Page 39 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)
ILSEVEL
Still cradling me in his arms, Taar presses his lips to mine, softly at first, but with increased urgency, seeking to part them and gain admittance. I don’t need much urging. I open for him, welcome his tongue as it slips between my teeth. He tastes of blood and ash and life, a combination I never knew could be so delicious.
I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him deeper. My own tongue dances with his as our lips shape and reshape our connection. He shifts me in his arms until I am fully upright, and I wrap my legs around his waist. His hands grip my buttocks, fingers tight, almost painful, but that lashing tongue of his drives all other thoughts from my head.
I pull back a little at last, desperate for air. His breath is hard and quick, and when I gaze down into his face, he looks like a man intoxicated. I brush strands of hair from his brow, searching his features.
“What are you looking for?”
he asks huskily.
I don’t answer. I can’t say that I’m still searching for falsehood—that doesn’t seem fair after that vow-song of his, sung on the steps outside. I should believe him. He deserves that honor at least, surely.
But the truth is, I can’t believe him. It is simply impossible to me that this man, this magnificent, powerful being, would actually love me. After everything I’ve put him through, after every secret I’ve kept and every outright lie I’ve told!
And there’s still the matter of his people. We both know they will reject me, might even kill me outright if they catch me. And kill him too for loving me. They don’t even know the worst of it yet; they don’t know I am Larongar’s daughter.
I don’t say any of this, however. Not here. Not now. Not with Diira’s song still burning in my heart, and Taar’s kiss still burning on my lips.
Instead I simply lower my lips to his once more. Softly, lingering. Almost questioning. He answers with such tenderness and restraint, like he fears he will frighten or hurt me if he lets himself go. I frown at that, Shanaera’s voice suddenly echoing in the back of my head: “A puny creature like you couldn’t stand the true force of a Licornyn king’s passion.”
Impulsively I suck his lip between my teeth and bite down. Hard. Hard enough to taste blood.
A growl erupts in his throat even as his mouth twists in a smile.
The next moment we’re on the bed, his great body on top of mine, a dominating force of nature. His kisses capture and claim, deep and bruising, and when I can take no more, he nuzzles against my neck, teeth grazing skin from collarbone to earlobe. There he nips me hard enough to make me cry out. I dig my fingers into his shoulders, drag my nails down his bare back to his belt.
Straddling me, he reaches behind, catches my hands, and draws them forward between us. Then he takes both my wrists in one big hand, pins them over my head. His other hand makes short work of my gown, ripping away the tattered remnants with abandon.
I gasp as his palm and fingers find my flesh. My body writhes, not in any attempt to escape, but in response to the lightning lashing through my veins. He pulls fabric away from my hardened nipples before taking them in his mouth. He bites playfully, but not so as to hurt. His tongue licks and teases, while his hand glides lower, slipping between my legs. I struggle, my wrists still captured in his grasp, and moan softly. My moan deepens, growing louder, wilder, as his fingers perform their nimble work.
“That’s a pretty song, zylnala,”
he murmurs against my flesh. “But there’s one I like still better.”
He slides away. I gasp in dismay at the sudden removal of his weight and heat, then gasp again when he takes hold of my hips and pulls me to the edge of the bed. This time I don’t lie back. I sit upright and grab hold of his head as he buries his face between my thighs. My fingers knot in his hair, pulling him to me. His mouth, his lips, his tongue do their work, and I become a living flame, burning brighter and hotter. A being of force and energy beyond the confines of this world. He makes me come alive—no longer a feeble spark in the night, but a blazing star, full of song.
As the crescendo takes me, I throw back my head and let song burst from my core, a deep, throaty melody that shakes the walls and rattles the heavens themselves.
When Taar draws back at last, I am panting hard, shivers of delight dancing from my core through every extremity. He pants, his breath hot against my tender place, and his eyes flash, looking up at me. Sweat glistens on both our bodies. I let go of his head, pushing hair back from my own face.
Suddenly I know what I must tell him. “Taar—” I begin.
He lunges. His mouth overwhelms my heat yet again. A single lash of his tongue over my already throbbing center, and constellations explode in my brain. I cry out, falling back on the bed, falling into the gift he gives so generously. Within moments a second song bursts from my gut, from the depths of my very soul. And where the first song was life, this one goes much deeper still. A song I recognize, born from only one source, if I can just be brave enough to claim it.
Spent at last, gasping for breath, and unable to utter another note if my life depended on it, I put out a trembling hand and gently press his head back, away from me. He catches that hand, biting my fingers softly, but allows me to draw him up to me, stopping only to caress my swiftly rising and falling breasts with his tongue. Then he stretches himself beside me, propped on one elbow as he gazes down into my face. His finger traces my jaw, my throat, runs down my sternum to my navel, and his eyes follow its trail, drinking in every inch of me.
Finally his eyes meet mine again. And I think: He’s such a fool for loving me! It will only cause trouble and pain. I should reject him—for his sake, if not my own. What a mess I’ve already made of his life, and how much worse will it get if I give in now?
“Taar,”
I whisper tremulously.
He presses two fingers to my lips. “You don’t have to say anything. I require nothing of you, now or ever. You give as you like, receive what you wish. No more, no less.”
I take hold of his huge, scarred hand, turn it, and kiss his palm. Then I press that palm to my cheek and gaze up into his eyes. “I love you, Taarthalor.”
The relief it is to say those words out loud is almost as beautiful as the expression of dawning wonder illuminating his face. “I love you . . . husband.”
Closing my eyes, I reach inside, down to where my gods-gift ever waits. That gift which hears a song and knows it completely, ready to be summoned and sung again with perfect timing and pitch at a moment’s notice. And what were those words he spoke to me on the steps in the moonlight if not a song? I may not know the Licornyn words, but I understand how they are meant to be sung.
So I sing the vows of a Licornyn marriage, as I never did on my wedding night. And while I may not get the pronunciation exactly right, when I open my eyes and see the delight suffusing Taar’s face, that is encouragement enough to continue.
“Vel-sa almar,”
I sing, the words lilting, edged with light. “E luralma idor-hath.”
My life is yours,
And, should you require it,
My death.