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DREAMS OF GRYPHONS

S he dreamed that night. Distantly, she knew this fact ought to concern her and no doubt would when she woke, but the thought slipped away before it could unduly trouble her.

She wore her usual heavy court dress, but the setting was deeply unfamiliar, a grand palace made of white stone, with vaulted ceilings so high they disappeared into the shadows above.

Her footsteps echoed as she wandered through cavernous halls held up by rows of columns, each as thick as a tree trunk. Everywhere there were plinths and alcoves filled with treasures, from jewels and precious metals to beautiful instruments and paintings. Why had her mind conjured up a museum?

She turned into another hall and took a sharp breath.

This hall, which was filled with shelf after shelf of books, lay open from floor to ceiling at one end, revealing a strange landscape far below, of golden desert sands and rocky cliffs, dotted with the occasional palm tree.

The museum was built into a desert mountain.

Mal stood near the edge, gazing down on the desert.

The light gilded his silhouette, painting his red hair with shining filaments.

He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of loose-fitting silk trousers that flowed over his body, revealing and hiding in turn as the breeze shifted.

Golden swirls decorated his naked back in a beautiful and strange tattoo.

With his graceful proportions and his tail held momentarily still, he looked like another museum artwork.

She jerked to a halt, her mouth dry. Our Lady of the Skies .

He turned, looking resigned rather than surprised to see her. “Of course,” he said, as if they were continuing a conversation.

He was all golden, sun-freckled skin, the glittering tattoos extending to his chest as well.

She’d seen far more naked men than an unmarried princess was supposed to (i.e.

any), but he was by far the loveliest, all lithe, graceful lines.

One of his nipples was pierced by a gold ring that matched the one in his ear.

The sight sent a thrill of scandalised delight through her.

My erotic imagination is greater than I realised.

Some tiny remaining bit of propriety suggested she ought to turn away, but that was a crime she couldn’t commit.

His freckles spread further than just his face, creating a constellation over his shoulders, stars within the gleaming golden swirls, and she was struck with a sudden desire to touch each and every one.

He cocked his head, more flirtatious than he ever was in real life. “Don’t tell me I’ve shocked your mortal sensibilities?”

She stiffened. “Hardly. Where is this?”

“Arkrose Nest. Where I grew up. And I should say, I prefer my own dress to yours.”

She had drawn close enough to the edge to see farther into the desert landscape below. Winged creatures flew back and forth, up to other similarly open halls in the mountains around them. Wonder filled her.

“Are those?—?”

“Gryphons,” he confirmed, watching them circle. There was something like longing in his expression.

“You must have wished to fly, growing up here.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I did. Sampas—my foster sister, I suppose you would call her—taught me how.”

“You can fly?”

His eyes gleamed with mischief. “More than that. Want to see?”

Light sparkled around him, not dissimilar to Kairon’s dramatic entrance, and when it cleared, a beast stared down with mismatched gold-and-blue eyes set in a face that was a bit like a great bird’s and a bit like a lion’s, a mixture of fur and feather.

Shifting on its clawed feet, the beast spread rust-coloured wings.

And then they were flying, in the disconcerting transition of dreams, soaring above the desert landscape, her hands buried in gryphon-Mal’s feathery mane. Delighted amusement thrilled through her; she was glad her imagination had changed Mal into a gryphon for this bizarre riding scenario.

Mal landed them on a stone balcony and was abruptly a man again, sweat glistening on his bare chest. He grinned at her, tail swishing, a cat with cream.

On impulse, she caught hold of his tail. He stilled.

“Sorry. I know I’m being rude, touching your person without asking. I’ve just been dying to know what it feels like.” Although, this being a dream, who knew how accurate this rendition was?

He swallowed, and his voice came out rather strangled. “Is it…what you expected?”

“I thought it would be coarser. Like a horse’s mane,” she mused, examining the long tassel at the end, where the short gold fur shifted into long strands of the same red as his hair.

It was decadently soft, and she was struck with the deeply inappropriate urge to rub her cheek against it.

She looked up. “Are your ears just as soft?”

“Void save me.” He closed his eyes. “You can touch them too, if you wish.”

She ought not to encourage this dangerous fantasy, but she was already stepping closer.

He ducked his head so she could reach, and she became aware of the heat of him, the subtle musk of his scent that made her want to lean closer and sniff his neck like a person deranged. Instead, she gently touched his ears. They were covered in dense, soft fur, like plush velvet.

He shivered.

She drew her hand back. “Should I stop?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. Don’t stop.” His pupils had blown so wide that his eyes nearly matched. Indecisive or not, his expression was unmistakably hungry. It was an immensely satisfying look to have directed at oneself, even if it was only the conjuration of her own foolish subconscious.

“This is a completely terrible idea,” she said aloud even as she put a tentative palm against his chest. “But what else are dreams for? It’s your own fault for being so damn attractive. I really can’t be blamed.”

His heart pounded beneath her hand. “Pagefires,” he breathed.

Self-consciousness might have struck her, except that this was a dream and therefore free of such things, and also Mal’s arousal was evident through the thin silk of his strange trousers. Excellent job on that, imagination . Heat thrilled through her, pooling between her legs.

“So,” she said with a gesture downwards. “This seems rather a waste not to use?”

You’ll regret this when you wake up , her conscience tried one last time. She ignored it.

His eyes closed, a pained expression on his face. “It does. It really, truly does.”

Taking this for permission, her hand wandered over his chest, finger-stepping from freckle to freckle until she reached the darker brown of his nipples and the intriguing ornament there. He hissed.

“It doesn’t hurt?” she checked.

“The opposite of that.” His eyes snapped open, and fires burned in them. “You are being unreasonably provocative tonight, but I still shouldn’t be doing this.”

“You’re not doing anything,” she pointed out. Her hands moved lower, mapping his abdominal muscles. “You’re so firm,” she marvelled.

A choked laugh. “I am very firm, as you will shortly discover.”

Oh, in for an oak as for an acorn. She reached down and wrapped her hand around him, the thin silk moulding readily to the shape of him.

Her imagination was truly outdoing itself.

It might only be a dream touch, but oh, it was so lovely.

She ran a hand over the length of him, enjoying how he pressed against her palm and even more how his expression shuddered in response.

“You want me, don’t you?” Her grip tightened. “Tell me you want me.”

He groaned, hands spasming on her shoulders. “Yes. Yes . Oh, fuck it all,” he growled, tipped up her chin, and kissed her.

It might have been a decade or more since real-life kissing had been an option, but she’d done considerable dream-reminiscing since. She’d liked kissing a great deal and mourned its loss.

This was nothing as tepid as ‘like’. This was kissing in another, better language, one with dirtier adjectives and diphthongs she’d never heard before.

This was kissing like sunshine after rain, light and earth mingling in equal measure.

Strange, rich sensations filled her: smouldering embers and the rich perfume of vanilla.

Desire wasn’t merely an itch but an abrupt, all-consuming vibration.

The dream flashed hot. “Let me touch you,” he was murmuring, rough and desperate. “I have to touch you.” His hands were on her breasts, sending sharp little trills of pleasure through her. She could only cling to his shoulders, weak-kneed and mindless, her nails digging into his skin.

His hands were beneath her buttocks, bunching up the court dress, which had become much more amenable to being bunched than it ever had been in reality.

She did so adore the malleability of dreams. Distantly, she was aware of him backing her against a pillar.

Cool stone pressed against her back. The light behind him painted gold tints in his wine-red hair.

“Pagefires, the taste of you,” he groaned against her neck, between kisses.

He kissed the arch of her neck, the centre of her collarbone, moving down to kiss the tops of her breasts, which spilled eagerly from her suddenly loose neckline.

She cried out when his warm mouth found their tips, teasing over and over, each brush a jolt of building pleasure.

His ears flicked, attuned to every small sound she made, adjusting his approach until the world became a relentless current of sensation.

“Please—let me—” Desperate, unmoored words fell from his lips in between caresses, and she could feel his need, humming through the bond. “Please.”

His eyes were wild, his hands shaking as they stroked down her body. She caught his hand with hers and drew his fingers where she wanted them, to the point of— Yes.

Her head fell back against the stone, the world narrowing. He touched her with an artist’s instincts, as if he were drawing sensation out with the same skill as the finely wrought jewellery he made, and his satisfaction hummed through her.