“I know what I see,” he breathed into her ear and thrust against her palm. “Know what I hold. This is what you do to me.”
She would have fallen had he not held her up with an arm wrapped around her back. She sought his mouth, touched her lips to his. He opened to her seeking tongue, allowing her to delve inside and stroke his mouth. His tongue twined with hers, giving back as much as he took. He tasted better than summer wine, better than the first harvest fruits of spring.
The kiss deepened, a mating of tongues that mimicked the slow thrust of his hips. His hands wandered over her body, sliding down her back, cupping her buttocks. They left trails of fire in their wake, and Martise moaned in his mouth.
His fingers worked the ties of her tunic, tugging until he grew frustrated and pulled away from her. In the half-light, his sharp cheekbones were flushed, and his mouth swollen from her kiss. “I’ve a mind to see all of you, Martise, and not much patience to wait. How badly do you want to save this garb?”
If she wasn’t down to this and her newly sewn skirt and tunic, she’d help him rip it off her. Instead, she smiled and blushed and unlaced ties with impressive speed. The skirt fell to the floor. Her shoes skidded to a corner, and Silhara helped her pull the tunic over her head. She was left standing covered only by her unbound hair and warm fire glow.
She didn’t think it possible, but his eyes darkened even more. He lifted a lock of her hair and brushed it over her shoulder, revealing her breast and the gentle curve of her waist. He said nothing, but his gaze, black and smoldering as it traveled from the top of her head to her toes, spoke volumes. She glanced at the front of his trousers, saw the curve of his erection pressed hard against the fabric.
In a show of courage, she swept the rest of her hair back, giving him full view of her. She raised her hands, palms up. “Sorry,” she teased. “No third breast.”
He blinked, then laughed at her reminder of their encounter in the stillroom. She grinned, pleased she’d once again made him laugh outright, even now in this moment of intense intimacy. His laughter changed to a seductive smile. Martise caught her breath when he closed the small gap between them. His fingers traced a path over her collarbones, lingered at the hollow of her throat before sketching a line between her breasts. Her nipples drew tight in anticipation of his touch.
“I’m more impressed with quality than quantity.” At that, even his smile faded. He circled the outline of each breast with his fingers, finally cupping them in his hands. She arched into his warm palms. “You are beautiful beyond measure,” he whispered against her mouth.
This kiss was unlike the one they just shared. Fiercer, harder, it demanded she yield to his desire, slake the need coursing through him. He caressed her breasts, sliding the rough pads of his thumbs across her nipples over and over, until she writhed in his arms and moaned into his mouth. He delved into her mouth, sucking on her tongue. His hands left her breasts, tracked the curve of her waist and slid over her hips to pull her hard against him. She whimpered as his cock rocked against her cunnus. A wave of heat spiraled out from the center of her body. She wanted him inside her, needed him naked against her.
Her hands clawed at his shirt as she kissed him. They broke apart, panting. “How badly do you want to save this shirt?” she asked.
Silhara grinned and whipped the shirt over his head, again treating her to the sight of his chest and stomach. The breeches followed, and he stood before her, burnished in gold and amber. He was sleek and taut, darkened by the sun and muscled by the demands of the grove. The proof of his desire for her rose from the nest of dark curls between his legs.
“Like what you see?”
“Oh yes,” she sighed and fell into a feverish sea when he crushed her against him, skin against skin.
He played havoc with her senses and her body. Hands and tongue, the silky brush of his hair against her nipples, a long finger sliding deep into her wet cunnus, the low, harsh groans emanating from his throat. His cock pressed along the inside of her thigh, and she parted her legs, eager to bring him close.
“The bed,” she whispered between hard kisses.
“Is too far away.” He bent, sucked a nipple in his mouth and drove her to madness with the play of his tongue across its tip.
Her knees gave way a second time, and this time he followed her down to the rug, stroking and learning her contours with his tongue until she stretched out beneath him. Despite the cool, rain-laden air in the room, she was sweltering. Sweat trickled between her breasts, and he licked it away before plying his mouth to each breast.
She groaned, so aroused by his seductive touch, she squirmed across the carpet. Silhara held her down, navigating a path across her midriff, pausing to dip his tongue in the shallow pool of her navel. When he reached her thighs, he stopped.
“Open for me, Martise.” His tongue swept his lower lip in a lascivious motion. “I crave the taste of you.”
Somewhere, in the part of her mind still capable of thought, she wondered if half the countryside could hear her cries and moans. Silhara tortured her with his tongue, his fingers, seeking the heart of her passion, sucking gently on the spot that made her mewl and buck against him.
He only quickened his pace when her back arched off the floor. The heat concentrated between her thighs, under Silhara’s stroking mouth, and spread throughout her body. Blood coursed through her veins, hot and bubbling. Her fingers dug into his sweat-slick shoulders, and her legs convulsed. She cried out as sensation burst within her, and she crooned his name.
Shattered by her climax, she could only pant when he suddenly loomed over her, arms braced on either side of her head. Black hair shrouded her in a silken curtain. Silhara’s mouth glistened, and his eyes blazed. His voice was guttural, hoarse. “The door is still unlocked.”
She stared at him, stunned. Even now, with his lips glistening from her orgasm and his cock thrusting gently against her cunnus, he offered her the chance to stop and douse the fire between them.
She ran her hands over his quivering arms, the sculpted biceps and muscular forearms. One hand spread over his hip while the other wrapped around his cock. It pulsed in her grip. A trickle of his seed wet her fingers, and she circled the tip, coating the smooth head. He inhaled sharply.
“And the bed is still too far away,” she said, pulling him down to her. Her legs rose, slid over his hips until her ankles locked at his back and anchored him.
It was all the coaxing he needed. He mounted her, sinking deep on a low moan until his bollocks rested against the curve of her bottom. Martise echoed his sounds, savoring the swell of him within her, the slide and stretching, the flex of inner muscles as she gripped his cock and tightened. He filled her as if he’d been made for her, touching every sensitive spot until she thought she would burn beneath him.
He set a rapid pace, taking her hard enough to scoot her across the rug with his thrusts. Martise held on, hips lifting to bring him deeper. Her teeth clicked against his in a savage kiss, and she tasted blood.
He broke the kiss. "Say my name, Martise."
He snarled the command, but she wasn't afraid. His hips rocked against hers, and she was impaled on his cock, reveling in his fierce possession. For a few brief hours, he was as much hers as she was his, and she could tell him how much he meant to her in a softly spoken name.
Every desire, every craving, every forbidden wish—she infused into her voice. “Silhara.”
He gasped, a tortured sound, and his eyes rolled back. Martise clutched him to her as he shuddered, felt the sudden pulse of his shaft, his release followed by a wet heat as he came inside her.
He hunched over her, chest heaving as he strove to breathe. She clasped his hips with her legs to maintain their connection, reluctant to give him up. He slowly lowered his weight onto her, careful not to crush her.
His hair fell in front of his eyes, and she pushed it away with gentle fingers. His eyes were closed, and his breathing slowed to a steady rhythm.
“Is the d
oor still unlocked?” she teased.
He didn’t open his eyes, but rolled to his side, bringing her with him. His hand swept over her hip and cupped her buttocks to pull her closer. “Yes. And the bed is definitely too far away.”
Martise caressed his arm, delighting in the feel of him pressed against her from shoulder to ankle. They were both slippery with sweat. She chuckled, then winced at the stinging pain blossoming on her lower back. She reached back and touched the spot. “Ouch!”
He eyed her, surprised by her exclamation. “What’s wrong?”
She hissed as the stinging grew more intense. “Kurman carpets aren’t nearly as soft as they’re touted.”
He shifted so she rested atop him and levered himself to look over her shoulder. When he lay back, he wore a sheepish smile. “You’ve an impressive rug burn back there.”
Her eyes widened. “Truly? I never felt it happening.”
His smile turned smug. “Didn’t you?” He swatted her lightly on the bottom, careful to avoid her abrasion. “Lie down on the unreachable bed. I’ve an unguent that will ease the sting and help it heal.”
He slid slowly out of her as she lifted herself off him, leaving behind a pearlescent trickle on her thigh. She knocked her knees together. “The linens. If I rest there now…”
He rose and stared at her with a mix of annoyance and amusement. “Martise, that bed and all its linens will be utterly destroyed by morning.”
A pleasurable heat suffused her. He wasn’t through with her. She smiled. Good. She wasn’t through with him either. Even now, with her thighs wet with his seed and her insides still throbbing, she ached for him. Wanted him inside her, in her mouth, taking and giving.
He padded to the chest by the bed and opened the lid. The slow burn of desire washed her skin as she watched him. Long legs and small, taut buttocks were complimented by a slim waist and wide shoulders. The look he shot her over his shoulder let her know he’d caught her admiring his nude body. “Are you going to stand there all day?”
She shuffled to the bed and stretched out on her stomach. The frame creaked under his weight when he sat down on the edge and placed a small jar on the table holding the basin. Martise rested her head on her folded arms.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He dipped his fingers in the unguent. “More apologies. What for now?”
She giggled at his exasperation and sucked in a breath when the cold salve touched her sore back. The discomfort only lasted a moment, replaced by a warmth that eased the pain as Silhara spread the salve over her abrasion. His hands were magic in more ways than one.
“What are you sorry for?” he asked.
She hid a yawn behind her hand, lulled by the caressing circles he drew on her back. “This sore. I can’t lie on my back now.”
The circular stroking halted. Silhara snorted. “First, that scrape is my doing, not yours. Second, your Balian, for all his bragging, obviously lacked imagination as well as intelligence when he taught you the pleasures of the flesh.” She raised her buttocks automatically when his hand slipped between her thighs and cupped her cunnus. He kissed her shoulder while his fingers teased her. “I don’t need you on your back for anything, Martise, unless you want to go star-gazing with me.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Silhara positioned the ladder against the bookshelves and cursed as a rain of dust cascaded on his head. He squinted and waved the cloud away from his face. “Martise is right,” he muttered. “We’re drowning in dust.”
He climbed the ladder to the topmost shelf and swiped at the intricately spun spider webs covering the line of grimoires. The library at Neith contained books and scrolls Conclave refused to archive. He and his predecessor had no such reservations. Manuscripts that told of the magery of the Waste were shelved next to books on the proper protocol for sacrificing a victim and calling up a demon.
Today he searched for tomes on the black arcana, forbidden spells and invocations, curses and possessions. Despite Conclave’s assumptions and his reputation, he merely dabbled in the darker spells. The curse magic lingering over the oaks at Neith’s entrance and the deadly enchantments surrounding the grove’s stone enclosure were the only things he’d ever pulled from these dusty books and employed for his use. And they sucked the strength out of him. Dark spells, powerful and effective, demanded a high and constant price.
His fingers traced the spines of the books, skin tingling as he touched the leather-bound pages. The covers were smooth and faded, worn by time and made of hides whose origins he didn’t want to guess. Finding the one he wanted, he climbed down the ladder and found a place by the window to read. Somewhere, in those cryptic passages, was the answer to the puzzle of Martise’s Gift.
There was nothing dark about her talents. He had never felt more alive or cleansed than when she shared her Gift with him. Nor as powerful. The last had given him his first inkling of where he might find information about the nature of her Gift. Something that strong was coveted, and not always by benevolent forces.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, and clouds drifted in a cerulean sky. No hint of the storm he’d called down two days before remained. Even the mud in the shaded bailey was drying. Silhara stared, unseeing, at the books before him, lost in the seductive memories of the hours spent in his bedchamber with Martise while the rain fell.
Bedding her had only increased his hunger for her, and even now, he grew hard at the recollections of her body bathed in candlelight and the feel of her surrounding him. The scrape on her back didn’t stop him from taking her time and again through the day and into the night. She was adept at making him gasp in mindless ecstasy when she mounted and rode him hard.
When they rested together, panting and sweating from a bout of lovemaking, he’d tucked her against his side and satisfied his curiosity about her life at Asher.
He raised her hand and ran a finger over the toughened skin of her palm. “This isn’t the hand of a pampered woman. And you didn’t earn these calluses at Neith. Cumbria doesn’t think much of his less fortunate relations, does he?”
She followed the path of his fingers with her eyes and shrugged. “He didn’t pay much attention, and he was more often at Conclave than Asher. He sometimes called me back to Conclave if he wanted me to translate something private, but that wasn’t often. His wife saw to my care when I was at Asher.”
He imagined just what kind of “care” the mad Dela-fé doled out to those subjected to her will. He also imagined pinning the woman to his bailey fence with a few well-planted daggers. “I’m sure she did. I’m surprised you have no whip marks on your back. Even the most obedient servant couldn’t escape that woman’s malice.”
“She was skilled with the switch and could draw blood without scarring.”
“A talent I’m sure she bragged about to all her aristo friends.”
Her bottom was smooth beneath his palm, and he spread his hand over the rounded curve. “What did you do at Asher?”
Only the faintest stiffening hinted at her unease at his question. Her voice was uninflected, and she even smiled a little.
“Much as I do here at Neith. I cleaned, laundered, made soap, took care of livestock, harvested olives, worked in the presses and served at formal dinners. I also acted as the bishop’s scribe.”
She wasn’t telling him something. Cumbria might not have cared how Martise managed at Asher, but she was of value to him—beyond the mundane labor of a servant.
“How old were you when you became a novitiate of Conclave?”
She caressed him as he did her, running her hand along the length of his leg and over his hip. He savored her touch. She felt good—right—in his arms. “I was twelve,” she said. “A high priest visited Asher and brought a mage-finder with him. The dog snapped his leash trying to get to me.”
Her fingers tickled where she ran her hand along his jaw before resting it against his cheek. “They never spoke of you at Conclave. Neither the priests nor the students. At least not
by name. There were rumors of a student banished on threat of death from the canonry. Was that you?” Her copper eyes reflected the glow of the brazier’s dimming light.
“What? They aren’t singing my praises at dawn prayers?” His lip curled. “They considered me too dangerous to let loose so they sent me here to Neith, to the Master of Crows.”
“You mentioned a first Master of Crows once. Did you inherit the title?”
“The title, the reputation and Neith itself.” He pressed his cheek against her hand. “Make no mistake. I’ve lived down to the insult and its notoriety. Conclave thought they sent me to a carrion mage who’d use me as demon bait. My mentor had other plans.”
Her eyes closed for a moment. When she gazed at him again, a deep-seated anger, tempered with sympathy, sparked in her eyes. “I see why you hate them—the priests.”
If she only knew just how deep that hatred ran. He banished the dark thoughts and contented himself with caressing her warm body. By rights, he should despise her as well. She was an instrument of Conclave, sent to Neith to spy on him, and she might well succeed in her endeavor, but he didn’t despise her. Far from it, and the emotion welling within made him shy away from those thoughts quicker than his ruminations over the god.
Her lips parted beneath his, supple and yielding. She wasn’t the beauty the houri Anya was, but she was brave and witty, learned and exceptionally observant. She fit in his arms like no other. Long after she returned to Neith, he’d remember her—and yearn for her.
He growled into her mouth and rolled over so that she sat astride him. Her hair curtained him in fragrant waves. A quick lift of her hips and he was inside her, sinking slowly into a tight, welcoming heat.
Martise’s eyes gleamed, and her voice was breathless. “Can you star-gaze now, Silhara of Neith?”
He gripped her hips in his hands as she rode him, letting her set the pace until he was maddened with need. He brought her down to him, kissed her until they were both breathless and shaking. He plunged into her over and over, desperate to get closer, desperate to possess. So intense was his desire that his Gift rose of its own accord, summoned not by the working of a spell but by the ferocity of his passion. And hers answered.