Thief of Light (22 page)

The melody began deep in Erik’s chest, so soft and blurred it was scarcely there. His gaze still fixed on the water, he reached out and drew her into the shelter of his arm. Hot chills danced up and down her spine. Slowly, it grew and grew, a song without words, but clear and pure, each rich, arching note shaping the warm, salty air into something of ineffable beauty. The phosphorescent lights glowed and pulsed like a living rainbow.

Prue resisted the urge to settle her head against Erik’s shoulder.
Come to me.
The call echoed back and forth off the walls of the chamber, an irresistible summons.
Come, come
. But that wasn’t all it was. There was the promise of comfort threaded through it, of love and laughter, a sense of coming home.

Safe harbor forever.

He was warm, so very warm, and he was stroking her arm, again and again, the lightest absentminded brush with his fingertips.

The tears welled up and spilled over. It might be Magick and it might not, but she knew she’d never have this again—this moment of crystalline, perfect beauty. A single gift to last her entire lifetime. Prue drew gradually closer until every inch of her side was in contact with some part of him. She pressed her open palm over his heart, feeling the steady beat of his life, his broad chest rising and falling with the formless melody.

When she inhaled, she seemed to taste the salt on his skin.

The song swelled, the echoes joining in, until her head was ringing with it, the vibrations thrumming in her very bones.

“Hoot!”

Erik lifted Prue’s hand from his chest and kissed the palm. Then he squeezed it gently, once, twice. When she looked up, blinking, he smiled, still singing, and nodded toward the water.

“Hoot!”

Prue’s head whipped around.

Something cut through the water, moving sinuously in and out of the glimmering shadows. Two somethings.

Her heart trying to beat its way out from behind her ribs, Prue reared up, peering.

A round blue face popped out of the water, almost under her nose.

At her stifled shriek, it disappeared just as promptly, leaving only a glittering swirl behind.

Erik chuckled, but almost immediately, he resumed the song, this time with words. “
She won’t hurt you. See how pretty she is, pretty, pretty Prue
.”

Gods, how silly did he think she—

Cautiously, a tubelike snout broke the water. The seelie sculled about on its back, watching her out of huge dark eyes. It was smaller than she’d expected, about the size of a medium dog.

Prue froze, her eyes wide with wonder. A myth, a story for children, there in the blue-furred flesh.

“Burble, hoot, hoot, burble,” it sang, and she realized what the echoes had been.

She glanced at Erik and stopped, transfixed. His posture, his face, everything about him spoke of pure joy, not something as weak as mere happiness, but fulfillment of the soul. He looked as if some god had lit a candle inside him. Here, under the Pleasure Leaf, with the seelies—with
her
, Prue McGuire—he was fully present in a way she hadn’t seen before.

Her foolish heart squeezed with longing.

On the other side of the chamber, a second seelie arched out of the water in an exuberant leap.

Erik switched the beat to something irresistibly toe-tapping, and the seelies began to dance—there was no other word for it—just the two of them, an exhilarating pas de deux of twists and rolls and near misses in the air that had her gasping. Prue laughed aloud, clapping her hands, fizzing with delight.

It finished too soon, the seelies slowing the pace and Erik subsiding to a hum and then a murmur, and finally, silence.

Wavelets gurgled and lapped against the walls of the chamber.

The seelies bobbed in the water, an arm’s length from the ledge. “Thank you,” said Prue in a shaky whisper. “Oh, thank you.”

Two sets of protuberant eyes regarded her unblinking. She could have sworn they looked . . . anxious.

“Hoot?”

“I gave my word,” said Erik. “I’ll do it. And she’ll help.”

“Oh yes.” Prue leaned forward. “I promise too.”

“Burble! Hoot!”

And they were gone.

Erik and Prue stared at each other in silence. Eventually, he reached out to wipe the moisture from her cheek with a gentle thumb. “Shall we go back?”

She shook her head. “I need . . . a little time.”

Erik settled more comfortably against the wall behind them and held out a hand. He didn’t speak.

Never again, she’d never have this again. Reality was waiting, with all its familiar, depressing problems—her own inadequacies as a woman, shown so clearly by the way he’d turned away from her last night. And on top of it all, the Open Cabal yet to face. No one would believe them.

She knew it was weak, cowardly even, but she refused to think of it, to end this precious time out of time, caught like a teardrop trembling on the lashes.
Merciful Sister, just a few more moments
.

Prue placed her hand in Erik’s and crept closer. When she nestled into his shoulder, he sighed and turned to rest his cheek on the top of her head.

She wasn’t sure how long they lay there. It felt like a dream of peace, so drifty and disconnected she couldn’t tell whether she’d actually dozed off. Imperceptibly, the gentle touch caressing her skin became an integral part of the languid, floating sensation. Feather light, his fingertips traced the outline of her shoulder blade beneath damp fabric, explored the hard, delicate shape of her spine, traveled to the nape of her neck and soothed.

Prue sighed with pleasure. A minute hesitation and Erik shifted his attentions to her throat, the shell of her ear. When he smoothed her hair back, she lifted her face toward the caress like a child.

But she didn’t open her eyes because something inside her was unraveling and he mustn’t see.

A tender fingertip wandered over her eyebrow. “Prue.” The word was so soft, it was more a vibration in his chest than an actual sound. “Please don’t cry.”

She made a negative sound.
I’m not
.

Warm lips brushed one eyelid, then the other. “I’m sorry,” he said. “So very sorry.”

Prue screwed her eyes shut tighter. “Don’t . . .” But what she really meant was,
Don’t make this real, don’t spoil my beautiful dream.

“Sshh.” The kisses were light as air, there only as fleeting, tingling sensations—on her dimpled cheek, her jaw, her nose, her closed eyes. That warm mouth touched hers, nuzzling to and fro. Delicately, he brushed his tongue over the cushion of her lower lip, making her quiver.

She didn’t open her eyes, not even when he shifted her gently in his arms and dusted kisses down her throat, lingering over her thundering pulse. All she wanted was to pretend in the dark behind her eyelids, to willfully believe in his tenderness, to imagine he really loved her. When he brushed the swelling undercurve of her breast with his knuckles, she drew a deep breath, her nipples tightening in shameless response. When he sealed his mouth over one, she arched and a low moan escaped her. Sweet Sister, so hot and strong and gentle, all at once, the stubble on his cheek a delicious rasp through the fine fabric.

“Aren’t you even going to look at me?” Deft fingers loosened on her laces, exposing her quivering breasts to the salty twilight atmosphere of the chamber. An instant’s silence while she listened to his rough breath. “Gods. Gorgeous.” Currents of heated air swirled around her, fondling her breasts, licking at her nipples. Without looking, she knew they were standing long and proud, begging for his attention.

Prue threw one arm over her eyes.
It’s only a dream, a dream of what love can be. A memory you can keep forever.

“If you want me to stop, sweetheart, you have to say so.” She heard his breath whistle between clenched teeth. “Now.” Everywhere his flesh touched hers she could feel what his control was costing him, his flesh unyielding, like a big piece of sun-warmed timber.

Don’t wake, don’t open your eyes and spoil it. It’s a
dream, a beautiful dream.
Hair like damp silk whispered across her sternum and broad palms stroked over her ribs to frame her aching breasts. Erik’s assault was exquisitely gentle—she would never have thought such a big man capable of so light a touch—but inexorably thorough. He didn’t miss an inch of skin, not with fingers, lips or that hot, clever tongue.

It wasn’t until he was nibbling around her navel, while his thumbs flicked back and forth over her tormented nipples, that it dawned on her he’d pushed the nightgown right up to her waist. Returned abruptly to reality, she opened her mouth, but whatever she’d been about to say strangled in her throat as he shifted and all the air whooshed out of her in a gust.

In a single smooth movement, Erik slid down between her legs. With a faint splash, he slipped into the water up to his waist. His long fingers gripped her buttocks, lifting her to his mouth as if she were a ripe fruit. He was humming, a wordless croon that had no real melody but was redolent of masculine purpose. Possession.

The floaty, trancelike state disappeared, grounded abruptly in the physical here and now. The echoes of Prue’s scream overlapped, bouncing off the walls of the chamber and gradually fading away to soft, frantic sobs.

He didn’t gobble, he was precise, almost finicky, as though he was restraining himself, holding back. His breath vibrated against her excruciatingly sensitive flesh as his tongue flicked back and forth across her clitoris with pinpoint accuracy, driving her crazy.

She’d had a lover do this before, but only one, and although he’d certainly appeared to enjoy it, Prue had been too embarrassed to relax, and climax had eluded her. In the end, she’d pretended rather than disappoint him.

Now though, she was too wild, too frenzied, for anything that coherent. Gods, she had no idea! If she’d been able to think, she would have been amazed at the range of demanding noises that came out of her mouth, the pleas, the whimpers. The salty breeze that swirled around the chamber seemed no more than an expression of her need. Her eyes flew open. Fumbling, she sank the fingers of one hand into his hair.

“Ow.” Then he chuckled, a low wicked sound that screwed the tension up another unbearable notch. “Gods, you taste divine.” He licked his lips.

When her hips surged in instinctive response, he grinned. Even in the shadows of the chamber, she could see the feverish glitter of his eyes, the high spots of color on his cheekbones. “All sweet and salty. And in here”—he slid a gentle finger inside, massaging the clinging walls of her sheath—“you’re absolutely fucking perfect, so hot and wet.” A second finger joined the first, and he purred with approval when she ground down against them, her head thrashing. “All mine. Mine to pleasure, mine to fuck.”

Slowly, he rotated his wrist, finding a sweet spot deep inside she hadn’t known she had. This time, when he sealed his lips over her dripping folds, his intent was clear. The flat of his tongue rubbed over her clitoris, again and again, strong measured sweeps, pushing her up and up, building a coil of tension that tightened inexorably deep in her pelvis.

Drumming her heels on his back—how had her legs got there?—she tried to speak, but she’d forgotten how. Finally, she gasped, “P-please. Make me—” He wrapped his tongue around the throbbing bundle of nerves that was her clit and gave it a tweak. Prue had no breath left to shriek. She bucked under his hands.

“Ah, you beg so beautifully,” he murmured, pushing those diabolical fingers a trifle deeper. “What was it you said?”

“Erik.” She dragged in a breath. “Damn you to hell,
do it
!”

“Yes.” A split-second pause. “
Yes!
”

If she hadn’t been so ready, it might have hurt. Instead, the strong suction felt glorious, exactly what she needed to tip her over. The tension trembled for a terrifying instant, vibrating like a single note sustained almost beyond bearing. Then it shattered. Erik, the chamber, the water—Prue herself—everything exploded in a burst of white-hot release.

Fragments of pleasure rained down, continuing to sear her with tiny licks of lightning, so that she shuddered with the aftershocks, over and over. Vaguely, she wondered if she would ever breathe normally again, let alone walk, talk or function. Every bone in her body had been reduced to the same consistency as overcooked noodles.

Gradually, the hardness of the ledge beneath her hip made itself known, growing lumpier and more insistent by the minute. Oh gods, how was she going to face him? She must be sprawled with her knees wide and her gown hiked up around her waist, no better than the cheapest dockside tart.

Her heart still thundering, Prue struggled to her elbows, dreading it.

Her feet dangled off the end of the ledge, submerged in water up to the ankles. The nightgown covered her knees, though her breasts still played peekaboo with the unlaced bodice. He must have . . .