They were still in a pub, he reminded himself. He struggled to keep an ear out for anyone approaching while she stroked him. Roughly, like the situation called for and how he liked.
He pushed her shorts to her ankles. They slipped off easily when he yanked her into his arms. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and he inhaled deeply of her arousal.
“Fuck, you smell good.”
“Hurry, Cam.” She rubbed against him.
He squeezed his arm between her and the bite of the stone wall, then slipped his other hand between them, yanking aside her underwear and inhaling deeply of her scent.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” he growled.
“Now, Cam.”
He wanted to look at her, to make this last and make it important. But he couldn’t. Not with Otherworld standing between them. He’d chosen the dark hallway for this because he thought she’d like it, and because it wouldn’t allow the intimacy that would suck him under and make this all harder when it was over.
“Please, Cam.”
He obeyed, sliding into her. She was tight and hot and wet and so good that his mind blanked out from the pleasure. She buried her face against his neck and keened long and low against him as he fitted himself inside her. He didn’t move, not yet, taking a too-brief moment to revel in the feel of her before his body took over.
“I need you,” he muttered. He thrust, slow and deep, savoring the feel of her, the sound of her, the smell of her.
He slipped a hand between them to find her clitoris, an awkward maneuver that was made worth it when she stiffened in his arms. The crook of his neck stung where her teeth bit into him to stifle her cries, though he couldn’t have given less of a fuck if she screamed the house down and brought the Pope in.
A low growl, animalistic in its intensity, was dragged from his throat when she spasmed around him, squeezing his cock as he thrust into her. He tried not to focus on how good it felt to have her shivering in his arms, or his desire to see her face, and finally withdrew his hand when the spasms faded.
He gripped her hips and thrust hard enough that he forced a noise from her throat each time he seated himself so deeply within her. Yes. More.
It must have driven her up again, because she whimpered, “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” against his neck, a desperate mantra that broke the last threads of his control.
His hands bit into her hips as his thrusts lost coordination. Roaring need made him heave over her, lost in the feel of her pussy squeezing him. Hard and fast and frantic, he went over the edge with her in an orgasm that reached within him and twisted with outrageous pleasure.
Later that night, Ana lay in the small bed next to Cam. They didn’t cuddle or kiss, which was good, because she didn’t think she could handle it. After stumbling up from the pub, they’d both fallen into bed exhausted. Physically, and for her, emotionally as well. Tomorrow he would have his charm. And he’d go on his way.
She glanced at Cam to see him asleep on his back, his brow drawn as if he were having a vaguely miserable nightmare. The yellow glow of the streetlights gleamed in his hair and highlighted the harsh planes and angles of his face. She reached out to touch his shoulder, but drew her hand back. Damn.
That hadn’t been nothing. Just scratching an itch? Yeah right.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Highlands of Celtic Scotland, 634 BC
Long before Andrasta met Camulos
Druantia stood on the hill, the howling wind whipping her hair and cloak behind her, and surveyed the bloody chaos in the valley below, where two Celtic kingdoms collided. Blood spilled into the grass, the screams of men and horses drowned out the clash of iron, and the dead lay scattered. But her side would prevail. She’d made sure.
“High Priestess, the king has sent a message from the front.” The voice of Alban, one of the lesser Druids, broke through her concentration.
“What?” She glared at him. She’d worked long and hard for this moment, rising from the lowliest ranks to High Priestess of her people.
“He wants to cease fighting. They are outmanned.” Alban cowered at her feet and she barely resisted kicking him.
“Do not cease.” Her voice, low and hard, carried on the wind. “I have ensured our success with Camulos, god of war.” For she was gutuatri, one who spoke to the gods.
“Yes, mistress.” Alban bowed his head, once, twice, then spun away to run down the hill and into the fray. King Suibhne would heed her, for while he was king, she ensured his victory in all respects. Were she ever to feel the need, she would replace him. But in good time.
She stood on the hill, impervious to the cold and the wind, and watched as the battle turned in favor of her people. Soon, the last of the enemy fled over the horizon. Rough cheers rang up from the battlefield, male and female warriors alike surging to take the heads from the bodies of their bravest foes. An honor, for her people believed that the soul resided in the head.
She swept down from the hill, heedless of the blood and mud that stuck to her shoes as she strode through the chaos. The women who had not fought ran from their vantage points on a nearby hill, bringing torches to light the now-darkening sky.