew, still working him with teeth and tongue, again and again and again.

“Stop, or I’ll spill myself.”

Isn’t that the idea?

“No.” His voice was coarse gravel. “I want to be inside you, Cordelia.”

She let him go and met his heated gaze with a lustful smile. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Hooking her under the armpits, he pulled her up and lay down, so she was lying atop him. The roundness of her belly made her feel like a boat run aground, so she rolled off him onto her back. He came over her on all fours before dragging her toward the pillows.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he said.

She did and pulled him as close as her bump would allow. Bending over her, hands on either side of her head, he slowly seated his full length within her.

She shuddered, reveling in the gradualness of his possession. “God, Cuan. You feel amazing.”

Tightening her legs around him, she pushed upward, taking him deeper. He groaned and juddered. She grabbed his ass with both hands and dug her fingers into his fleshy cheeks. He began to move, his strokes long, slow, and metered. Like an undertow, he pulled her along. Each time he came into her, she pulled up, crashing against him like waves on a rock.

She felt as fluid as water and he, as solid as iron—her anchor against the erratic ebb and flow of life. He began to move with more abandon until he was pounding her fast and hard. Breaking her down the way rain breaks down mountains over eons. Feeling as fluid as the sea outside their door, she cried out, the gurgling, strangled cry of a swimmer swallowed by the waves. He let out a similar cry, drove into her, and stilled as he spilled himself in her depths.

When it was over, he collapsed beside her, breathless and drenched. Satisfied, she rolled onto her side and stroked his sweat-dampened face. “Do you ever regret leaving the sea for me?”

He gazed back at her, his blue-green eyes brimming with tenderness. “No, Cordelia. My life with you has been more perfect than I ever could have imagined.”

She brushed back a stray strand of hair from his face. “I love you so much, it hurts sometimes.”

Cuan pulled her into his arms and pressed a kiss to her lips. “I love you so much, it hurts sometimes, too.”

—The End—

Meet the Author

Nina Mason is a hopeful romantic with strong affinities for history, mythology, and the metaphysical. She strives to write the same kind of books she loves to read: those that entertain, edify, educate, and enlighten. When not writing, Nina works as a Pure Romance consultant and doll maker. Born and raised in Southern California, she now lives in Woodstock, Georgia, with her husband, teenage daughter, and a Westie who’s afraid of the dryer.

Find Nina Mason online at the following:

NinaMasonAuthor.com

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Keep reading for a special sneak peek of Nina Mason’s new Knights of the Tarot series:

KNIGHT OF WANDS

Paranormal Investigator Vanessa Meadows believes in every kind of magic except love.

When her new boss sends her on an assignment to remote Caithness, Scotland, she’s determined to do whatever it takes to prove the Vampire of Barrogill is more than a legend. First, however, she must get inside the castle where the entity is believed to dwell.

Castle Barrogill belongs to Callum Lyon, a handsome baron and reclusive political astrologer. Their strong mutual attraction proves a boon to Vanessa’s plans, but, once inside his castle, she encounters more paranormal activity than she bargained for. There’s no vampire, but there is a blood-drinking faery knight—and a ghost who will stop at nothing to keep her there. Will freedom-loving Vanessa’s feelings for Callum, coupled with nudges from the other side, be enough to persuade her to give him a chance? Or will the dark secrets of Castle Barrogill only reinforce her unwillingness to put her faith in the power of love?

Chapter 1

Twenty-four hours later

John o’Groats, Scotland

“Have a look at your adoring fan over there,” Duncan said, leaning in. “I do believe she’s visually undressing you.”

Callum looked up from the book he’d been signing—
Political Astrology through the Ages
, his latest in a series on the subject. The fan in question stood by the refreshment table, clutching the book to her chest.
Was
she undressing him with her gaze? Och, nay. Judging by the heat of her stare, he was already naked in her mind.

While delivering his lecture on the same topic, he’d seen her in the third row, giving him equally heated looks. All through the lecture, her presence, not to mention her seductive stare, made it difficult to concentrate on his notes. Luckily, he knew the topic well enough to wing it.

With a shameless ogle of his own, he traced the long, smooth contours of flesh and muscle beneath the posh black pantsuit she wore. She was tall and slender—willowy—with an angular face and a wide, full mouth that stretched into an inviting smile as his gaze met hers with a palpable spark. Her eyes were as blue and deep as a loch. Mesmerized, he returned the smile. How easily he could get lost in those eyes, forget how to swim, and realize too late he was drowning.

Atingle with interest, he lowered his gaze to her breasts, which were large, firm, and unharnessed. Did she have an aversion to undergarments? He hoped not, given his penchant for naughty lingerie. He pictured her in a lacy black corset and thigh-high stockings. Oh, aye. She definitely had the figure to indulge his weakness. Swallowing his rising lust, he shifted in his chair to ease the tightening in his trousers.

Turning to Duncan, he asked, “Who is she? Do you know?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” his friend replied.

Licking his lips, Callum shifted his focus to the woman directly in front of him. She was fiftyish, plump, and squat with curly dishwater hair.

“What was the name again?”

“Sorcha.”

“That’s lovely.” He grinned through the qualm inflicted by the name. “I once had a wife called Sorcha.”

“Is that so?” Her interest was clearly aroused. “And would you be married still, your lordship? Because, if you’re not, I ken a bonny lass who’d be just right for you.”

“Oh, aye?” Still smiling falsely, he arched an eyebrow. “What sign would she be then?”

“She’s a Gemini.” The woman beamed at him in a manner suggesting the fix-up in question was probably her daughter.

“Ah. I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well,
Sorcha
, that’s too bad. Because, you see, I make it a strict policy never to get tangled up with anyone born under the sign of the twins. They’re far too changeable for me, I’m afraid.”

He signed her book and handed it back. He made more or less the same claim whatever the answer. Well-meaning women were forever trying to set him up—usually with themselves. He sought out the dark-haired lass again, wondering what sign she might be. Not that it mattered, since what he had in mind would involve very little talking.

Sending in his psychic tentacles, he glimpsed particles of her life. Odd bits of a puzzle whose pieces didn’t quite fit together. A suspension bridge he recognized as the Golden Gate in San Francisco. Ornate wrought-iron banisters like those in New Orleans. A string of not-nice men. Environmental protests. Tarot cards. A small white house with a front porch.

Probing deeper, he looked for her childhood and family, finding a woman worn down by years of disappointed expectations. Her mother? Oddly, he found no father, only a dark haired man with piercing blue eyes who wasn’t old enough to be her parent. Who was he and why did he look so familiar?

Pulling out of her psyche, he slid his gaze to her swanlike neck. The dark hunger reared its head as his eyes lighted on her throbbing pulse. Swallowing his lust, he moved his eyes to her hair. The top was tied back. The rest fell down around her shoulders, as heavy and thick as his. His gaze dropped to her breasts. As he imagined them in his hands, desire erupted, fierce and molten. He looked away and shifted in his chair to give his budding erection more room.

Tearing his gaze away, he found a twenty-something lass with frizzy blond hair in front of him. Smiling, she held out her copy of his book.

“I can’t believe I’m meeting you in the flesh,” she said excitedly as he took it from her. “I follow your blog every day and have all of your books.”

The smile that bloomed across his face in response was genuine this time. As much as he hated these events, they did boost his ego. They also taxed him, mentally and physically. He was ready for it to be over, ready to be home in bed—though not necessarily alone. As he robotically scrawled his signature line—
Let the stars be your guide, Callum Lyon
—he shot another hopeful glance toward the refreshment table.

Aye. Good. She was still there, still watching.

Why didn’t she join the queue to have him sign her book? She didn’t strike him as the bashful type. Far from it, in fact. Something in her air gave the impression of self-sufficiency. She was standing there so coolly, like she owned the whole bloody room and, soon enough, meant to own him, too.

Not that he would allow it. He’d bed her and turn her out, just like he always did. Swallowing hard, he shook his head to clear the thickening cloud of lust. The room was cold, but he was sweating. He wanted to shed his jacket and loosen his tie, to get away from all these people, but he only smiled and handed the blonde back her book.

He took the next one from a young man in wire-rimmed spectacles, keeping one eye on his prey. He was hers, too, judging by the hungry look in her cool blue eyes. God, she was lovely…and far too distracting.

Get a grip on yourself, you randy prick. You’re too old to get hard every time a bonny lass gives you a come-hither look.

Callum shut his eyes. He was already fraying around the edges. Another hour or two of forcing himself to be sociable might unravel him completely. He couldn’t begin to imagine how he might divide his attention between a bunch of politicos and a sexual conquest, let alone have anything left to give her afterward. Opening his eyes, he gave her another look.

When their gazes met with a palpable charge, lust surged through his bloodstream. Perhaps a meal and a couple of drinks would restore his vigor. He rechecked the queue. Only two more, thank the stars.

A white-haired crone stood before him now. He held out his hand for her book, opened to the title page, and scrawled his autograph. With a tight-lipped smile, he handed it back and sought the cool brunette once more. Their gazes met again with voltage, but the connection was short-lived.

A white-haired crone stood before him now. He held out his hand for her book, opened to the title page, and scrawled his signature line. With a tight-lipped smile, he handed it back and sought the brunette once more. Their gazes met with a high-voltage charge that crackled all the way to his brogues.

There was only one more person in line—a woman with chin-length dark hair, enormous gray eyes, and delicate features. Curiously, she held no book.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, sure he knew the answer.

It’s not you I’m here to see,” she said in an English accent. “While I’d gladly swing among the stars with you anytime, Lord Lyon, I believe your astrology to be—now, how shall I put this delicately?—a lorry load of New Age horseshit.”