Page 17 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)
ILSEVEL
For an instant, when my mouth catches hold of his, I am in control.
I feel it—that power, that surge of pure flame which a conqueror must feel when he sends up the cry to charge, to take, to pillage and decimate at will. It’s so different from any sensation I’ve ever known, so different from the helplessness I’ve faced, not only these last few dreadful days, but all the years of my life. Here, in this little sheltered space beneath the storm-wracked hillock, I am mistress, I am queen. My desire takes precedence over all others, and I will have what I want.
The illusion ends too soon.
He pulls free, easily breaking that point of contact. The inch of space suddenly between our lips feels like a chasm. I gasp, my fingers tightening against his cheeks, his temples, twisted in strands of his long hair, unwilling to relinquish my feeble command. Though I pull, he resists with strength far greater than mine, unbendable, untamable. Hot breath blasts in a gust against my skin, and I whimper with need, lips parting, eyes half-closed.
Then he changes his angle and slots his mouth back over mine with a force that shatters any ideas of control I may have briefly cherished. A rush of dizziness fills my head. Though I am lying on my back, I feel as though I’m teetering on the brink of a terrible plumet. My hands slip from his cheeks to his shoulders, grasping him as though for balance. He might be the only solid thing in all this dreadful, pitching world. Fear thrills in my gut, but I cannot tell if it’s fear of him and the absolute power he wields over me, or fear that I might lose hold of him and fall alone into the waiting darkness.
His insistent mouth parts my lips, evoking an explosion of sensation along every nerve. It’s so much, almost too much. And when his tongue slips between my teeth, swiping with rough greed, I feel as though my very core will erupt. My heart throbs, blood pulsing. I open wider to receive him as we devour one another. Just when I think I can bear no more, he breaks away, leaving me faint and gasping for breath. His ardor does not abate—his kisses now trail down my neck to my collarbone, eliciting more bursts of heat and delight.
Some small part of me is aware of the rough fleece and the crackling of dried leaves beneath my body. But mostly my senses are full of the warmth of his breath, the weight of his mighty shoulders poised over me, the caging of his arm pinning me in place. My body moves almost of its own accord, my back arched with the need to press myself against him. I run my fingers along his shoulder, eager to draw him to me. “Taar,”
I breathe, my voice no more than a whisper.
He does not answer, not in words. His mouth rests against my throat, and he inhales deeply, as though dragging in a scent of perfume. Then his lips move again, so soft they’re almost chaste. They touch my jaw, my cheek, my temple. I tilt my head, thinking to catch those lips with mine again, but his mouth eludes me and instead finds that sensitive place just behind my ear.
He nips. A short, sharp pain, followed by the softness of his tongue, licking away the sting. I whimper as prickling sensation erupts across my flesh. Oh gods! This is what I need, what I’ve craved with every fiber of my being all these long, cold nights. He shifts his balance to one elbow, nibbling the shell of my ear even as his hand slides from my head to my jaw, my throat, and lower still, to the topmost edge of my bodice. There he glides deft fingers back and forth, tracing the upper curves of my breast with such delicacy, it might drive me mad. I don’t want delicacy—I want hardness and heat and more pain. I want to be consumed by him until I forget everything else.
I wrap my fingers around his wrist, feeling the great power of him which could so easily shake me free without a thought. But when I tug, he lets me pull his hand lower and press his palm over my breast. For a few gasping breaths we stay like so, my chest rising and falling underneath his hand.
Then he begins to knead me, hard enough to make me gasp. My body writhes in response. I arch my back again, eager to give myself over to him. His nose still buried in my hair, his breath hot against my neck, he finds the front buckles of my rain-soaked gown and unfastens them, one by one. I continue to grip his wrist, even as he pulls my bodice open. Then I push myself up onto my elbows, giving him room to yank the bodice down my arms and drop it to one side. Now I wear only my damp chemise, which clings to me like a second skin.
The low fire from the clay pot gleams red, making an unfamiliar silhouette of this mountainous husband of mine. I feel his gaze trail over me, taking in the hard knots of my nipples showing through thin fabric. His hand moves, slides the loose neckline lower to bare my shoulder. His fingertips trail along the soft curve of my skin.
With a sudden growl, he takes hold of a handful of fabric and rips. The delicate garment falls away, baring my torso. I grab the back of his head as he takes hold of me, pulls me to him, his mouth consuming my breast. His tongue flicks, tastes, teases. His lips pull, and I roll back my head, groaning as sensations erupt through my veins. I wrap my legs around his waist and rock against him, even as my hands twine through his inky black hair. Heat pools inside me, pressure mounting in my core.
When his lips finally find their way back to mine, when his tongue enters my mouth with sweeping greed, I open to him, eager to receive. And when he presses me back against the fleeces, covering me with his great body, I think: Nothing can reach me here. No evil thoughts, no guilt, no pain. I can lose myself, maybe forever. Ilsevel is no more.
I am only what this man needs me to be. Molded by his hands, forged in his fire.
His fingers grip my skirts, hiking them up to bare my knee. I whimper as he slides that hand slowly along my thigh until he finds my small clothes. His fingers move deftly between my legs, touching me through the damp fabric, discovering just how eager I am for him. I blush, but he doesn’t seem to mind. With the pad of his thumb, he rubs me along the middle seam of my undergarments. My hips rock involuntarily in response, and I moan into his kiss. This seems to excite him. He slips his finger underneath the flimsy fabric and touches me directly.
A strange sound bursts from my chest, guttural and deep. He responds, his kisses deepening, but I’m too overwhelmed by that touch, by the pleasure rushing through my loins and dancing in my gut to do anything but gasp against his lips. I turn my head to one side, a strangled “Ah!”
breaking from my throat as he kisses down the column of my neck to my collarbone. All the while his thumb continues to dance. It excites my heat in small bursts that begin to swell in intensity. He angles his hand to bring more fingers into play. One toys along my opening, and I feel a little thrill of mingled fear and excitement. Biting my lower lip, I open my legs wider. He accepts this invitation and glides one finger into the opening, up to the first knuckle. It’s tight, but the sensations his thumb continues to elicit more than make up for any discomfort.
I slip my hands from his hair to his shoulders, fingers digging into flesh. “More,”
I whisper, my voice tremulous with need I hardly understand. He presses deeper, up to the second knuckle, while his thumb moves up and down. He is large, and I am unused to such treatment, so I cannot help a little moan. But when he seems to hesitate, I shake my head and urge again, “More, more!”
To my dismay, he pulls his hand free. I begin to protest, mewling piteously, only to realize he’s fumbling with his belt. Ah! So that’s what must happen. Somehow it doesn’t frighten me, though perhaps it should, considering how tight his fingers felt. I don’t care. I don’t want this moment to end. I want everything he’s willing to give me, pleasure and pain alike.
Hands trembling, I reach out to help pull his trousers down from his hips. I cannot see him clearly in this light, but I can feel him readily enough, the huge length of him suddenly pressed against the inside of my naked thigh. Oh gods, he’s never going to fit! Will it frustrate him, anger him?
The lessons my father’s mistress whispered to me echo inside my head: “You must never let him know you’re afraid.”
With far more boldness than I feel, I take hold of his length. Setting my teeth, I begin to guide it toward me, thinking perhaps if I do it myself, it won’t—
His hand closes around my wrist. Firmly. I lift my gaze, though I cannot see his face in this light. But I feel him watching me, much too closely for comfort. I drop my eyes again, breathing rapidly.
Then his lips are at my temple once more. “No, zylnala,”
his voice rumbles close to my ear. “Not like that.”
He begins to move. Pressing his manhood against my crest, he angles his hips, working in a rhythm that makes me squirm. There is no pain, no uncomfortable invasion. Only friction, hot and quick to make my center thrum. I groan with delight and fall back on the fleece. He kisses my neck and jaw, his hand warm against my panting breast, his length hard and insistent between my thighs.
I feel it building—that pressure I felt once before, on our wedding night. Desperate and frenzied, it churns inside me, carrying me up and up and up. My body strains, relaxes, strains again, my hips pulsing in time with his.
“Sing for me, zylnala,”
he rasps suddenly. “Now.”
As though unleashed at his command, I burst. Rippling sensation pulses through me, and a great cry rips from my throat, a song, a moan. Part of me is vaguely aware that his voice is blended with mine, that he’s singing in rough harmony, deep and primal.
But mostly I am floating—high up in this cloud of exquisite heat, as wild song tumbles freely from my lips.
I lay panting beside him, listening to the labored sounds of his breath. Neither of us speaks. Overhead the storm rages, and the tree groans from its roots.
Aftershocks of ecstasy prickle across my skin. I don’t know what to do. I hardly know who I am . . . this version of me that feels so much, that experiences such overwhelming pleasure. Can she even be real? Or is she and this storm-tossed night and these moments of bliss all part of a dream? A dream that will shatter in the morning light.
I can’t bear it. I can’t bear that this—whatever it is—should end. I must do something, say something. But what? Everything I might say sounds so frail and foolish following what we have just done to each other.
The light in the clay pot fireplace burns lower, and the already dense shadows deepen. Suddenly Taar rolls onto his side. My heart flips. He’s going to break the silence between us, I’m sure of it. What will he say? Will he tell me this was a mistake? Or will he—? Painful hope twists my gut. Will he say what I’m longing to hear? That he doesn’t want us to part after all. That he wants to let this inconvenient bond remain intact. I should hate myself for even hoping, but . . . but surely what we just did together must mean something. Mustn’t it?
When he doesn’t speak—when this cursed silence lasts too long, and I can no longer bear it—I whisper, “Warlord?”
“Zylnala.”
His voice is a breath of darkness.
“Will you . . . will you . . . ?”
He touches my jaw lightly, one finger trailing. It sends dizzying sparks shooting through my veins. “Will I what?” he asks.
I let out a shuddering breath.
Will you claim me?
Will you keep me?
Will you . . . love me?
His finger slips down my throat, resting a moment against my pulse before descending to trace the curve of my breast. His thumb moves, stroking my nipple. I catch my breath. My center throbs in pace with my suddenly galloping heartbeat.
“Will you do again what you did on our wedding night?”
I ask all in a rush, shocked at my own boldness. But I can’t take it back now. I can only stare at the shadow where his face hovers, knowing full well that his fae sight can see every little expression revealed in my eyes. I am bare to him, in more ways than one.
I feel rather than see the sudden flash of his smile. His huge body shifts in the darkness, sliding lower, lower. My skirts are already hiked, and it’s a simple matter for him to part my legs and angle himself between them. Hot breath blasts against my navel. “That depends, little songbird,”
he says. His tongue flicks out, licking, teasing. “Will you sing for me again if I do?”
I cannot answer. Words fail me utterly as he kisses the skin just at that delicate transition between abdomen and loins. The longing I feel, the desire, the need, it’s enough to drive me mad. One would think after what he’s done for me already tonight, I would be sated, but no. No, I need this. I need him. So desperately, so hungrily.
“Please—” I begin.
He grips my buttocks and draws my hips abruptly to his greedy mouth, and all begging words disappear. A little scream erupts from my throat at the fire of his dancing tongue. I grip the fleeces with both hands, my torso writhing even as he keeps my hips locked in place. He shrugs one of my legs up onto his shoulder, adjusting his angle. Multicolored lights explode in my head.
It doesn’t take long. A few swipes of his tongue, and I’m caught in a wave, greater and more tumultuous than before. “Taar!”
I cry, my voice reverberating against the hovel walls. “Oh, Taar, Taar!”
My heel digs into his back as my body arches, collapses, and arches again, until the pressure bursts, and I’m once more riding that wave out into wild, wondrous places. Only his grip on my hips and the hot pressure of his mouth keep me tethered to this world.
When at last I sink back into the physical realm, he’s still there. Still between my legs. He kisses my throbbing center gently before running a series of kisses up my abdomen. “Do you . . .”
I gasp, struggling to find words again as his tongue licks between my breasts. “Do you need to . . . ?”
“What I need,”
he says, his lips hot against my skin, “is to hear that song of yours. Again and again. And I will have it, zylnala.”
Then in a low growl, both desperate and dangerous: “Gods help me, I will make you sing all night, and damn whatever dawn may bring.”