Mageknights Of Dunstorm Connor

His body trembled as he sank over her, his breathing ragged. He had almost killed her! "I'm sorry," he gasped against her throat, his fist still planted on the floor beside her head, embedded in the cracked stone where his knuckles had hit. If he hadn't changed the angle of the blow, he would have crushed her skull.

Anerinth stared at the ceiling, her mouth open, her heart thundering. What dreams could he have had to require him to sleep with such violence at a stand by? His heart was beating in a staccato drumming against hers, and his body seemed to have lost all power of movement after that one desperate blow. His sobbing breaths tore through his lungs, and blew harshly against her skin. She trembled anew, but the fear was slowly making way for maternal instincts then something else.

Connor Aibhainne was the commander of the King's personal and most trusted guards, and the object of her lust since they had both come of age. He had always been one of the most handsome men in class, in the army of mages, and he was aware of it. His hair was dark, dark brown, cropped short as was dictated by the Code of Knights, and his eyes a cold, sharp blue. His face was long, his chin stubborn, his nose straight. He was tall and muscular, towering over the rest of the King's guards. He spoke with authority and with arrogance, and had treated her like she was his property. The fact that they had been promised to each other by their parents did not help matters. They had gone to the same mage school, although they had trained for different duties. He had become a knight in the King's personal retinue, and she had become a healer.

They had been assigned to the same regimen when the brief but violent War of Magicks broke out. It had ended a sennight ago, and Dunstorm had begun to heal and to rebuild. The King was firmly in his throne again, and the traitor, along with most of his army, was dead. Connor was asked to lead a band of knights to secure the borders when they were set upon by the last of the traitor's men. He was injured trying to save one of his men and a villager's four year-old daughter.

Connor's breath was warm on her skin, his weight welcomed. She could feel his manhood cradled on her belly, separated from her skin only by the thickness of her tunic and the tangle of sheets at his waist. It was still soft but undeniably long even in it's flaccid state. She lifted her arms and wrapped them around him in comfort, stroking the silky softness of his dark hair, running tentative fingers down his sweat-streaked back.

"The nightmares," he breathed, inhaling the comforting scent of clean, female skin. "I can't-"

"Hush," she whispered and stroked his shoulders. "They're nothing but dreams. They can't hurt you."

"I'm crushing you," he said, his words muffled against her throat. Ever the gentleman, he struggled to push himself off of her only to collapse back, his arms too weak to hold him up. "I'm sorry."

The wind was knocked out of her, but she didn't mind. "Never you mind."

"You can just... roll me off," he suggested gesturing weakly with his hand, secretly wishing that she let him lie down on top of her, wrapped in her arms, a little longer.

Little Anerinth Aingeal, the woman he was going to marry, the only woman he wanted to marry since he found out that they will be betrothed, was a fascinating woman with large liquid brown eyes and ebony hair that fell pin-straight to her hips. Her face was oval with a button nose and luscious lips. She was a sharp-witted woman, intelligent, soft-hearted and shy, and he was crazy about her. As a stupid young man he had tried to make it clear that she was his, although after the first time that he had tried to cop a feel and had been turned into a braying jackass, he decided to make his attempts more subtle.

The floor was cold, and he was naked. Debating whether to let him catch lung fever was better than suffocating, deliciously so if she might add, she made up her mind and wrapped her arms tightly around him, and cradled his head. She didn't see the grin that split his handsome face. Focusing, she whispered a spell and set the temperature in the room a little bit higher so that he wouldn't catch a cold, then settled on the floor with his weight over her.

She waited until Connor's breathing evened out, and his lifebeat slowed. She sighed, although it was as cozy as cozy can be, she couldn't stay that way all night. Already her legs had fallen asleep, and the early summer temperature she set for the room had become stifling hot in the wake of two bodies pressed so close together. Again, she focused and the temperature lowered, a cooling breeze blowing through the sudden humidity. She would have to roll him over and wrap him in a blanket like a swaddled infant. Feeling vaguely affectionate, she stroked his hair and kissed his temple. Connor stirred. Or at least, a part of him stirred. Anerinth's hand stilled in mid-stroke as she felt the sudden hardness prodding against her belly. She held very, very still then jumped at the wet feel of his mouth on her throat.

"How I've wanted to do that," he said, blowing warm breath on the spot he had moistened, making her shiver. "I want you, Anerinth," he told her, his mouth open against the side of her throat. "Please, let me have you." He ran the tip of his tongue up the side of her neck in a slow, long, languorous lick.

Anerinth shivered again, and let out a small, nervous laugh. "I don't think you have the strength to 'get me' as of the moment," she said, with breathless humor.

"I had the strength for one blow to almost go through the floor," he told her, a breathy whisper against her ear, as his tongue continued to play, this time over her lobe. "I'll have strength for this, for you. I want you. I've always wanted you." He worked his way down her neck again, moving so that lips, teeth and tongue traveled up her throat to her chin. Supporting himself on surprisingly steady elbows, he looked down at her, eyes blazing like blue fire. "Will you let me?" he asked.

The choice was hers, just as it had always been hers. Her eyes met his, and in a slow, tender manner, lifted her hands to cup his face to lower it to hers. She touched her lips to his forehead, a sign of trust, of affection, and of choosing. Connor smiled tenderly as he lowered his own lips to her forehead. It was done. The woman had chosen the man, and the man had chosen the woman.

He kissed his way down her face, touching gentle lips to eyelids, cheeks and nose. She moved her head slightly when it seemed as if he was going to kiss her mouth. In Dunstorm, a kiss on the mouth meant love for a lifetime, binding, a commitment, a marriage.

It surprised him how he wanted to kiss her mouth, to feel her soft lips against his, her moist mouth opening to his tongue. It also rocked him that he wanted everything else that a kiss symbolized, and he shook his head in denial, before pressing his lips to her throat again, flicking her hot, sensitized skin with his tongue. He slowly moved down to nibble at her collarbone exposed by the modest bodice of her tunic. She moaned his name, and her hands on his shoulders flexed. He pressed his face between her breasts, inhaled the soft, female fragrance of flowers and heartberries and his own scent. He pressed a tiny kiss on her breast, over her tunic then he sat back and pulled her with him. They climbed to the bed, lying down side by side. Relaxed with his nakedness, Connor pulled the blanket off of his waist and drew her close.

Although her face was flaming, she pressed a hand to his chest and slowly moved her eyes from his face, down his smooth chest, down his flat stomach to his erection. She looked at it with a studious, serious expression then licked her lips, making his manhood twitch and Connor groan. Her eyes, lit with humor, flew to his, and he cleared his throat nervously. Anerinth moved her hands from his wide shoulders down his chest, her palms meeting over the beat of his heart. He was hard all over, and so very warm. She could have called on a snowstorm and she wouldn't have been cold right then and there. "You're beautiful," she whispered, leaving one hand over his heart while she trailed fingertips down the muscles of his taut stomach. Connor swallowed audibly, his hands tightening on her shoulder and over her back. He relaxed them and let her continue.

She laid the tip of her index finger over the tip of his cock. It was hot, hard, so masculine, she trembled with anticipation. Slowly, carefully, she wrapped her hand around his cock, squeezed lightly, felt it pulse, felt the steel hardness under smooth velvet. Connor was vibrating beside her, his eyes burning on her hand on his erection. She moved her hand in a slow downward stroke that made him moan, made him shudder. Then her other hand moved to gently cup his sacs. She lifted herself from the bed, pushing Connor on his back.

"Anerinth," he groaned as she straddled his lap. "Let me-"

"No, my love," she said, with a teasing, wicked smile. "You have had other women before, you know what it is like to make love to one. I haven't had any other man. I want to learn."

"Anerinth, you are untouched." And he had to remember that! "Are you sure-" She answered him by squeezing his sacs. With another groan, he fell back to the pillows, lifting his hands to them to hold on.

Anerinth moved her hand up and down his shaft slowly, building heat, moving her hand so that he felt it on every inch of his cock while the other hand moved from his balls to the dark springy hairs on his crotch, to the crease between hip and thigh. He moaned and clasped the rungs of the headboard. Her hand gradually moved faster, and her hold tightened by small increments, squeezing and pulling and driving him out of his mind.

Anerinth watched in fascination as Connor's head trashed on the pillow, his handsome face contorted with pleasure. And it was all because of her. He wanted her, desired her. She blocked out the thought that he had been with other women, a lot of other women, because he was here now, with her, moaning in pleasure because of her. She looked down at his cock and noticed that a globule of white liquid had appeared on the small slit. She thumbed it, spreading it over him and Connor's hips came off the bed. Feeling a bit mischievous, she lowered her head and tasted it off of him with a flick of her tongue then she took the whole head into her mouth.

"No!" Connor cried, sat up and grabbed her. She barely managed to squeal before he had her on her back, his hands holding her shoulders pinned to the bed.

She looked up at him with a mixture of embarrassment and fear. Did she do something wrong? Connor's eyes were fierce, and his breathing was harsh and ragged. She could feel his manhood against her thigh, hot, hard and wet from his seed and her saliva.

He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against hers, invoking the strength of the Gods. He had been so close to spilling his seed, and he didn't want to spill it in her mouth... Well, at least not their first time.

"I'm sorry," Anerinth whispered, and Connor's eyes flew open. She was looking up at him, her hands on his arms, grasping in defense. The timid, trembling woman in his bed was so far removed from a warrior magehealer, that Connor's heart broke. "No," he said, kissing her forehead again. "There is nothing to be sorry about. I was too near fulfillment and I didn't want to be, not without you. You were doing all the work." He stroked her cheek with a hand he couldn't stop from shaking.

"I was... enjoying myself," she said shyly.

"Were you, dearling?" he nuzzled her nose in a gesture that was more sweet than erotic. "Then lie back and enjoy some more."

He released her shoulders and chuckled when she moved up the pillow as if to be more comfortable. Her sleep tunic was long and flowed down to her ankles. He sat back on his haunches and placed his hands on her ankles. Slowly, he moved his hands up her calf, letting the fabric rise with his arms. She was silk smooth and water soft. Her skin, several exotic shades darker than his, glowed golden in the candlelight. He ran his hands up the sides of her thighs. He heard Anerinth's breath catch, and he took a peek. Her eyes were closed and she was biting her lower lip. Her hands had held on to the rungs that he had been gripping when he was the one on his back. This time, he let his grin split his face. He moved up the sides of her hips, waist, allowed his hands to graze the sides of her breasts. He almost lost his rhythm at the sight of her delicate, already pebbled nipples. He had died and gone to the Citadel.

He went on with his journey until he had pulled off the tunic from over her head then did the return journey from her shoulders to - dear God! -- the sides of her breasts, waist and the flare of her woman's hips where a strip of cotton underclothing covered her womanhood. This time, when he looked up at her, her eyes were trained on him, on his face. Her face was flushed, both from passion and embarrassment at being bared naked, her hands still wrapped around the rungs of the headboard, but she was going to see his reaction to her body. And if it wasn't favorable, she could always kick him.

And see his reaction he let her. He pulled the scrap of fabric down her hips, revealing neat, dark curls and soft thighs. He looked at her feminine beauty with wild hunger and fierce desire, the same way a predator would look at its prey. His hands became more urgent and he tugged the material from her legs, throwing it behind one shoulder without taking his eyes off of her center. Anerinth felt so inflamed by his gaze she wondered why she didn't just catch fire. He grasped her ankles and bent her knees, and she barely managed to suppress a squeak as he parted her legs to his burning eyes.

Soft, pink, inviting, and his. All his. He crawled nearer, settled between her parted thighs, and, as what she did to his penis, touched the tip of his index finger to the tip of the nub of feminine flesh she hid between her folds. Her whole body shook at the contact, and she gasped out, throwing her head back, mirroring his actions before. He touched another finger to her, rubbing the sides of the hooded nub. Her toes curled. She wanted to press her knees together, but he was there, and she pressed them to his arms. He held her thigh still with one hand as he stroked her with two fingers, just two fingers. He moved them from her clit to the moist, glistening petals of her sex, delicately tracing the edges, tracing the shape, spreading her nectar to wet her even more. She moaned deep in her throat. Her thighs grew lax. Connor parted her legs wider, and this time, gently, gently slid one wet finger into her tight sheath. She cried out, her back arching, her womanhood pulsing in a climax so sudden, so powerful that Connor struggled with control as he stroked inside her, keeping time to the pulses of her orgasm.

She was barely floating down when he slid another finger along with the first and bent down to capture her clitoris in his mouth. This time, she screamed, a short sharp scream that no one would mistake for anything else but a woman in the throes of passion. He moved his fingers, stretching her, filling her, even as he sucked on her, moving his tongue around the tight little bud. He drank her juices as she rode his mouth to another shuddering climax, her tight womanhood clasping his fingers. She dropped back on the pillows, her breathing harsh. Connor released her clitoris after a last long lick that made her shudder. He looked up at her, and lifted his fingers to his mouth to suck off her juices. Anerinth moaned. She opened her arms to him, and he didn't deny the invitation. On all fours, he loomed over her, and bent down to take a nipple into his mouth, just as he lifted her leg to wrap around his waist. With that secured, he guided his cock into her. He rubbed it over her wetness while he drew on a nipple, partly to help ease his passage and mostly to drive them both a little more insane. Anerinth lifted herself from the mattress and clutched at his shoulder, gasping his name, her head trashing. When he couldn't stand it anymore, he slowly slid the head of his penis unto Anerinth's tight passage.

She moaned and pressed her face to his shoulder. He was so big, and she was so empty. She wanted him inside her. Now!

"Anerinth," he groaned. It felt so good. She felt so good. She was hot, and tight and wet, it was indescribable. Slowly, he thrust inside, and he felt her tense. "No, no dearling," he whispered against her ear. He urged her down to the mattress, kissing her wet face. "Relax, it will hurt more if you fight it. Only a moment," he said. "Only a moment." Gods, let it be only for a moment!

He felt Anerinth relax degree by degree. The more she did, the easier it was for him to slip inside her. She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip, her fingers flexing on his shoulders. How he wanted to kiss her then and there, to complete their joining, body, heart and soul. Instead, he lowered his head and kissed her breast, drew on her nipple to distract her from the pain he knew was coming the moment he felt the tightness in her change. With his hands on her hips, he drew himself out then thrust himself to the hilt.

He was searing fire. Anerinth's body convulsed in the sharp pain, and she could only gasp and hold still, impaled as she was on his staff. But like waves on the seashore, the pain ebbed and slowly withdrew, changed into infinite pleasure of being filled, being one with a man, being one with this man.

It was instant heaven for Connor. Her instinctive reaction at the pain was to clench at his cock, producing sensations so good he could swear his eyes had crossed. He fought a vicious war to keep still, his jaw clenched, his arms trembling. He had bedded virgins before, but none of them, none of them had ever felt like this. He opened his eyes to look into Anerinth's tear-damp ones. She smiled at him and lifted her hand to his cheek. He moved his head to kiss her palm. Her leg caressed his back, and he started to move inside her, soft, female flesh welcoming hard manhood. She grasped at the pillows, her hips lifting to meet his thrusts. He had lifted himself on his hands, his hips guided by passion and lust. He moved against her, over her, inside her, inciting hale fire and lightning storms. Each stroke of his hard flesh, each welcoming cling of her soft walls fanned the flame. Her gasps echoed his groans. Her hips moved like lightning, and he closed his mouth on her breast.

She flew off the mattress, screamed his name and wrapped her arms around him, her body coming apart in his arms. He ground himself into her, rubbing his pelvis in sharp strokes against her clitoris, shattering her. He held still, while she shook against him, her body tense and tight, her inner walls grasping him. He clenched his jaws against his own impending climax, waiting for her body to come back down, sated and spent before he dropped on top of her, all finesse forgotten. He pounded into her, reaching for his own release. She held him close, tightening her inner walls and urged him on.

Lights glowed in the air, silver and gold dust swirling in an intricate dance around the bed, their passion a spell all on its own.

He growled, actually growled, before his thrusts became greedy, more voracious. Then he threw his head back, his hips jerked, and he spilled his seed inside her with a satisfied groan, and she cried out in ecstasy again, their arms around each other as the world around them melted.

Connor rolled unto his back, taking her with him, their still-joined bodies sleek with each other's sweat, their thighs smeared with his seed, and her virgin blood. Their breathing was ragged, their hearts thundering. It took a full minute before Connor's vision cleared of the haze of passion, and he stroked Anerinth's hair as she took sobbing breaths. She lifted her head from his chest and looked up into his eyes. He smiled, bent down and kissed her forehead. "Sleep, my love," he said. Then he tucked her against his side, stroking her hair.