Finding a tremulous smile from somewhere, Asrial pulled out of his embrace. “So let’s do this.”
Romir released her slowly, his hands lingering as they slid down her sides. “Very well.” He finally stepped back and out of reach, spreading his arms as if to say he wasn’t stopping her.
She finished undressing, leaving her folded clothes among the tree’s roots.
When she picked up the flask once more, she nearly dropped it in shock. It might have been her imagination playing tricks on her, but the flask felt vibrant against her bare breasts—almost as if it were living flesh.
Wet sand crunched underfoot, crept between her toes with rough insistence. An alien sensation.
Trepidation dragging on her heels, her feet slowed, then stopped, without her willing. She had no other options if she failed again. This long shot offered the only hope of success. The Majian texts she had access to didn’t make any mention of “waters of life,” and Romir didn’t remember any place on Maj that might be relevant. This place seemed as good as any other sea.
But what if she was wrong?
Her nerve wavered. Suddenly she was in no hurry to make her attempt. So long as she hadn’t tried, there was still a chance of freeing Romir. She could still dream of a life together. Pain had her opening her hand; short red crescents marked her palm where her nails had bitten into the skin all unthinking.
Pure foolishness.
This had to work. She couldn’t bear the thought of failing Romir again.
The water was warm, its taste laden with strange salts. The waves lapping against her naked body and the gritty sand under her legs made her uneasy, the sensations unlike anything she’d experienced before. Sitting here, under Maj’s bright sun, clad in nothing but sweat felt unnatural. Dangerous.
Romir kept pace with her, entering the water when she did, coming to a halt when she did, doing nothing to impede her advance. He took his cue from her, an undemanding presence, all quiet patience and encouragement now that he’d ceded his will to her choice.
She stopped before the water was halfway up her calves, its pale green clarity revealing forms in the wave-rippled sand farther out that she didn’t want to disturb. Surely this was deep enough?
Asrial struggled to draw a calming breath as her heart threatened to launch itself from her tight chest. She choked on a laugh. “All of a sudden, I’m scared. How foolish is that?” It was an effort to force the words out.
“Take your time. I have been djinn for centuries. A few more moments do not matter,” Romir murmured into her ear. He embraced her from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist, a band of male strength she’d come to depend on. His touch dislodged a weight on her heart, the heaviness from the dissension between them vanishing like launch steam on a hot day, thick clouds shredding into wisps.
She took an easier breath, leaning into his support, and smiled as his embrace tightened, pressing his ready erection into the crease of her backside—if she needed more proof of his willingness, there it was. Together, they could do this. She had to believe that.
“Thank you. I’m fine now.” She arched her back, deliberately teasing the hard, very male ridge branding itself into her flesh. With the flask in her hands, she had to rely on other means for foreplay.
“Good.” Releasing her, he reciprocated, his large hands rising to cup her breasts and covering them completely, his hold possessive.
Asrial could feel herself melting inside in anticipation, her body confident of what had to follow, as sure as stellar winds in deep space.
Romir didn’t disappoint. So gentle, so tender, a courtier in his exquisite care of her. He made love to her, fondling her eager breasts, his fingers brushing her nipples in slow circles, coaxing them to aching points. He planted soft, searching kisses along her shoulders, his tongue tracing delicate patterns on her skin. Flickering, fleeting, teasing, the contact ignited a fire in her core, hot and greedy, a hunger that only he could satisfy.
Wild, sweet seduction.
“Biba,”
he crooned, his breath ruffling the soft hairs of her nape, his tone making an endearment of the strange word. He nibbled on the meat of her shoulder—and lightning blazed down her spine and along her nerves, crackling, sizzling, a shock to the system.
Before the onslaught of delight, her knees gave way. “Oh!”
He caught her with a soft laugh, easing her into the water with only a small splash and settling her on his lap. His crossed legs made an unusual seat, a steady strength beneath her, his chest hot against her back, his erection just as hot against her backside. He surrounded her, protecting her from the sea’s more energetic waves.
The new position didn’t slow his seduction. Romir’s hands, his mouth, his smooth chest, his stubbled jaw—his whole body—stroked her with artful intent. He took full advantage of the fact that she couldn’t use her hands. A lick and nibble here, a squeeze and caress there, the subtle slide of his hair hanging loose and wet across her breasts, the rocking of his hips. He murmured toe-curling promises as he nibbled on her ear, telling her how he intended to make love to her, vowing not to rest until she was boneless from satiation.
Her heart skipped, her body heating with anticipation. Need unfurled, a crimson flower blooming under his exquisite care. When Romir decided to support her decision, he didn’t stop at half measures. She couldn’t resist his persuasion—and had no wish to.
The sea joined in. The waves topped her thighs, splashing around them and washing over their legs with almost sentient insistence. Pleasure whispered through her in blissful little quivers and riotous wisps of sweet sensation, triggered by his play. Light dazzled her, thousands of stars adorning the waves. Like a dream.
But this was real.
And their purpose here was more important than simple pleasure.
She dropped her gaze to Romir’s prison, the focus of their hopes for a future together. It looked unchanged, still that distinctive golden brown prized by collectors of Majian artifacts, still with that dark, elaborate etching around its base, still retaining the shape of a stylized phallus.
The previous failure hovered in the back of her mind. How would they be able to tell if this attempt was successful?
Twenty - eight
Romir’s caresses grew
bolder, his fingers gliding over the tender skin of her inner hips and between her legs, combing through her curls. He ground his palm on her aching mound, but the hard pressure did little to ease her growing hunger, setting off flares of desire along her nerves.
“Touch me.” Her voice broke, needy to her ears, but that didn’t matter, only that he fill the melting emptiness he’d awakened inside her.
“Biba.”
Whispering a kiss along her neck, he parted her folds, using a thumb to rub and circle her clit. His fingers pressed into her, probing, filling, delighting. So deep. Two . . . three of them. He knew just how to drive her wild.
The flask warmed in her hands, almost as though it invited her touch. Though she knew Romir disliked her touching his prison, she couldn’t stop herself from running its neck between her breasts. It didn’t feel like pottery at all. Its warmth seemed to beat against her palms, an insistent, rhythmic beat—like a rapid pulse. It felt alive, though that should have been impossible.
She rubbed it over herself, inhaling sharply as her nipples throbbed at the contact. The electric spark leaped from her breasts, zinging to the center of her being. It was almost like a pleasure wand, inflaming her desire.
A groan rumbled behind her, half protest, half incitement, and all male hunger. Romir was chanting her name, she realized belatedly. The hoarseness in his voice sent a thrill through her, the strength of his desire for her more arousing than any toy she could buy.
Spirit of space, this had to work. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.
“No more,
biba
. I must have control for the moment.” Asrial barely recognized the guttural growl as his, so deep did it sound, as though torn from his bones.
“But after you’re free, I want you to make love to me hard and fast.”
“Of course. As often as you wish.” The grunted promise resonated deep within her, evoking a heart-pounding vision of the future hovering within reach.
Locking his hands around her thighs, Romir raised her nearly out of the water, spreading her legs wide as his hard length slid down her backside in a heated caress, a brush of velvet strength that made her quiver. Then he brought her back down. The blunt tip of him pressed into her, the broad head stretching her welcoming flesh.
He entered her slowly. Breathtakingly slow. So slow she had time to count her heartbeats. Then he was completely in, and she could breathe again.
The sensation of him filling her, stretching her to overflowing, was a glory she could never tire of. Perfect union. The gentle nudge of him against her womb was a sweetness unlike any other, silent reassurance that they were together.
Romir started to move, rocking her once more. This time Asrial didn’t protest. They could not afford haste. This was no race to the finish where she could lose herself to sensation. She had to remember their purpose.
The sea’s steady murmur mingled with Romir’s growls of praise and her own gasps. The waves splashing over them magnified the delight of his caresses.
She rolled her hips, her breath catching at the feel of Romir swirling deep inside, the ridge of his head rasping against her delicate muscles. Her hunger rose with each velvet nudge, spiraling higher and ever higher.
Needing to touch Romir, to feel more of him than just his thickness inside her, she reached down with one hand, finding a lean hip with which to anchor herself as she ground down against him. Together. They were together.
Desire gathered, spinning out to a precarious edge, the coiled hunger inside her nearly at the breaking point.
“Yes, just so. Give me your passion,
biba
.”
Then it began—
A slow, sweet slide to breathless ecstasy.
Rapture broke, spilling through her veins in a thunderous bloom of pure sensation. Closing her eyes to shut out the endless expanse of water dancing before her, Asrial sagged against Romir, her head coming to rest on his shoulder, too heavy for her neck. Without the light-gilt waves to distract her, the feeling of fullness intensified, the sheer bliss of it forcing the air from her lungs.
She could only hope it was an omen of things to come.
Waves washed over
them, salty with the memories of unseen shores. Romir allowed the steady rhythm to rock them, the sensual friction triggering another string of tiny sparks along his length as Asrial quivered around him.
Curls the color of old askeiwood clung to his skin, damp from the spray and Asrial’s sweat. They tickled, teasing him with possessive caresses that grew wilder as she tossed her head.
Her open passion seduced—the flush on her usually pale cheeks, the dark pink of her full lips, the color across the slopes of her breasts, and the darker pink of her drawn nipples all announced without shame her desire for him. She called to him, and he could not help but respond.
Need lashed him with pinpricks of wanting, a carnal hunger honed to a cutting edge that could not be satisfied—for the last time, if they succeeded.
His name drifted into the air on a husky moan that resonated through his essence, gratification spearing him with elation. Clutching his prison to her hard-tipped breasts, Asrial panted, her breath caressing its surface. Moist heat curled through him from the black star on his shoulder, seductive coils urging him to submit.
And this time, he dared not resist.
Careful not to touch the flask, Romir stroked the sides of her breasts, the firm mounds tempting him to take her in hand. He sucked on the tender lobe of her ear to draw out her release.
Asrial gasped, throwing her head back as she rocked in his lap. Her wet flesh squeezed his length yet again, fluttering around him with those sweet, seductive ripples that honed the familiar edge of desire to razor sharpness. “Good . . . you feel so good.”
He reached between her legs, found the entrance of her body stretched around him and the hard nub veiled by her curls. Her dew flowed over him, easing his thrusts as he rocked under her. More slicked his fingers as he circled her nub, drawing another cry of delight from Asrial and another wave of ripples.
Proof of passion, proof of pleasure, proof of life . . .
Yes, this was it. Now was the time.
She groaned his name, her short nails digging into his hip.
“Here.” Romir cupped her hand, guided her to their joined flesh. She had to be the one to do it, to take her cream and anoint his prison. “Take the next step.”
Delight scorched him in a blast of heat as her fingers scraped him—scraped both of them—her nails adding sensation upon sensation. He shivered at the contact, something inside him welcoming the possessive friction. The unspoken claim on his body as hers. For always.
Closing his eyes against the distraction, he mustered his will. He had to shake his head to clear it of the carnal hunger fogging his thoughts. What else was there?
Patterns . . . there had been patterns in the message. The threads needed to bring power to bear to unravel the djinn weave.
As Asrial smeared her cream across the flask, he plucked the threads of power—blue, red, green, black, white—and started to weave, focusing on the proof of her passion, on the pattern of life it carried and its link to her essence. He understood now the insidious logic of the Mughelis. Unraveling the djinn weave required the master’s deliberate cooperation. No djinn could have unraveled it working alone.
Pleasure sang through the black star, the djinn mark sinking its hooks deeper into Romir, ready to draw him back. He surrendered to the sensations as he continued to weave. This time, he did not fight the call of his prison, embracing necessity in willing sacrifice. If he returned to the gray mists, then so be it. He would serve his
biba
to the best of his ability—in any form—in any way she wanted.