Shana Abe (22 page)

Slowly, slowly he placed his hands on her shoulders, testing her resistance, allowing her to break away if she chose. Her skin was warm beneath his, smooth, the bones so fine. Still she didn’t stop him. Her lips parted slightly, a short intake of breath.

He spread his fingers out, sliding his palms over her back.
The contrast of her skin against his left him feeling slightly giddy, like drinking too much ale at once. He took a step closer to her, then another half step, so that the blanket she wore touched him lightly, and he could barely feel the rise and fall of her chest, more rapid now, grazing the front of him.

She let him, she let him do all this, so she had to let him kiss her too, because he would surely die if he didn’t kiss her soon.

He bent down, still giving her plenty of time to stop him, and when she didn’t he only brushed his lips against her cheek, closing his eyes at the painful pleasure of it; a half concession to the anxiety in him of her rejection.

But Kyla turned her head to meet his lips and in an instant the passion blazed between them. As one they moved together, she put her arms around him and he crushed her to him, mindless of any earlier thoughts to go carefully, to go slowly.

She wouldn’t let him, anyway. She was a living flame in his arms, twisting up to get closer to him, meeting each of his kisses with a hunger of her own, that smoky seduction he had envisioned in her becoming so real so fast.

He let the blanket fall away from her back, caught between them both, and now his hands could fully explore the fine expanse of her, down the straight spine, the sweet dip of her waist, the tender curve of her bottom. He cupped her there and pulled her into him, lifting her, and she gasped against his lips, holding on to his shoulders. She was so light, yet real, solid flesh beneath his hands, and his body knew it perfectly well.

He pressed his lips to the hot line of her neck, tasting the dew of the rain still on her. Her hands clenched against him, knotting up the tunic he wore, pulling it tighter. He allowed her feet to touch the floor again—she was so much smaller than he, it was no effort at all to lift her up, one hand under her knees, the other under her back, the blanket trailing and trailing until it fell off of her in a whisper.

She shivered then, from the cold or the moment, he didn’t
know, but they were to the bed already. He set her down amid the pillows and the blankets, admiring everything, it was too much to take in at once. His fantasy was engulfed by the reality of her, Kyla, here with him, in his bed. The shiver took her again and her eyes turned down, shyness now.

Roland took the fur nearest to them and turned it over, holding it so that the soft down skimmed her skin, heightening sensation, brushing over her thighs, her stomach, those perfect breasts. Now she looked up at him, at the curve of the smile teasing his lips.

One hand reached up and touched his mouth, lightly, and he was stilled, letting her trace the outline of his lips, his jaw, his chin. Her eyes were narrowed, concentrating, so serious now. He moved and kissed the inside of her wrist and felt her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down to her.

He wanted to stretch out beside her and only then realized he was still fully dressed, he hadn’t yet changed from the rainstorm. His clothes were a hindrance, an unwelcome burden. He stripped out of them carelessly and she sat back and watched him until it seemed the embarrassment overtook her. Then she closed her eyes and turned her head away, licking her lips, that exquisite blush sweeping through her again.

“Kyla.” His voice was hoarse and low. It was almost too good to be true; he had been wanting her for so damned long now, she had filled his dreams with hot liquid desire, she had tormented his days with forbidden thoughts of her touch, her taste, her wetness. He had to make it like this for her, no matter how much it killed him, he had to know she wanted him as he did her.

Her skin was hot now, she had tugged more blankets over her and he found her beneath them, warming himself with her heat, almost crazed with the sensation of her bare body rubbing against his. He had to stop and grit his teeth, he had to fight the
want
that throbbed through him and demanded satisfaction now, right now.

When he was lying next to her she turned her head back, though she still wouldn’t meet his eyes, long lashes and that
small pucker on her forehead, the first sign of uncertainty. He had promised himself he would wait for her, he had promised himself he would control the fever that wanted to consume him, to consume her, take her and overpower her until she screamed with pleasure.…

He made himself pause, running his hands over her cheeks, cupping her neck, driving himself to distraction as he tried to think of how to bring her back to him. The twists of her hair in its woven bonds were hard under his touch.

Roland lifted her until she was sitting and then moved behind her, not quite fully touching, his legs surrounding hers. Kyla turned her head, a perfect profile to him, a question on her lips. He silenced her by stroking a finger across her mouth, letting the words fade away, then tracing the fullness of her lips, her cheeks, and back to her hair.

The braids were lost amid themselves to him, he had to follow the strands in and out of each other until he found the end of one tucked under itself. Unwrapping it was like finding treasure, gently combing through the strands, letting the fire stream though his fingers, unfurling in splendid waves all the way down to her waist.

He was careful with each one, taking out the pins, stroking through the length of it, admiring the fall of color against the whiteness of her back. She stayed motionless for him, only ducking her head down now and again as he rubbed his fingers against her scalp, massaging away the tightness there, selfishly feeding his own craving for her with every touch, moving down to the slope of her shoulders, kneading her skin.

At last the braids were gone, there was only the thick mass of her hair between them, cool against his chest, his stomach, unbelievably torturous against the part of him that wanted her most, and he almost couldn’t move from the unique sensation. Here was his wife in front of him, the softness of her overcoming him, the rich redness of her hair like satin, like the heat of a shooting star, inflaming him.

Roland leaned forward, sliding his hands down her arms,
slow at first and then ending with a kind of rough squeeze against him, taking his breath away as she was pressed into him, her face turning toward him.

“Kyla,” he said again, into her temple, and it was a plea now, harsh and shaking.

Where was logic when she needed it? Where were revenge and justice now? She didn’t know, she couldn’t think. She didn’t want those things any longer, they were just words, vague concepts she no longer cared about but knew she should.

Kyla tried to consider something, anything but the man with her, his touch on her shoulders, his lips whispering across her brow. Impossible. He was waiting for her, he was breathing into her hair, holding her against him. She felt the planes of his body pressed against her, that hard and exciting part of him against the small of her back, his arms secure around her, but she was not his captive. He would not force her, she knew it. The choice would be hers.

She wanted this. More than the aching inside of her, more than the hunger that saturated her and craved every part of him, more than even that she knew she wanted this fulfillment. She needed it. The girl she had been—immersed in virtue and righteous indignation—was gone, and Kyla was suddenly glad for it. She had rediscovered a woman’s feelings in this moment and it suited her. She welcomed this change. She wanted this knowledge, this mysterious thing that was about to happen.

She wanted, with her whole heart, the answer to the questions Roland had unwittingly given her with that first kiss. She had been haunted for too long, her body would not allow this moment to go unanswered. Any regrets that might have formed were now just ashes in the wind. He was the gossamer thread that held her together, he was all she wanted, and the faint, faint trembling she felt in his arms while he waited for her matched the hot yearning inside of her that was pure desire.

Kyla moved up in his embrace, turning so that she could look at him. Her dark lashes swept up, revealing honesty, still holding that passion he had recognized in her before, a caught breath in her finally being released.

Her face lifted to his, unspoken consent. Her lips welcomed
his and Roland’s instant gratitude was boundless, exuberant. She turned all the way around before him now, almost kneeling on the bed, and he had to fight the urge to lay her down and take her now. Her hands on him heated the song in his blood, feather-light, tentative, exploring his shoulders, his chest, and then lower, when she stopped, shy again. With a great effort of will he guided her, let her feel his desire, encouraged her with a moan he couldn’t stop, kissed her neck, the fragrant line of her jaw, then bit her lower lip lightly, prompting her hands to clench together in surprise.

He almost couldn’t stop then, the unexpected agony of her pleasuring him in that abrupt burst, but he pulled away in time and rolled onto his back, taking her with him so that she lay across him. The cherry silk of her hair fell in waves around them, scented with rain and with her. How he had fantasized about this moment, Kyla beside him, around him, filling him up as he wanted to fill her.

Her breasts were crushed against his chest, it was killing him, and to preserve his self-control he allowed himself to look at her for only a moment. Druid magic, haunting and soft and firm and feminine, and his, his,
his
.

It was a mistake. He lingered too long on her sensual beauty. He was going to attempt to woo her further with words, all the elaborate compliments that she deserved. Velvet lips, silver-smoke eyes.

But she was here. She was his. That was all he needed.

It was too late for him, the want in him seared away all thoughts of caution and compliments, burned him inside out, ignited the part of him he had locked away all these years, that blackness, that loss of control he’d fought so hard to banish. And so now it was too late for her, as well.

Too late for remorse, because he was already pushing her off of him so he could cover her, he was already taking one rosy nipple in his mouth, so taut, while his hand found her sweetness, petal-soft and damp, and she was responding, she was lifting her leg, she was gasping with her head back amid the covers, with surprise or pleasure, he didn’t know, but still he didn’t stop, he couldn’t stop.

She was the only thing in the world. She was the center of the universe, she was his essence, she was all of him, and everything in him told him that this was right. This was what he had been living for, right now, this moment, with Kyla beneath him, opening herself up for him, taking all of him in herself, her eyes wide with wonder and pain and shock.

He kissed away the pain, he moved to disguise it, to blunt it, to distract her because he had never wanted to hurt her but now, oh now, nothing could stop him from satisfying the darkness. For he was the darkness.

And their rhythm was the echo of the primitive force in him, driving him on, taking her with him. He shared it with her and she accepted it, the pain diminishing, her body changing from stiff resistance to something else, a recognition of this dance, her hands now clutching at him, pulling him closer.

He would die from this. He would splinter apart from the black bliss of it. She was doing this to him, his druid, her skin hot and moist, her legs coming up to enclose him, wrapping around him, her eyes like moonlight, watching him with awareness now, something new in her, sultry and alert. Full lips, her panting short and exquisite, and he moved in her, fascinated, her tightness taking him in, all of him, all of him, over and over.

The blackness was her spell, she absorbed it she spread her magic over it and gave it back to him until he couldn’t hold any more, it was too great. It spilled over him, he lost the last of his control and surrendered to it with a hoarse cry, letting go of the pleasure until the sparkling blackness in him was spent, and there was nothing left of him, no pain, no guilt, only the end.

And her, Kyla, the touchstone to prove his darkness.

T
he rain had curled his hair into shaded waves of amber and honey, flowing down with soft regularity to the pillow he lay on. It formed an incongruous halo around his sleeping features; instead of adding to the innocence of rest,
the golden curls seemed to frame the roguishness she had come to recognize in him. Even with his eyes closed, Kyla thought, her husband possessed a certain deviltry, from the slanting line of his brows to the dimple that appeared when he smiled.

She looked up, and he was looking back at her, still smiling. “You’re not asleep.” She couldn’t keep the accusation out of her voice.

“Apparently not,” he agreed, stretching his arms back behind his head.

Dawn had come and gone with both of them oblivious, but now Kyla could see it was well past that, past even the time she had awakened to yesterday—it seemed like months ago—when the children had come to escort her to a late breakfast.