“Zevan, every reason you give for why I shouldn’t choose you just makes it more clear why I should.” Leaving his hands resting over her breast, she laid her own palms on his cheeks, cradling his face gently.
“You play make-believe games, in which you must use philosophy and strategy to defeat your opponents.” He flushed in shame, and she gave his head a little shake. “Do you think that strategy is any less useful in real life? Have you forgotten that the man who wrote The Art and Grace of Warfare was a military genius in truth?”
She took a deep breath, and he realized his hands were still pressed to her breast and pulled back with a little jerk. She followed the movement, standing tall on her knees and leaning into his body.
“You’ve been isolated from the running of the Aerie,” she agreed, “and if the Aerie were properly run, that would be a handicap.” She shook her head, eyes glinting with amber and blue sparks. “As it is, I can only thank the Mother that you’ve been kept free of the corruption that poisons your home.” Still cupping his cheeks in surprisingly gentle hands, Temair pressed her forehead to his.
“Lord Zevan, in the week and more we’ve been at the Aerie, I’ve not found a man more suited for the role of Third Consort.”
A faint, fragile hope trembled in his heart, one he tried to crush unborn because he knew he’d never survive the disappointment.
“You’ve two of the most beautiful, accomplished men in the Queendom for your first two Consorts,” he forced himself to say. “What possible use could you have for me?”
The princess pulled back and surprised him with a warm, self-deprecating laugh. “A few short weeks ago I was asking myself a very similar question.” She sat back on her heels, once again resting her hands on his thighs, where they burned like brands.
“Why on Merab would a beautiful, glorious man like Lord Miach look twice at a plain, plump little bookworm like me?” He opened his mouth to protest, but she simply laughed again, eyes glinting with warmth and humor. “No, really. Look at my face. I’m not a great beauty like Nuriel, or even striking like Sorcha. What could a man like Miach or Dathan want with me, other than my crown?”
“You’re beautiful,” he protested, horrified that she’d ever believed differently.
“I know that now,” she agreed. “But it took seeing myself through Miach’s and then Dathan’s eyes to believe it.” Pushing back up to her knees, she pressed close, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck. “Let me show you what I see when I look at you, Zevan.” She was so close her words whispered over his lips; soft, wet heat. “See yourself through my eyes.”
Chapter Five
He was so precious, Temair thought. All aching vulnerability and glistening silver eyes. She could feel so much in him, passion waiting to explode, held in check by the iron-hard control that had most likely kept him alive and in one piece.
He seemed almost frozen before her, afraid to move, to break the spell she was weaving around them. So, she moved for him, leaning in to press her lip oh-so-gently against his. His breath caught, and she pressed closer, breasts crushed against his hard, wiry chest, lips pushing his open.
When she slipped her tongue out to slide along the full curve of his lower lip, he relaxed, breathing a ragged sigh into her mouth and sagging back into his chair.
Temair smiled into the kiss and followed him, wriggling up into his lap and cupping his cheeks firmly, holding him in place for her eager mouth.
He tasted sweet, cool and clean like the breeze off the top of a mountain in springtime. She couldn’t stop sipping at him, top lip, and bottom lip. A tug with sharp teeth, and he moaned into her mouth.
His cock dug into her hip through the heavy quilted material of his breeches and the thick wool of her skirt, and Temair wanted to see it, to touch skin to skin. Even more, though, she wanted to show him how beautiful it was to her, how beautiful he was to her. Her wounded bird. How high could he soar once he’d healed?
“Kiss me back,” she whispered, breath cool against damp lips. “Give me your mouth.” She rubbed her lips over his, then pulled back teasingly. “Give me your tongue.”
She dipped her head to tease some more, but something seemed to break in Zevan. His hands rose, fingers winding in the coils of hair pinned at her nape, and he dragged her mouth to his. He gave her his lips, his tongue. He gave her his breath, and she’d swear he even gave her his soul in his kiss.
He’d been paying attention, because he did it exactly right. The perfect amount of teeth, the perfect combination of hot and wet and slick, and Temair felt the familiar wet and slick start lower, welling up inside her like a heated tidal wave.
Diving deeper into his kiss, she wriggled in his lap, yanking impatiently at her voluminous skirts until they bunched around her hips, freeing her to straddle him, knees wedged between his hips and the arms of the chair.
Zevan wasn’t a particularly big man; he lacked the long, rangy builds that made Miach and Dathan so imposing. However, it would be a mistake, she realized, to think he was weak. The thighs pressed against her calves were hard with ropey muscles. The chest she was pressed against was rock hard. There was strength in his elegant, scholar’s hands as they twined deeper into her hair. Deceptively delicate, that was her Aire Lord.
Finally, they fell apart, each gasping for aire. Temair was light-headed, giddy from the kiss. Zevan’s hands slowly left her hair, fingers trailing gently through the rumpled strands with something like wonder. Temair returned the caress, threading her own fingers through the surprisingly soft spikes of his hair. She liked the odd coloration, the way the snowy tips contrasted with the deep, charcoal tone at the roots.
“Princess,” he whispered and, sweet Mother, would he ever lose the power to break her heart with a glance?
“Temair,” she whispered back, smiling to keep back the tears that wanted to rise. “My name is Temair and that is what I want you to call me.”
“Temair.” It was a sigh, almost a prayer.
“I want you, Zevan,” she told him, and his eyelids, which had slid closed, flew open at the words. “I want you for friend, lover and Consort.” His mouth dropped open in obvious shock, his heart in his eyes. He’d be so very easy to love.
“Princess --” He shook his head before she could interrupt and corrected himself. “Temair. I don’t know why you’d want me, but,” he gulped, breath ragged, tearing at his words, “I’m yours.” His hand lifted, stopped just shy of touching her cheek. “Body and soul, I’m yours.”
Temair let all the joy and relief she felt shine in her smile. She caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek, turning her head to press her lips into his palm. Zevan looked ready to shatter, and the elements knew she was close to tears herself. It was time to change the mood. Sinking her teeth lightly into the heel of his hand and pressing down hard against the instinctive rise of his hips at the sensation, she smiled into his hematite-colored eyes.
“Mine?” she teased, and was rewarded with his slow smile.
“Yours, utterly.”
“Then I’d like to play with my new toy.” His eyes widened a bit, but he made no protest, merely steadied her with a hand to the hip as she climbed to her feet facing him.
It was slow work, unlacing the heavy quilted bodice of her dress. But she didn’t resent the time like she normally would, because Zevan’s eyes traced every movement with an intensity that reminded her of Miach’s whips of fyre. By the time her dress landed on the floor with a heavy whump of fabric, her nipples were pressing urgently against her chemise, her nether curls glistening through the transparent fabric with the moisture of her excitement.
Offering her hands, she tugged him from his chair, giving a little jerk at the end so he ended up pressed hard against her. He was only a few inches taller than she, which made it marvelously easy to go on tiptoe and catch his lips with her own.
He kissed her back readily, eagerly, hands unconsciously urgent on her back and hips. His skin was silky smooth, but his fingers were hard
, demanding on the vulnerable dip of her spine.
Keeping him distracted with her tongue in his mouth was easy. It was a bit more complicated working loose the fastenings of his quilted vest, but finally the last cord gave way, and she was shoving the cursed thing down his arms.
He tensed a little when she turned her attention to the laces of his breeches, but Temair nestled her face in the curve of his neck and breathed slow, wet kisses along the slightly rough skin there. He might look like a boy, she thought with a secret smile, but he had a heavier afternoon beard than either Miach or Dathan.
Finally he was accessible to her, soft cotton shirt and rough wool breeches open and waiting to be peeled free. Still licking at his neck, teasing the soft spot behind his ear with the tip of her tongue, Temair spread her hands wide on his shoulders and dragged them downward, stroking every bit of silk-over-steel muscle she could reach.
When she reached his nipples, she stopped with a low sound of surprise. Each deep rose disk was pierced with a heavy iron barbell. Her eyes flew to his, but he refused to meet her gaze. Streaks of angry color marked his cheeks, and his jaw twitched. “Mother is often creative in her punishments,” was all he said.
“Do they hurt?” she asked, fighting not to touch when her fingers felt magnetically drawn to the thick piercings.
“Not for a long time. But they’re ugly.” He tried to pull away, and she stopped him.
“May I touch?” He gave a short nod, and she let her fingers whisper over the heavy metal. He shivered lightly at her delicate touch, and his cock bucked against her lower belly through her chemise and his open breeches.
Encouraged, she tugged at the barbells, smiling slowly at his hiss of sensation. Dipping her head, she licked daintily around each metal bar, and grinned when his hands clenched hard on her waist.
“Would I be a terrible person if I said I rather like them?”
He gave a low, strangled laugh. “You are the least terrible person I know, Princess.” He moaned as she sucked hard at a nipple, drawing the barbell into her mouth to worry with teeth and tongue. “And you are the only person who could take something so ugly and make it so,” he hissed as she gave him a hint of teeth, “so good.”
* * *
Zevan clenched every muscle in his body against the climax boiling in his balls. With each light flick of her tongue, Temair was drawing the cord of his control tighter; each puff of breath ripped over his nerves like a tornado.
He’d frozen when she’d discovered the posts through his nipples. They symbolized an ugly time in his life, and whenever he caught sight of them, his stomach churned with a combination of pain and helpless rage. Somehow, though, with her tender heart and sinful mouth, Temair had stolen the brutality of the memory. Had erased the event from his mind.
When she caught one metal post between sharp white teeth and tugged, the pull arrowed straight to his cock. How was it possible, he wondered, for one person in one moment to undo years of pain with one touch?
His breath was hitching embarrassingly when she wrapped her fingers in the loosened waist of his breeches and pulled them firmly down. She dropped to her knees at his feet, and the sight washed over him like a tidal wave; Temair, on her knees, hands working busily to free him of his half-boots and breeches.
He had a bad moment when she freed his cock and discovered the final evidence of his mother’s torture. Reaching down, he flicked a negligent fingertip against the thick iron ring threaded through the slit and resting just under his cock-head.
Her eyes had widened in shock at the sight, and the thought that the ring might repulse her brought him easily back from the edge of climax.
“Oh, Zevan,” she said, stroking one finger down the length of his shaft, perking his interest back up instantly. “Why would she do this to you?”
He reached down and stroked the hair away from her cheek, and she reciprocated by rubbing her cheek along the tense muscles of his belly.
“I was not supposed to be a boy,” he answered with forced humor. “And she wanted to make sure I never forgot it.” Wet heat spread over his belly, and he realized she was crying. For him. No one had ever cried for him before.
He dropped to his knees to face her. “Temair, it doesn’t hurt anymore. I don’t even remember when it did.” He’d been an infant when that piercing was done. “And I don’t think she can ever hurt me again,” he added, taking her beautiful face in his hands and smoothing away her tears. “Not after you’ve touched me and made everything better.”
She smiled through her tears and wrapped her arms tight around his neck, pressing bare skin to nearly bare skin in a maddening, taunting caress. “Let me love you, my Lord Aire,” she asked, and everything he was feeling swelled inside him, filling his head and his heart and his cock; pumping strength and energy into his muscles.
She let him help her to her feet, but then made him sit on the edge of the bed while she untangled him from the muddle his clothing had become. Once he was naked -- as naked in soul as in body, he thought -- she moved around the room, dimming the light of the candles with a wave of her fingers and a drift of Fyre magic.
Finally satisfied with the atmosphere, warm and licked with candlelight and shadows, Temair moved to stand before him. Warm brown eyes glinted with flecks of amber and cobalt blue as they locked on his. Still moving slowly, she gathered the hem of her chemise in her fists and worked it over her head, baring each soft, pale curve like a precious gift.
Naked, she urged him back onto the bed, until he was propped against the headboard. There, she straddled him, pressing the slick heat of her pussy against his aching, throbbing cock.
Zevan’s head hit the wall with a hard thump, and he gritted his teeth and groaned through the first, intense moment of pleasure. So many things he’d never experienced, never hoped to experience, and Temair was offering him every single one of them.
She must have read the greed in his eyes, because she gave him a mysterious, womanly smile and asked, “What do you want, my Lord Aire?” As if she could tell how her use of his title affected him, sent a surge of pride and power through him.
There was only one answer to give. “Just what you promised me, Princess. Love me.” And he meant it in every sense of the word.
The smile remained, mysterious and sensual, as she wrapped a hand at the base of his cock, pulling it straight from his body and holding it steady as she positioned the head at the mouth of her opening. Slowly, achingly, torturously slowly, she slid down over him, enveloping him in such molten ecstasy he thought he might lose what was left of his mind.
Her hips settled against his, rich brown curls meshing with his own onyx thatch, and she gave a little gasp as he butted up against the mouth of her womb.
“The ring…” She trailed off, panting, and he held his breath, desperately fighting not to move the way his body was demanding.
“Does it hurt? I’ll get out…”
“No!” She interrupted with her body as well as her voice, clenching along his length and dragging a hissed groan from between his gritted teeth. “Sweet Mother, no.” She flexed in his lap, rubbing along his entire length with the strong muscles of her sheath, and he felt his eyes cross. “It feels so good,” she panted. “I hadn’t thought about how it would feel inside me…”
She trailed off, but he didn’t really notice. All Zevan was aware of was the weight of her in his lap, the caress of her breath on his face, and the scalding heat of her pussy wrapping him in agonizing delight.
He hadn’t thought about it either, how it would feel to be inside her, so deep and hot that every nerve was screaming for more, more, sweet elements, more now. Before he could catch his breath, she began to move. Long, slow lifts, squeezing with inner muscles all the way up, quick hard falls, slamming hard enough to jiggle his balls and send echoes of sensation sizzling along his spine.
His body went stiff, toes curled, and he dug his fingers into the bedding to keep from grabbing her, flinging her beneath him and pounding aw
ay until they’d both burned to cinders, swept away by purifying fyre and wind.
“Zevan!” Her voice broke on the breathy cry, and she leaned down, clutching the headboard on either side of his shoulders. “I’m so close,” she panted. “You feel so good inside me.”
“Come for me, Princess,” he groaned. “Please, come. Let me feel your fyre bathe me.” He didn’t know where the words came from, only that they came from his soul.
“Help me,” she gasped, and guided his hand to the warm nest of her sex. He was inexperienced, true, but Zevan was a voracious reader on any subject that caught his imagination, so he immediately understood what Temair wanted. With a sweep of his thumb, he found the tiny bead of her clit, and nearly howled with delight as it swelled under his touch, and her sheath rippled in reaction along his cock.
Remembering the feel of her lips on his flesh, he arched up, catching her hard nipple between his lips and sucking her into his mouth. Her body arched sharply, head falling back so that her hair fell in a silky tangle over his thighs. He rubbed harder at her clit, sucked deeper, and felt her entire body go still and taut. The moment froze, then she was breaking around him, flooding him with a rush of fyre and rayne that stole his breath and his sanity.
Somehow, though, he managed not to come. His body was in revolt, each nerve at the snapping point, but he wanted, needed, to experience her orgasm first.
She was still shaking, body jolting with aftershocks, when her eyes finally met his again. Warm brown eyes. Flecks of crimson and amber. Slow swirls of cobalt blue. And now, jagged bursts of stormy gray.
He came with a roar, a sound he’d never dreamed he could make, dragged from his chest by a pleasure he could never have imagined. She fell on him, holding him through the storm, taking the agony and ecstasy into her own body and sheltering him from a pleasure so intense it was destructive.