Miach hadn’t planned to wed. He’d had no desire to be a Consort. But, by all the Elements, he wanted this woman who was now his wife with an unholy passion.
Feeling heat tingle over him from another direction, Miach turned. He wasn’t surprised to meet Dathan’s sloe-eyed gaze. Miach shivered. He’d never known Rayne eyes could burn so hot.
He was jerked back to reality when Lady Rayne clapped her hands loudly, drawing the company’s attention to her.
“We are honored by the presence of our Crown Princess and her Consort,” the Lady said. Her voice was cool, filled with the laughter of a bubbling stream. “Indeed,” she continued, “we are most honored by all our Royal guests.” She sent a warm smile toward Nuriel, who dimpled back, and Sorcha, who inclined her head regally.
“I wish your visit to be one you remember fondly,” the Lady said. She waved her hand gracefully over the reflecting pool they were seated around, and a group of people glided out to stand firmly on the surface. “So I offer you a sight few have been privileged to see.” She smiled with obvious pride and anticipation. “The Rayne Dance.”
Chapter Two
Temair dragged her attention from Miach and the promise of pleasure in his eyes, and turned her gaze to the five people standing calmly on the surface of the pool. Three women and two men, each clothed in a jewel-toned sarong that wrapped low on the hips. The women wore matching bands over their breasts, leaving plump, golden mounds of cleavage exposed. All five wore flowers around wrists and ankles, vibrant blooms in their hair. They were perfectly exotic, perfectly beautiful.
A young man to one side of the pool lifted a stringed instrument onto his lap and began to coax out a slow, sinuous tune. The dancers shifted as one, and began to move with the music.
Their hips wound circles and figures of eight in time to the music, their hands drifted as though floating through water. It was elemental and erotic in the same way as the Fyeria, calling strongly to the magic within her.
Subtly, a woman’s voice joined the music, adding an aching descant to the hypnotic song. Temair caught her breath in sympathy at the loneliness in the song, feeling tears gather in her eyes. To her left, she heard Nuriel sniffle. Glancing past Miach, whose fyre appeared ready to explode at any moment, she saw Sorcha, jaw tense against the emotion of the performance.
Slowly the tempo of the music changed, soft percussion and the rush of rain-sticks entering the mix. The pain ebbed from the singer’s voice, and the dancers picked up their tempo, hips swaying, arms twining. Gently slanted eyes gleamed slyly from beneath thick lashes, and the music became teasing, delighted. Temair caught her breath again, this time in wonder as fountains of glowing, jewel-toned water arced over the dancers, joining the dance in joyful cascades of color.
The song built, layer upon layer, growing to a crescendo that left every person around the table breathless, until the dancers arched ecstatically, suddenly still, sensual human sculptures with sprays of multi-hued water frozen around them.
There was an instant of silence, then Temair rose to her knees, applauding wildly, trying to diffuse some of the arousal rushing through her veins. As if she’d broken a spell, the others joined in, clapping and even pounding the wide lip of marble that surrounded the pool in their appreciation.
Miach, rigid as a statue himself, let out a deep breath and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “How soon can we leave?”
The words sent licks of heat down her neck, and her nipples peaked almost painfully. “You know we’ve got to stay through the entertainment,” she responded, aiming for a repressive tone, but only managing to sound regretful.
“Fuck,” he muttered, settling back on his cushion, and Temair couldn’t repress her laugh of pure joy.
So she was on the fast track to the throne, whether she wanted it or not. So there was unrest in the Queendom. So the least suitable of Lady Rayne’s sons appealed to her the most. When Miach looked at her with the flame simmering in his chaos-black eyes, none of that mattered. She had what she wanted.
* * *
Dathan grinned as his youngest brother approached the little blonde princess who was traveling with his princess and offered to teach her the dance. The blonde, the princess from Turnin he thought, eagerly accepted, bouncing to her feet and into the sapphire-haired youth’s arms.
When his first brother, Aquil, rose Dathan expected him to approach the red-haired princess, but he didn’t. Instead he cut a path directly to the Crown Princess, dropping gracefully to one knee and offering her his hand. She turned to her Consort with a raised eyebrow, and the man shrugged negligently, casting a rather satisfied glance from Aquil to Dathan.
Temair grinned at his brother and allowed herself to be led to the reflecting pool. Her eyes widened as she stepped onto the surface, and Dathan knew she was experiencing one of the manifestations of Rayne. The pool would feel firm and resilient under her bare feet, warm as bathwater. Moving behind her, Aquil took her hands in his, guiding them to float at her sides as he began to teach her the motions of the dance.
Glancing back at the Consort, it seemed to Dathan the man looked a bit lonely. Allowing himself a low chuckle, Dathan set about to remedy the situation.
He strolled around the pool, enjoying the low buzz of anticipation in his balls, the slow, sweet flow of the blood in his veins. A small, disgusted voice in the back of his head was warning him to stop; reminding him that Temair was not for him, and neither was her beautiful Consort. His head counseled common sense. His body ignored it.
He’d felt the Consort’s eyes on him throughout the evening, burning over him until he expected to see steam rising from his skin. So he was surprised the man didn’t notice his approach. Of course, with the delicious little Crown Princess dancing between the spumes of water on the surface of the once calm reflecting pool, Dathan supposed he couldn’t blame him for being distracted.
“She’s nothing like I expected,” he commented, dropping to his knees next to the Consort. He just barely repressed a triumphant grin when the man jerked in surprise. He could feel those black eyes burning over him, so he carefully kept his gaze on the Princess, waiting with unaccustomed patience for the man’s reply.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour, the other man answered, “She’s absolutely unique.” There was affection in that guarded reply, and Dathan found himself glad of it. The sweetly curved woman dancing in the rayne deserved affection in her matings.
He sent the other man a sideways look and saw his black gaze was once again on the Princess, scarlet flickers lighting the burning depths.
“She seems to like that one,” the Consort commented, tipping his head to indicate Aquil, who had moved in front of the princess and was demonstrating the hip roll that was the foundation of the Rayne Dance. Dathan had to agree. Her vivid smile flashed often. And his brother seemed quite enamored, searching out opportunities to touch her at every turn. Aquil would make a good Consort, would be a good match, he thought, for the man burning so brightly next to him. So why, he wondered, did the idea send ice-water through his veins?
Unconsciously, Dathan shifted closer to the Fyre Consort, spreading his knees to bracket the man between his thighs. The Consort went instantly rigid, still as the marble he appeared carved from. Heat radiated from him, raising a light sweat across Dathan’s chest, sending a sultry trickle down the line of his spine, and he couldn’t resist needling the man.
“But do you like that one?” he teased, leaning in. He didn’t bother to hide his laugh this time when the other man shifted away.
“It doesn’t really matter whether or not I like him,” the Consort replied stiffly. “It’s Temair who’ll have to deal with him.”
“Well, that’s a pity,” Dathan responded, moving to regain the space the other man had put between them. Black eyes cut to the side, spearing him through and sending a flash flood of heat straight to his cock. He rose up on his knees, pressing lightly against the Consort’s side, and he thought he might just spontaneously c
ombust at the heat pouring off the man. He leaned in and let his words drift over the alabaster skin of the other man’s neck on a wash of heat. “Because whichever of us Temair chooses…” He paused to savor her given name on his tongue -- and to savor the way the other man shuddered almost helplessly as Dathan’s words licked over his skin. “Whichever one would be willing to deal with you.”
The Fyre Lord jerked violently away, falling nearly off his cushion. He shot Dathan an enraged glare, and Dathan tried hard not to laugh in his beautiful, furious face.
“That won’t be an issue,” the Fyre Consort hissed, flames seeming to crackle in the words.
Dathan just grinned and pushed lithely to his feet. “Well, it certainly won’t be an issue for me if I let my little brother have all the fun,” he agreed. Walking backward, keeping the pale warrior’s gaze the whole way, Dathan crossed the pool and entered the dance.
* * *
Miach was furious, angrier than he could ever remember being. It wasn’t the idea of man-love. While the practice was rare in the Fyre Lands, it wasn’t condemned. Hell, his own brother had a discreet but definite preference for the male sex. It wasn’t even the idea of another man desiring him.
Fuck. Miach couldn’t put his finger on what it was, only that having the eldest son of Rayne press cool and silky against his side had sent a veil of red over his vision and a flash of electricity crackling over his body that were almost unbearable.
He couldn’t tear his eyes off the young Lord as he made his way to Temair’s side, cheerfully shooing his brother off to find another partner. Then he couldn’t tear his eyes off the pair of them. Dathan shared Miach’s height, and was all long, rangy muscle. He moved behind Temair, pulling her up against his front, and spread big, golden hands over her hips, guiding her in the movements of the dance.
Miach was transfixed by the sight of those long fingers wrapping around her waist, sliding down to press the gentle mound of her abdomen, pressing her deeper into the cradle of his hips. And, sweet Mother, the man’s hips moved as if they’d been oiled. Slow and dirty, smooth and quick, Dathan guided Temair in the dance, and she followed every grind and sway.
He dragged his gaze to her face, and nearly groaned at what he saw. Her eyes were heavy lidded, her lips full and red. It was the face she wore in their bed-chamber, full of lust and passion. And it was all for the blue-haired bastard grinding his dick against her back.
“Oh, dear.” Sorcha’s low voice brought Miach’s attention back with a jolt. He cast her a questioning look that must have been a bit more stony than usual, because she raised an inquiring brow.
“Oh, dear, what?” he managed to grit out.
“Oh, dear, he’s not the one the two of you should be courting.”
“I beg your pardon?” His tone had been known to send seasoned warriors into retreat. The slender, fire-haired princess just stared him down.
Finally she deigned to continue. “Obviously he’s got ridiculous chemistry with Temair,” she said, inclining her head to where the pair was dancing. Dathan had spun Temair to face him, stood a breath away from her, hands wrapped round her hips, guiding her in slinky circles.
“It’s also clear that there’s some sort of chemistry going on between him and you --”
Miach interrupted her before she could continue. “The only thing between us is my very fervent desire that Temair choose someone else as Second Consort.”
Sorcha gave him a pitying smile. “You keep telling yourself that, Lord Fyre.” Miach choked back a growl. “At any rate,” she continued, “we have it from his own mother that Lord Dathan isn’t Consort material. He’s too unpredictable.”
Unpredictable. Miach supposed that was one word to describe him.
* * *
Temair was floating, warm mists caressing her, the sheer gauze of her dress stroking her skin with every movement.
Aquil had been a good dancer, a good instructor, and just generally good fun. Dathan was all of that, and more. With each touch of his hands, she felt herself go liquid. The sight of his golden skin glowing against the damp peach of her dress sent bolts of heat straight to her pussy, flooding her with arousal.
When he spun her around to face him, the intensity in his blue-black eyes rocked her to the core. There was laughter there, to be sure. And the playful curve of his full lips made her want to laugh, too. But behind the laughing exterior she could almost see a whirlpool of passions, and that hint of wildness stirred her unbearably.
“I should be dancing with one of your brothers,” she murmured. His gaze dropped to her mouth and Temair couldn’t seem to help herself. She slowly swiped her tongue along her lower lip, savoring the catch in his breath at the action. Oh, she was very, very bad.
“Undoubtedly my mother and your Consort think so,” he replied. His hands were huge. He’d set his palms to her hips, burning through her dress, and now he swept his thumbs upwards, skating along the lower curve of her breasts.
He eased her around again, her back to his front, and she shuddered, breath stuttering in her chest. Miach was watching them, the flames in his chaos-black eyes clear even at a distance. She knew the set of his jaw, the sensual cast to his mouth. She knew it, and her body burned for him.
Just as her body burned for the man pressed against her, close as two rayne drops. His cock was a steel bar against her lower back, scalding heat and cool water all at once.
She felt the tremor start, deep inside, and let her gaze lock with Miach’s. Without a word, he stood and moved to the edge of the pool. She felt Dathan’s breath on her neck, a sigh, then he took her hand in his, raising it to press his lips to her wrist.
Her pulse leapt, Dathan’s breath hitched, and Miach’s eyes flared.
With an absent stroke of her fingers through the rough silk of Dathan’s hair, Temair murmured, “Goodnight,” and moved toward the man at the edge of the pool. As she stepped away from Dathan’s warmth, she was aware of a sense of loss, one that was only soothed a little by his soft response.
“Until tomorrow, Princess.”
Chapter Three
She didn’t stop when she reached Miach’s side, didn’t even pause to touch him. Just met his burning eyes with her own and muttered, “Hurry.”
She kept her good-nights brief; a word to Lady Rayne who, if her dancing eyes were anything to go by, knew full well why Temair suddenly felt fatigued.
She was all but running by the time they reached their chamber. She fumbled the doorknob, and Miach pressed against her from behind, wrapping one arm around her waist, trapping her between his hard, scorching chest and the hard, cool wood of the door. He pressed her there for a moment, burning the knowledge of his arousal into her back, before reaching around her to manage the stubborn lock.
They tumbled into the room, and she spun in his arms, knocking him back against the closed door and dragging his shirt free of his breeches, searching for skin. Sacred Elements, Miach’s skin -- silky, hot and hers. The muscles along his sides flexed against her palms as he yanked his shirt over his head, baring still more pale, moonlit ivory skin. She leaned in, starving for the touch of him, the taste, and opened her mouth over one tight pink nipple, sucked hard and savored the low cry and the hungry jerk of his hips against hers.
“Spark,” he groaned as she licked her way across his chest, giving the other nipple the same treatment. “Fuck! Spark, let me…”
He was groping with her dress, trying to drag the skirt up and pull the whole thing over her head. While Temair wasn’t opposed to the idea -- after all, she was crazed for as much skin-to-skin contact as possible -- she didn’t want to let go of him long enough to help.
“Later,” she mumbled against the smooth skin of his ribcage. He was so fine, so gorgeous. Sometimes it was more than she could fathom, that he was hers.
They’d had two weeks together, and all of it traveling. All of it overshadowed by the rebellion in the Queendom that had threatened her life more than once. They’d spent their days riding,
their evenings strategizing, and their nights in a nearly frantic tumble of bare limbs before collapsing into exhausted sleep, only to wake and do it all over again the next day.
Since their wedding night, they hadn’t had the opportunity to go slow; to explore. Temair had every intention of remedying that oversight now.
She opened her mouth over the skin of his right pec and let his flavor wash over her. Creamy smooth, fresh and with just a hint of the hot spice she always associated with him, his taste rolled over her tongue.
“You taste so good,” she murmured against the hard muscle. Miach moaned in response, lifting a hand to spear through the maze of braids Nuriel had wound her hair into until he could cup her skull in the palm of his hand.
“Let me taste you, Spark,” he rasped in response, using his grip to pull her gently but firmly back. “Let me lick those pretty nipples and then let me feast on your sweet, sweet pussy.”
He was tugging, guiding her away from him, and this time Temair wasn’t going to allow it. Using the space he’d put between them, she laid both hands over his chest, grinding her palms lightly over his nipples. He arched into the touch, and she smiled. She loved how sensitive his nipples were, almost as sensitive as her own.
She felt the heat building in her hands. It was no longer a surprise when it happened. When Miach had freed her passion, he’d freed her fyre as well. The first time she’d traced trails of fyre over his skin, he’d groaned at the pleasure. The first time she’d cupped his cock in burning hands, he’d nearly shot at the intensity of the sensation.
Hmmm. Another thing to explore.
“Later,” she repeated, resisting his pull. The tug of his hands in her hair sent a shocking zap of electricity straight to her clit, and she gasped, biting into the curve of muscle just below his nipple.
“Right now, I’m busy,” she continued, dragging her fingers down his torso, dragging pink lines in the pale flesh, first with her nails, then with the fyre in her touch.