Authors: Coreene Callahan
Sensation spiraled deep. Pleasure broke through, cresting through her on a wave of ecstasy. She gasped his name. Nipping the underside of her chin, he cupped her bottom with one hand, then sent the other exploring. He fisted the back of her shirt. With a slow draw, he raised the linen and tugged it over her head. Cool air washed over her skin. Awareness bloomed and Cosmina hesitated, feeling exposed, surprised when shyness rose and uncertainty threatened. The urge to cross her arms and cover her breasts nudged her.
Such a silly reaction. Particularly since she desired him. Wanted to be unclothed and skin to skin with him, which, aye, necessitated him stripping her bare, but—blast and damn. ’Twas difficult not to flinch. Harder still to quash her shimmer of anxiety. Nervous tension lashed her, stilling her in his lap. Breathing hard, her chest rose and fell, accentuating the fact she was naked from the waist up. Gaze fixed to his face, she waited for his reaction, for a flicker of disappointment, for him to push her away. Cosmina bit down on her bottom lip.
Oh please, don’t let that happen.
She wanted him so much and needed him to want her with the same intensity, bu
t . . .
The inevitable questions circled, destroying her confidence.
Did he find her beautiful? Was her lack of a busty bosom unpleasing? A worry based in complete witlessness. She couldn’t, after all, change the way she was made. Strong and slight. She’d always been that way. Henrik would either find her beautifu
l . . .
or not. But even as she settled into the reality, her heart throbbed and uncertainty rose. She longed for his praise. For admiration to ignite in his eyes. For him to look at her with heat and awe an
d . . .
aye, mayhap with awe and the merest hint of love.
A lump formed in her throat. She squirmed in his lap, loving the feel of his hands on her, even as she dreaded his reaction. Goddess strike her dead and be done with it. She’d fallen straight into ridiculousness. It shouldn’t matter whether he liked the look of her. Having him in her arms ought to be enough. And yet, it wasn’t. She wanted more. So instead of covering up, she held the line and leveled her chin.
Big hands slid from her waist up her sides. As her breath hitched, Henrik held her gaze. Grip firm yet gentle, he cupped her rib cage, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. His fingers flexed. Her breath caught as he broke eye contact. His gaze traveled over her throat, across her collarbone, dow
n . . .
Down.
Down unti
l . . .
She shivered as he skimmed over her breasts.
“Sweet love,” he said, tone low, the look in his eyes so hot her nipples reacted, furling tight. He groaned and, breathing hard, dragged his gaze up to meet hers once more. “God, Cosmina. You’re beautiful. So goddamn perfect. I knew you would be. I imagined you like this so many times, but—Christ. Nothing compares to the reality.”
The praise sank deep, infecting her heart, heating her soul, making relief rise. “Thank you. I was worried you woul
d . . .
”
As she trailed off, he raised a brow. “What? Find you lacking?”
She nodded, acknowledging the insecurity. “Most men like women with more up top.”
“What idiot told you that?”
Gripping the edge of his leather tunic, Cosmina shrugged.
“Don’t believe a word of it,” he said. “You’re incredible. So pretty an
d . . .
”
With a slow shift, he switched focus. His hands left her rib cage. Heat engulfed her as he cupped her in both palms. Calloused fingertips rasped over her nipples. “Pink—Jesus, high, tight, pretty pink nipples.”
Her breath caught on the compliment. Bliss roared at his touch, scorching her, and she arched her spine in supplication. The move begged him for more. He delivered, watching her as he caressed her with gentle strokes, teasing her with each tug and flick. His mouth drifted across her collarbone. Ecstasy sizzled across her skin, shooting straight to her core. As she pulsed deep inside, Cosmina rolled her hips. He met her halfway, then shifted from the edge of the mattress. Hard muscles flexed around her as he picked her up. A quick pivot, and her back touched the sheet. Henrik followed her down, settling a thigh between her legs as he dipped his head. His mouth settled at her breast. Cosmina bucked, arching up, an
d . . .
Oh gods.
Scorching heat on her skin. A wet stroke over her nipple. Instant, devastating pleasure.
With a groan, he suckled her, each pull gentle and sure, yet somehow rough too.
The throb between her thighs intensified. “Henrik!”
“Hmm, you’re sensitive.” Stroking her with his tongue, he tugged at the lace holding her braes in place. Nestled just below her belly button, the bow let go. The leather tie loosened, widening by the moment, revealing her skin an inch at a time. He nipped the tip of her nipple. Her back arched. Her breath hitched. Suspended in pleasure, she bit down on her bottom lip as his hand slid over her bare belly, then slipped between her legs. Eager for him, she spread her thighs wider. Separating her folds with gentle fingertips, he slid into her heat and groaned against her breast. “Oh God. You’re perfect here too. Gorgeous,
iubita
. You’re gorgeous. So hot and tight, so slic
k . . .
almost ready to come for me.”
His voice—the deep stroke of it—unraveled her control, leaving her at his mercy. A very nice place to be, particularly since he didn’t have any. Stroking the top of her sex, he drenched her in bliss, pumping the pleasure so high she couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. And all the while he talked to her, whispering naughty things in her ear, praising her with words and—goddess, she enjoyed the sound of him. Loved the way he spoke to her, tone full of enchantment and awe and oh so much need.
Head thrown back, she listened to his voice, yet barely heard him. She was too busy chasing the sensation to pay attention. Illusive and thick, it gripped her body, strumming a chord while he played between her thighs, teasing her with the promise o
f . . .
something. A something she wanted. Now. This instant. Hmm, she was close. So very close, yet still too far away.
“Henri
k . . .
I canno
t . . .
I need—”
“To come. I know.” Nipping the underside of her chin, he withdrew. She protested the loss. Kissing her gently, he knelt beside her. Still dressed, knees sinking into the mattress, he fisted his hands in her braes. He tugged. She raised her hips, allowing him to draw the pair down her legs. Chest pumping, gaze riveted to the red curls between her thighs, he tossed her underwear over the side of the bed. “I cannot wait to feel you come.”
“Come?”
“The pleasure I promised you.”
“Is that what I’m chasing?”
“Aye,” he murmured. “Do you want it?”
“Yes.”
“Fast or slow?” he asked, unlacing his leather tunic.
“Which is better?”
“Depends. Both are good, but this tim
e . . .
your first tim
e . . .
I think I’ll give it to you fast.”
“Fast works.” Was the best, really. An excellent plan in every way. She squirmed against the mattress. “I need—gods, Henrik. Do something.”
He grinned, the quick flash of white teeth all wolf. “With pleasure, my beautiful wanton. I’ll give you all you wan
t . . .
everything you need.”
Eyes locked on her, Henrik drew his tunic over his head and sent it flying. As the leather went the way of her braes, he unlaced and shucked his trews. Cosmina’s mouth fell open. By the gods, he was incredible. Long limbs. Hard-bodied. Broad, strong, so beautifully made he stole her breath, then gave it back, kissing her deep, filling her lungs with his scent as he settled solid and warm against her. Opening wide to appease him, she tangled her tongue with his. He groaned. She hummed, welcoming him, cradling him in her arms, stroking her hand down the wide expanse of his back. Raised ridges ghosted against her fingertips an
d . . .
Scars. Many of them crisscrossing his back. Excep
t . . .
’Twasn’t lash marks made by a whip. ’Twas a pattern. A distinct one rooted in pain and suffering, as though someone had cut into his skin with deliberate precision. The realization startled her, dimming pleasure, raising questions, her concern for him paramount. Backing off a little, she gentled the kiss and skimmed his scars, a silent question in her touch. Cracking his eyes open, he met her gaze.
“Henrik.”
“Nay, Cosmina.” Mouth brushing hers, he shook his head. “No thinking allowed.”
“Later then,” she said, caressing his back, tracing the awful lines carved into his skin. He’d been hur
t . . .
badly, in the worst way. Someone had done this to him. A someone he despised. She saw the truth in his gaze, felt the sudden tension in his muscles even as he shrugged, denying the abuse without words. Raising her head off the pillow, she brushed her lips against the corner of his. “You know I’ll ask later.”
“But not right now.”
“Not right now,” she whispered, bowing to his wishes, allowing him his way.
Relief sparked a moment before the heat returned to his eyes. Powerful. Enthralling. He devastated her, using his hands and mouth to stroke her into submission. All thought, questions and curiosity included, left her head. Mindless for him, she spread her thighs when he asked, watched him slide down her body and lick his way across her abdomen. Need swirled into an incendiary whirlpool. Bliss rose on a ravenous wave, dragging her under as he kissed the curls atop her mound. She blinked and held her breath. He wasn’t going t
o . . .
couldn’t be planning on—
Mouth hot, he licked into her folds.
“Henrik!”
Using his shoulders, he pressed her knees wider, sank between her thighs, and laved her again. A delicious stroke right where she wanted him. A delicate flick of his tongue to the bud atop her sex. A hard swirl followed by a gentle suck and—oh aye, that was delicious, unlike anything, better tha
n . . .
than—good goddess, Cosmina didn’t know. She couldn’t breathe, much less string two thoughts together. Could only listen to her body, heed Henrik and fee
l . . .
everything, all he gave, wave after glorious wave of sensation. Deep in the eddy, pleasure slammed through her, making her toes curl. She keened, throbbing hard, tittering on the edge of something magnificent as he settled in, took his time, and bathed her in delight.
“You like that,” he growled, finding a rhythm, tongue stroking deeper, “don’t you,
iubita
?”
On the cusp of ecstasy, she didn’t answer. She allowed herself to feel instead, bowing off the bed, moving with him, begging for release. Relief. Anything. All of him, just as long as he made her come. Right now.
“Henrik, pleas
e . . .
please
.”
“Hard and fast,” he said, stroking her again. “Hard and fast, love.”
One hand pressed flat to her abdomen, he lapped at the nubbin atop her sex and slipped one finger inside her. Beautiful withdrawal. Devastating advance. Thrust and retreat. Again and again as he prepared her, stretching her gently. He sent a second finger deep. ’Twas too much, yet not enough. It was incredible, diabolical, the sweetest kind of torture. And as she lost her mind beneath him, he made her work. Made her writhe and fight for each gasp, controlling her so completely she felt nothing but him. Naught but his heat and the shocking pleasure he lavished on her. The advance and retreat, each stroke, every stunning suck and flick, and she undulated, raising her hips, fisting her hands in the sheets, begging without words.
“Scream for me, Cosmina.” Watching her from between the spread of her thighs, he nipped her gently. “Now, love. Scream for me.”
His deep voice washed over her. Bliss detonated, and she exploded into delight. Ecstasy tore his name from her throat. His grip on her tightened. Muscles flexed as he pushed her knees up and out. With a rough sound, he surged between her thighs, settled deep, set himself to her entrance, and—
Thrust hard to her center.
She screamed again, the pleasure so intense she lost herself all over again. He started to move, his hips driving against her own. Stretched to the limit, overwhelmed, deep in a maelstrom of sensation, rapture spun her around the lip of wonder. Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes. She wrapped her arms around him and held on hard, amazed by the man, ambushed by emotion, matching him stroke for incredible stroke. On the verge. Teetering on the edge of another orgasm, she moaned as passion cracked the hard shell protecting her heart. Awe and need combined, shattering her control, rising hard inside her, allowing reverence and more to bubble between the cracks of her crumbling guard.
Dangerous emotion. Inescapable weakness. Beautiful, catastrophic disaster.
Cosmina didn’t care. In that moment, she loved him true. Needed him deep. Wanted him hot and hard against her—inside her—always. A foolish hope. A dreamer’s dream, more ridiculous than real. But as he pushed her to new heights, and she listened to him shout her name, felt him tense and throb deep inside her, Cosmina held him close and made a promise to herself, vowing to fight. For him. For her. For a chance at a real future together. Henrik belonged in her arms. She knew it, felt i
t . . .
believed it. So aye, she would fight, defy destiny, and hang on to Henrik for as long as the fates allowed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Nestled against Henrik’s side with her head on his shoulder, Cosmina slid her hand across his chest. Muscle rippled beneath her palm, and she sighed, letting her pleasure show. Being held was pure heaven. Absolute bliss brought on by the fact Henrik hadn’t pushed her away. He wanted her right where she lay—snug in his arms, surrounded by his strength and her rabbit fur throw, skin pressed to warm skin. Oh she’d tried to save face after the first loving. Had made for the edge of the bed, a little unsure, a lot embarrassed by her reaction to him, by how she’d moaned and pleaded for his possessio
n . . .
For the pleasure he’d given her.
But Henrik hadn’t let her escape in the aftermath. He’d drawn her close instead, wrapped her in his embrace and held on, coaxing her into relaxation, tempting her to trust him, stealing another piece of her heart. How many that made, Cosmina didn’t know. Too many to count or was wise, but—gods—she couldn’t help herself. Hadn’t said no when he’d made love to her a second time. Nor would she object to a third. Strange. More than a touch disconcerting. Neediness didn’t suit her. She didn’t moon over men or yearn for connection. Ever.
Independent. Capable. Able to look after herself without
needing
anyone.
Well, at least, under normal circumstances.
Making love with Henrik, though, didn’t qualify as ordinary. Hot. Erotic. Fierce. Pleasure-bound exotic. Henrik epitomized each one. Which catapulted him into a category all his own—one named
things she couldn’t resist
. She wanted to deny it. Longed to bypass the realization without examining it, but couldn’t. So only one thing left to do: admit it. She was in trouble, way past the point of no return, standing in uncharted territor
y . . .
in danger of losing her heart to the hazel-eyed, hard-bodied warrior cradling her as though she were precious to him.
Precious
. She huffed. Such a frivolous thought, yet one she wished would come true. The hope made her a first-class fool. Hanging on to him—fighting to spend every moment with him, waking or otherwise, before he left—was one thing. Yearning for something more, however, was quite another. Cosmina knew it like she now knew his body.
Which was to sa
y . . .
very, very well.
He’d allowed her exploration during their second loving. Sated by the first round, he’d slowed them down, encouraging her to touch and taste, whispering naughty instructions, giving her free reign before rolling her beneath him again. She’d taken complete advantage, reveled in the power, in her ability to tease and please him as he did her. Now, though, in the body-drain of bone-melting afterglow, with the fire crackling and his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek, all kinds of questions cropped up.
Each one centered on him. His scars, and how he’d come by them, occupied her mind. But more than anything, she wanted to ask about the birthmark on his chest. Stamped over his heart, she understood what the mark represented. Unlike hers, the moon-star hadn’t been burned into his skin. He’d been born with it. Solid proof of his relationship to White Temple, and more precisely, to the royal family that ruled the Order of Orm.
Henrik was the son of the former High Priestess. A prince with magic in his blood, one anointed by the Goddess of All Things while in his mother’s womb.
An occurrence that had never happened before.
She knew the history. Had studied the tomes inside White Temple’s library as part of her training as a member of the Blessed. And yet, as she shifted against him, slipping her thigh over one of his and staring at the flames flickering in the hearth, she struggled to understan
d . . .
to put two and two together and come up with four. Naught added up. No neat columns filled with numbers recorded by the precise strokes of a quill. Everything felt skewed, out of order, as though history had shifted sometime during the last few hours, calling into question all she knew to be true.
A mystery. One at least twenty years old.
Not that the time frame mattered. ’Twas the circumstances—the trail of misinformation—that tweaked her curiosity. Eyes narrowed, she shuffled through all she knew of White Temple, the former High Priestess, and the resulting history. Huh. Interesting. She didn’t possess all the facts. Henrik was living proof of that. Particularly since a crypt with his name on it sat inside the holy city’s cemetery.
Raising her head, she pressed a kiss to his shoulder. He murmured her name. Her mouth curved as she glanced at his face. Replete, body relaxed and eyes closed, his thick lashes formed half-moons on his skin, making him seem almost boyish. She knew better. Henrik was all man. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon proving it to her, s
o . . .
She scanned his face again. Her heart kicked behind her breastbone. Heat pooled in her belly. Muscles deep inside her coiled in abject appreciation. By the gods, he was beautiful, every muscled, masculine inch of him.
“Hey, Henrik?”
Turning his head on the pillow, he cracked his eyes open. Hazel-gold glinting from behind dark lashes, the corners of his mouth tilted up. Holding her gaze, he trailed his fingertips up her arm. As she shivered in pleasure, he brushed over the bandage circling her bicep. “How is your arm, Cosmina? Not too tender?”
“A little sore, but all right,” she said, wondering how to ask about his past.
She wanted to know everything about him. Longed to be the one he talked to like she needed her next breath. And yet, fear stilled her tongue even as curiosity urged her to ask. Nerves getting the better of her, she chewed on the inside of her lip, searching for the best way to start the conversation. Should she just plunge in and let the first question fly? Or would he be more receptive to a gentler approach? Cosmina frowned. She didn’t know. Couldn’t begin to guess, but one thing for certain? His history with the Order hinted at a rough beginning and a painful past.
The empty tomb with his name on it told her that much.
Which meant she should probably leave well enough alone.
Most men didn’t tolerate prying. Some became violent. Others attacked without using their fists, maiming with cruel words or, more often than not, harsh silence. She didn’t believe Henrik would do any of those things. Not to her. Not after all that had happened. No doubt a foolish conclusion, but one she held close nonetheless. She wanted to believe she meant something to him. That the way he treated her—with respect, affection, and passionate need—would pave the way to sharing. The true kind in which physical intimacy reached across boundaries, sliding into emotional connection.
A pang tightened her chest.
’Twas probably idiotic. Naught but a silly feminine urge, and yet, she refused to discount it. Or back away. She needed to know him. Wanted every scrap of his trust and interest focused on her, and her alone. True closeness arrived that way, minting memories that would last her a lifetime. Which meant she couldn’t turn from the truth. Deduction and common sense combined, telling her something more than just bad had happened to him. Her Seer’s eye expanded, calling upon her instincts. Abuse. Abandonment. Agonizing betrayal. He’d suffered all three. Its cruel delivery perpetrated by the one woman who should have protected instead of hurt hi
m . . .
His mother. The former High Priestess of Orm.
Not surprising when she thought about it. Ylenia hadn’t been a saint. She’d been closer to the devil, possessing a terrible temper, wielding cruelty the way most women did love: with unconditional aplomb.
Watching her closely, Henrik cupped her cheek. She leaned into his touch. He hummed, caressing her skin before reversing course to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “What is it,
iubita
?”
She swallowed and reached for courage. Here went nothing. “I was wrong before.”
He raised a brow, asking without words.
“Remember when we met and—”
“Collided, you mean?”
She pursed her lips. “Probably more accurate.”
Amusement sparked in his eyes. “I have a slice in my favorite trews to prove it.”
“You are fortunate you have very fast reflexes,” she said, mischief in her tone as she slid her hand across his abdomen. Taut muscles tensed beneath her touch. Without mercy, she cupped him, taking liberties beneath the covers. “If you hadn’t been, I might have ruined something other than your trews.”
His breath caught as his hips curled, lifting off the mattress. She stroked him again, watched his gaze grow dark with desire, loving the feel of him hardening in her hand.
“Sweet Christ, Cosmina.” Breathing hard, he gripped her wrist and tugged, his message clear: talk first, another round of loving after. “What about how we met?”
Excellent question. An even better segue. Especially since it led exactly where she wanted to g
o . . .
toward answers and the truth.
Drawing in a fortifying breath, Cosmina untangled her hand from his and pushed up onto one elbow. The bed creaked beneath her. The soft sound broke through the quiet as she reached out. Her palm touched down on the center of his chest. His heat bled into her fingertips, making need rise and her want more of him. The notion tugged at her, challenging her will, then whispered in her ear, urging her to forget the truth and turn toward desire. Tempting. Oh so much easier too, but she refused to be distracted. He had a secret. She needed to know, s
o . . .
’twas now or never. Here or not at all. So instead of shying away, she set the course, sealed her fate, and, holding his gaze, drew a gentle circle around his birthmark.
Henrik tensed beneath her hand.
She swallowed hard, but held the line. “I was wrong, Henri
k . . .
when I said you didn’t belong at White Templ
e . . .
I was wrong
. ’Tis your home as much as mine.”
His gaze went flat. The dangerous undercurrent swirled in his eyes a moment before he looked away.
“Please don’t,” she said.
A muscle twitched along his jaw. “Don’t what?”
“Shut me out. I’m sorry if I’m overstepping. I know I’ve no right to ask, bu
t . . .
” Chilled by his shuttered expression, Cosmina suppressed a shiver, fighting to stay calm. Emotion wouldn’t impress him. Neither would backing down now that she was neck-deep in it. He valued strength. She needed to show him some. Mayhap if she did, he would open up and let her in. Mayhap talk would lead to trust. And mayhap, just mayhap, if she got very luck
y . . .
he’d put the past to bed, accept the solace she offered, and gift her with the truth. “We share history. You understand my world, were a part of my home and—gods, Henrik—I remember the funera
l . . .
your funeral
. The small white casket, the procession from High Temple, the burial at the stone crypt an
d . . .
all the crying. It’s one of my earliest memories.”
“Chris
t . . .
crying
.” Baring his teeth, he sat up so fast Cosmina flinched.
The covers went flying. With a quick pivot, Henrik swung his legs over the side of the bed. Afraid he intended to leave, she rolled onto her knees behind him, reached out, then stopped mid-motion. She hovered a moment, her palm a hair’s breadth from him, eyes riveted to the terrible scars marring his skin, indecision rising. What should she do? Touch him or respect the stay-away message he threw off like heat and leave him alone?
’Twas a toss-up. In every way that counted.
No one worth their salt provoked Henrik. Cosmina knew it. She’d seen him in action. Had witnessed his skills in battle firsthand. Yet, for all his strength—and ability to inflict damage and dole out death—he didn’t frighten her. He made her feel safe instead. Protected. Accepted. Valued and, aye, cherished too. An odd combination, one that bridged the distance, pushing her toward him instead of away.
Her hand settled against his back. His muscles flexed as her fingertips slid, tracing the patterns that had been cut into his skin. “Henrik, you’ve naught to fear from me. I understand loss. I feel your pain. Please talk to me.”
Planting his elbows on his bent knees, he stared at the floor between his feet. After a moment, he shook his head and, eyes haunted by unwanted memories, glanced over his shoulder at her. “The crying. It’s so much bullshit, Cosmina. No one mourned for me. No one cared.”
“Not true. I mourned you. Many of the others too.”
All the Blessed had grieved the loss. Except, perhaps, the one woman who should have: his mother.
With a growled curse, he dragged his gaze from hers and faced the hearthstone once more. Flames hissed between the logs. The mobile swayed above her head, wooden pegs clicking together in the quiet, and Cosmina held her breath, waiting for him to shrug off her touch, stand up, and stride for the door. An awful twinge streaked across her chest. It felt like empathy and presented itself as pain, tightening her throat with the threat of tears.
Poor Henrik. Blast and damn the Goddess of All Things.
She’d placed the sacred mark upon Henrik’s chest, then abandoned him to a woman without a maternal bone in her body. ’Twas the worst sort of betrayal. One Cosmina didn’t understand. The goddess had been naught but generous with her—providing protection, seeing her through the tough times, visiting her in dreams to bring her comfort—so why not do the same for Henrik? A man branded with the symbol of the Order of Orm. It didn’t make sense, but even as she acknowledged the dichotomy in the deity’s actions, Cosmina knew there must be a good reason. The goddess was nothing if not precise. All things happened for a reason. The maxim was the Blessed’s motto, one she accepted wholeheartedly. And yet as she bore witness to Henrik’s pain, Cosmina wondere
d . . .
Was she was capable of believing it anymore?
His suffering brought the question home. It all seemed so unfair. The goddess had protected her, yet abandoned him.
All things happen for a reason.
The words throbbed inside her head, making certainty rise along with something els
e . . .
the need to soothe him. Mayhap their meeting inside High Temple had been fated. Mayhap the goddess had put her in his path to atone—to make right a wrong by sending her to help him heal the wounds of the past. Mayhap she was the only one he would allow to make a difference in his life. Stranger things happened every day, so instead of pushing for answers, Cosmina stayed still and let silence speak. Rushing him wouldn’t work. Nor would pushing him toward resolution. She waited instead, heart in hand, hope rising like a specter inside her.