Page 22 of Stars in Umbra (The Sable Riders #8)

‘This is Iccythrian comfort food, hearty and unpretentious,’ her man said.

‘I can’t wait to dig in.’

Platters of flatbread, fragrant with butter and savory spices, sat alongside bowls of gild-root stew, its rich, creamy texture inviting.

‘Try this,’ Mo urged, spearing a piece of xylan’thar for her. ‘It’s a Ccyth specialty.’

Rina took a bite. The steak was tender, infused with smoky herbs. ‘ Fokk ,’ she murmured, surprised. ‘That’s incredible.’

‘ Naam ,’ he grunted, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.

After they ate, a group of Iccythrians gathered around a generous table in the center of the room, playing a raucous game; their movements were fluid and graceful, even as their laughter rang out.

‘Cards?’

‘We play a version of Five Crowns, called, ‘Crimson Coil’. It involves intricately carved bone tiles and a rapid-fire exchange of calculated bluffs and daring risks.’

The air crackled with competitive energy, the gamers’ guttural laughs echoing through the space.

Mo, of course, soon got invited to join.

‘With me, beautiful,’ he rasped into Rina’s ear.

Intrigued, she let him pull her up and to the games table, where he sat with easy confidence.

He tucked her to his side, keeping either a hand on her thigh or around her waist as he played, making it clear to all that Rina was his woman.

Mo wielded the cards with ruthless efficiency, his long fingers manipulating the tiles with practiced ease.

The other players, even those who seemed proficient, succumbed to his skill, their piles of credits dwindling as his grew.

Rina observed him, fascinated, seeing another facet of the precision and ruthlessness he carried into everything.

His gun-running reputation wasn’t just about violence; it was about absolute, undeniable competence.

Which he demonstrated at the card table, taking home the win with a grin.

He surprised her even more by handing his winnings to the servers, giving each one a generous tip.

No wonder they adored him , Rina thought as she witnessed their broad smiles and slight bows to Mo, as if he were some benevolent king.

‘You keep blowing my mind, soldier,’ she told him.

He leaned in and kissed her as he helped her back to their booth. ‘As do you.’

As the night wore on, the music swelled, a vibrant thrum vibrating through the floor.

The central hall transformed, tables and chatter giving way to a swirling mass of bodies.

An Iccythrian dance took hold, a raw, primal expression of joy and connection that was both a celebration and a confession.

The routine, Izomba , was a captivating blend of Kwavi rhythms and Iccythrian influences.

It was a sensual, shoulder-to-hip, male-to-female salsa-like style that created a unique, enchanting experience for dancers and observers.

The music shifted, growing intricate, its beat a magnetic pulse that pulled everyone into its orbit.

Mo’s gaze found Rina, a silent invitation in the intense heat of his eyes.

He rose from his seat, his presence filling the space, and offered her his hand.

‘Care for a dance, Colonel?’

His voice was a growl, a rumble of lush sensuality that tightened her belly and sent a shiver down her spine.

The sound was a promise, an intimate dare.

‘I’m not sure I can hit it like the Iccythrians,’ she said, laced with a touch of doubt.

A smirk spread across his face as he took her hand, his thumb stroking her palm in a hypnotic rhythm.

‘This is different,’ he murmured, his timbre dropping. ‘This is about letting go so that I can lead and romance you like a dream’

The invitation hung in the air, rich with unspoken promises.

Rina took a long breath, filling her lungs with the complex scents of roasted meat, sweet Lumian wine, and the exotic perfumes of the Iccythrian crowd.

She met his gaze, and a hot, dangerous emotion rolled over her.

She understood, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that she wanted to abandon all caution.

‘Show me,’ she whispered, and she took his hand, stepping with him into the swirl of light and bodies.

She moved into the dynamic, intoxicating rhythm of the intricate choreography.

The dance was less about steps and more about sensation.

It was about losing yourself in the collective energy, about feeling the music in your core.

She found herself swaying to the beat, a new, unfamiliar heat stirring within her, a scorching that had everything to do with him.

Mo pulled her into his arms, his hold firm and secure.

He clasped her, his strength effortless, and began to sway with a grace that belied his massive frame.

He danced Izomba , holding her tight, swirling his pelvis in a sensual, intimate dance.

They fell into a natural rhythm that was all their own.

He guided her through the throng as if they were the only two people there, their movements a seamless, beautiful dialogue.

Mo’s footwork and swirling hips were beyond seductive, yet he permitted her the freedom to move as she pleased.

Their bodies meshed, their groins close, their hands clasped, and the heat between them intensified with every beat of the drum.

‘Damn,’ he growled, his mouth near her ear, ‘you’re a natural.’

‘Just adapting to the environment,’ she shot back, a breathless laugh escaping her.

The dance became a silent tug of war between restraint and desire. Her muscles throbbed trying to keep up with him, but it was a good ache, a sign of life, of connection.

Her soul lifted, exhilarated as she lost herself in twists, turns, and melding her lower body with his; in a slow, sensual, and persistent rhythm that forced her to assume softer and more fluid positions.

When the set ended, they were both flushed, breathing hard, their eyes still locked.

‘Let’s get some air,’ he rasped, his voice thick and hoarse.

They wandered away from the party floor, finding a quiet alcove outside the sliding glass doors of the centre.

He pulled her onto his lap on a padded bench nestled into the curved wall overlooking the sprawling twin rings rotating over Eden II.

Below, the crystalline spires of the metropolis still glittered, as they embraced, lips meshing, hands stroking in a raw, primal beat that resonated deep within her.

After a session of long, lingering kisses, he went to the bar.

He brought back glasses of ‘Solar Flare Nectar’, a chilled, viscous drink that glowed with an internal golden light. It hinted at condensed starlight and warm honey.

‘You liked it,’ he stated, a smug grin playing on his lips.

‘It’s delicious,’ she admitted, swirling the glowing liquid in her glass. ‘So distinct from my usual cocktails.’

‘I can’t wait to show you more,’ he said, his gaze intense, molten.

‘Don’t tease me,’ she murmured, her cheeks flushing under his scrutiny.

‘You ain’t seen nothing yet.’

He kept plying her with even more scrumptious treats, at one point bringing back a shared feast of Iccythrian delicacies: Pyre-Smoked Skewers, still sizzling, the meat succulent and infused with fragrant wood smoke.

He also brought crispy fries, seasoned with a spicy salt and warm, fluffy, buttery buns, perfect for soaking up the rich juices.

They washed it down with more of the delicious nectar.

‘You’ve got seasoning on your lips,’ he growled, reaching over.

His calloused thumb swiped the corner of her mouth, a shockingly tender gesture.

Rina caught his wrist and kissed the pad of his finger, her gaze locking with his.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You trying to start something?’

‘You started it, soldier.’

‘Dangerous words.’

‘Wild night.’

They sat, close, their legs tangled beneath the bench. Her half-eaten bun lay forgotten on the table.

Mo was all over, his nose hair, one hand stroking her thigh, his other sank into her hair, playing with her thick tresses.

The silver-blue of the club lights danced across his skin, turning the sculpted angles of his face into a mythic, treacherous, and achingly sensual plane.

His gaze pinned her, molten and steady.

‘I’m so gone for you, mi kaya ,’ he murmured, his voice a thrum against her ear.

Rina swallowed, her heart kicking under her ribs. ‘Is that right, soldier?’

He tilted his head, studying her mouth with hunger. ‘I’m trying to behave. You’re making it difficult.’

‘You did just bring me to the best freakin’ club on Eden II and dance a most sensual choreography with me, so you’re the one making things challenging,’ she teased.

He leaned in, his lips brushing just beneath her jaw, where her pulse fluttered. ‘I can’t help it, I want you, you make me lose all control.’

Rina shivered, biting back a smile. ‘So what are you going to do about it, honey? You’re going to throw me over your shoulder and cart me off like some caveman?’

‘I might,’ he said, his voice thick with desire. ‘Unless you’d rather we stay and admire the view.’

Rina traced her fingertip down the seam of his shirt, stroking the taut muscle and pulsing glyphs beneath, pressing her lips to his chest, eyes on his rippling sinew. ‘The view’s superb.’

‘But?’

‘But I’d prefer to enjoy it somewhere quiet,’ she whispered. ‘Where I can witness you lose all that control.’

He stood in one fluid motion, pulling her up with him. ‘Then let’s go before I ravish you here and now.’

They didn’t speak much on the ride back.

The flyer purred as Rina studied Mo’s hands on the controls, capable, sure, steady, and imagined them on her skin.

By the time they reached his apartment, yearning crackled between them like charged air before a violent storm.

Her breath hitched as he turned to her in the entryway, eyes dark and flaming.

‘How do you want it?’ he asked, voice rough.

‘Wild, savage, untamed.’

With that, she stepped forward, rose onto her toes, and kissed him with abandon.

Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging. His hands gripped her hips and lifted her in one smooth motion, pressing her to the wall as their mouths clashed.

They embraced with fervent intensity. Every brush of lips, drag of breath, press of their bodies, was hungry, aching, and righteous.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead on her brow, breathing hard. ‘ Fokk , woman, you undo me.’

‘Then let go,’ she whispered, pulling his shirt up over his head. ‘I want all of it.’

‘Soon, baby, very soon.’

He knelt to untie her boots slowly, his glowing gaze never leaving hers.

‘You don’t have to -,’ she began, voice shaky.

‘I want to,’ he said, and kissed her bare shin.

Then her knee. Her thigh. Her wrist. Her neck.

He lifted her into his arms.

He carried her down the corridor, past luminous artworks and soft-lit shelves, to the sanctuary of his room and laid her down like she was sacred.

He’d worked her into a lather with his dancing, sensual, dirty talk and foreplay, so that she was putty in his hands.

He turned out to be a master of sex play, giving her an oil massage, before he drove her into ecstasy with his pounding hips.

It was the perfect mix of provocative and aggressive.

He was feral for her and demonstrated it in every way.

He was also hella attentive, understood exactly where to stroke, when to move faster, and when to slow it down.

His ability in the bedroom was godlike.

He was gentle yet dominating, always grasping what to say.

He touched her with adoration, kissed and gazed at her with reverence.

He made her cum so hard she wept from the pleasure of such considerate lovemaking.

Rina was so enamored by his touch, heat, and the sensual, beautiful act that she let go, until only her soft moans and fervent, pitched cries remained.