Chapter Five #2
Never in her life had any man stirred her senses, not even the most celebrated Dazzles of the court over whom so many other young Celierian maidens sighed.
No man until Rain. And with him, it was as if all the longing of the ages had been stored up inside her, waiting for his arrival to break free.
One look, one touch, one whisper of his voice, and Ellysetta, who had never known the slightest desire for any man before him, went up in flames.
Already she was aching for him with the same fierce passion that had fueled her weave last night.
Bid him yes or no, he asked. As if she could ever—would ever—give any possible answer but one.
“Aiyah.” Consent emerged as a thready whisper, barely audible. The hunger was so strong, she could scarcely breathe. She lifted her hands to his hair, filled her palms with black silk, wished she were brave enough to reach for more.
“You have no idea the beauty that fills my eyes when I look upon you.” With infinite care, he drew back the edges of her bodice to bare the soft fullness of her breasts.
His fingers traced the contours of the small globes, then cupped them gently, thumbs whispering over pink nipples.
The peaks leapt instantly to attention. His gaze flicked up, burning with lavender fire, locking with hers in a look so deep it shook her to her core. ?You dazzle me, Ellysetta.?
Her mouth went dry. Liquid fire gathered in a rush of desire.
His gaze dropped to her lips. His mouth followed, pressing nibbling kisses.
The tip of his tongue traced the seam of her lips, teasing, tasting.
The warm, moist strokes made her gasp in delight, and he deepened the kiss, exploring the secrets of her mouth, laying claim to them.
He took her breath into his lungs and gave her back his own.
Still his fingers circled her breast, teasing, tormenting. Her hips shifted restlessly, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, clinging tight. Her back arched, pressing her breast more fully against his palm in a silent plea. ?Rain . . . Rain, please.?
“I heard your thoughts last night when you spun your Spirit weave,” he whispered. “I heard what you said. I felt each word like a brand on my skin.” His lips found the pulse point on her throat and pressed a kiss there.
She shivered as the wicked warmth of his tongue stroked the hollow of her throat. For once, the mention of her disastrous weave did not embarrass her. All she could think of were the feelings infusing her body, the wild need rising inside her. “What did I say?”
“You said, ‘I want.’” His lips tracked up her throat, tracing a fiery path across the soft skin.
Oh, yes, she wanted. Him and no other. She always had. She always would.
“‘I need.’”
He took her hand and guided it to his own chest. Earth magic tingled in electric arcs.
Black leather vanished. The burning heat of pale, luminous Fey flesh filled her palms. She ran her hands over his chest, relearning every curve and rock-hard muscle she had discovered last night, testing the eager leap of his flat nipples as her nails drew lightly across them.
“‘I ache.’”
Slowly—far too slowly—he drew back. The silk of his hair whispered across her skin.
Cooler air rushed in where his warmth had been, sending a fresh flood of tingling sensation sweeping across her exposed skin.
Her breasts felt swollen, the nipples taut and begging as his hands continued their teasing erotic play.
“‘I burn.’”
Keeping his eyes locked with hers, he bent his head to her breast, and despite the flags of heat that flooded her cheeks, she couldn’t look away.
She watched him take her in his mouth. Oh, gods.
Her lashes fluttered down as her eyes rolled back in exquisite pleasure.
Her hands came up to clutch his shoulders, holding him fast as he worked all manner of enchantment that needed no aid of magic.
She was on fire. Living flame beneath his hands.
?Burn with me.? He sang in vivid tones that reverberated through her being. Incandescent notes of dazzling hues, so vivid each was a sensory explosion. Tairen song. His song. Resonating in her soul.
Undulating waves of Spirit burst from his hands, flying out in spiraling, rapidly accelerating weaves that spun away reality and replaced it with a flawless illusion of the two of them lying together in a lush riverside glade, surrounded by the rainbow-tinted mists of a dozen spectacular waterfalls.
Gone were her saffron dress and his black leathers.
Their bodies were naked and twined together, and there was no guilt, no stern Celierian modesty, no shame or regret to their passion.
She feasted on the sight of his body, so pale, so perfect, sinewed with ropes of lean, defined muscle beneath luminous skin. She stroked his flesh and breathed in the rich aroma of magic and Rain, a sensory memory she would never forget.
He was everything she’d ever dreamed of—every hope, every wish, every secret prayer she had ever whispered to the gods.
A fierce, relentless warrior, bred for battle.
A deadly defender, willing to sacrifice his immortal life to protect those in his care.
A noble hero, a passionate lover. And when he looked at her with such intensity and devotion, he made her feel as if she, simple, plain Ellysetta Baristani, was more dazzling than the sun, more beautiful than every star in the heavens.
When she was with him like this, she could almost feel the retreat of the ominous shadows that had haunted her all her life.
In the Spirit weave that bound them, his body moved upon hers, slid into hers.
She felt her own body stretch to accommodate the thick, burning length of him, the muscles clasping him tight, drawing him in deeper.
He filled her utterly and perfectly, as if some long-absent part of her had finally found its place and made her complete.
Slowly, teasingly, he began to move. A long, leisurely withdrawal that made her moan a protest, a quick, surging plunge that made her gasp. “Rain!”
He laughed, loving the feel of her, the wild abandon of her response.
Both in his weave and in his arms, the electric arc of passion leapt from her flesh to his, a rush of sensation and emotion that built between them with harmonic intensity.
For all her innocence and tight-laced Celierian upbringing, she could not deny her hunger for him, nor stifle her body’s overwhelming response.
For him there was no greater joy than watching her bright, verdant eyes cloud with pleasure and feeling the rippling shudders of her body as a climax seized her.
His naked chest pressed against hers. The soft fullness of her breasts was crushed against him.
Skin to skin, he could feel what he did to her, both within the weave and without, and nothing—not even the thrill of soaring the freedom of the skies—had ever felt so magnificent.
Each thrust of his hips echoed the melody of his song. Pleasure and torment swelled in heightening waves. Even though he held the weave, each touch, each gasp, each shuddering explosion felt vivid and real, shaking him to the core of his soul.
He took her mouth as his Spirit body drove her to one last, powerful climax. His own control shattered, and his body clenched taut. Fierce shudders swept over him as passion exploded in blinding waves.
Together they lay there, breathless, dazed, their bodies still quaking with tremor after tremor until the wild beating of their hearts finally slowed. Above them, the summer sky filled their eyes with a bright, clear, cloudless blue, and the Great Sun blazed with searing intensity.
Kolis Manza drew privacy wards around his bedchamber at the Inn of the Blue Pony and removed the black Mage blade from its sheath at the small of his back.
On the table beside him lay a vial of blood from one of the dead whores, her severed finger, and a small silver dish.
Kolis speared the finger on the dagger’s sharp point, drizzled the blood over both blade and finger, then set the grisly offering on the floor with a grimace.
He’d much rather open the gateway without the paraphernalia, but that required such an immense blast of Azrahn that every Fey within a five-mile radius would come running to find and slay the summoner.
Though Kolis longed for the day the Mages could cease their clandestine activities and rule openly, he was too much a realist to fancy a forty-to-one fight between himself and the Fey.
Stepping back, well clear of the silver dish, he muttered the words of the Feraz witchspell he’d long ago committed to memory: “Terkaz, Blood Drinker, slake your thirst. Frathmir, Flesh Eater, feed your hunger. Boraz, Bone Grinder, mill your dust. Choutarre, Soul Taker, claim your due.” He took another long step back and completed the invocation.
“Guardians of the Well, I summon you. Accept this offering and grant safe passage through your domain.”
Within the silver dish, the finger and the pooled blood began to smolder.
A small black pinprick formed in the air above.
Dark shadows swept out of the tiny opening, hissing and circling around the offering.
Demons. The incorporeal forms of the Guardians of the Well of Souls swirled and then swooped upon the offering like ravening beasts, demon fangs clicking, demon mouths slurping.
In seconds the bloody finger was gone, flesh, blood, and bone utterly consumed, the black dagger drained of one of its captive souls.
And behind the spot where the offering had been gaped an expanding dark hole in space, a gateway into a black nothingness that flickered with red lights.