Heart Journey (23 page)

With her hand around the nape of his neck, she played with the silky hairs there and his breathing went ragged, as fast and choppy as her own.

He was ready.

So was she.

He guided her to the bed and the music throbbed with the beat of her heart. Definitely making-love music. The man knew what he was doing. That didn’t bother her, either; they’d both had other lovers, but he was her HeartMate—and she kept that last smug thought to herself.

Instead, she opened the link wide between them, so he
knew
what she was feeling. Her yearning for him—his body with hers—atop or under, but bare skin rubbing against bare skin. Her passion and desire for him.

She grabbed his head and pulled it down and kissed his mouth, hard, opening his lips with her tongue, and he let her in and she stroked him—with her tongue and with her hand. She knew when his mind hazed dark and red and he thought of nothing, letting lust claim him as she fed his and hers.

He muttered thickly, but the spell to undress them both didn’t take and he ripped at her clothing. With a flick of her fingers, she freed him from his trous. This she understood, half-dressed, frantic coupling, the surge of sex against sex, letting desire run free and high and wide. Falling to the ground—bedsponge—rolling and panting. Hands on her breasts, stroking, sending shocks into her core, until she
must have
this man.

Then they were plunging together, rocking, clawing, zooming up the mountainside of ecstasy, and jumping and falling and falling and shouting their release and collapsing in pure pleasure against each other. Sprawled on the bedsponge, legs tangled together, side by side.

As unsteady breath matched unsteady breath, pulse beat kept pace with pulse beat; Del opened her eyes and struggled to focus on her HeartMate. When she saw his eyes were wide and glazed, she found the energy to smile.

“Lover,” she said, her voice a husky rasp.

His mouth opened but nothing came out, not one wisp of word from a master of words. A bubble of laughter rose through Del, bringing energy. They were still linked, physically and emotionally, and she kept the bond wide, pushed him back, and rolled with him until she straddled his hips, atop him, looking down. His white shirt was open in a wide V to the waistband of his black trous, and at the reddish bite on his chest, her eyebrows rose and she rubbed it. “I don’t recall doing this.”

He groaned, closed his eyes, whispered, “Do it again.”

She wiggled her butt, got a satisfactory response from Raz. Taking his hands, she meshed fingers with him.

She bent down and licked, sucked, the skin over his collarbone and he arched under her, spearing her with pleasure. Everything inside her heated and tightened, ready for another climb to the peak again, this one long and slow. She rose and fell, testing them both, and his eyes sharpened, his stare latching on to her own. Then he deliberately rolled his eyes back in his head. “Older women are known to be able to wipe a man out.”

She liked that he could laugh at himself, at the dregs of their argument, gurgled with laughter again, kissed his swollen lips with her own. “Pretty boys.”

A fierceness came to his gaze. “I am not a boy.” He rotated his hips precisely and orgasm roared through her, taking her breath. She gasped.

But he didn’t stop, tightened his grip on her fingers. “Look at me.”

Trembling, she met his eyes. Blue and wild and thrilling. He thrust again and she rode him for a minute, then her lax muscles revived and she took the rhythm from him. Their gazes locked and she saw his rising passion, knew her own pupils dilated as they moved together faster, faster.

His eyes went blurry again and she saw him fall, pushed herself a little and fell with him again, loosed his hands as her arms wrapped around him, and he held her tight, and they fell all the way into sleep together.

 

 

D
el awoke in the morning naked and tucked into Raz’s bed, feeling
incredible, loose and relaxed and able to concentrate on her HeartMate and only her HeartMate. He was gone from the bed, and the scent of caff pervaded the apartment.

The scrybowl jangled, some ancient, bouncy Earth tune that was associated with the theater, but that she didn’t know the name of. She was beginning to realize that the theater world had more ties to the past than she’d ever thought. She was usually focused on the now and the future—what was around the next bend that she could put on the next map.

Raz walked into the bedroom and handed her a mug of caff, then strolled over to the scrybowl with a grace that was a pleasure to watch. He ran his finger around the rim of the bowl. “Here, Johns.”

Del recognized the name as the actor, St. Johnswort. She pulled a sheet over her breasts, but Raz didn’t activate the spell that would send the image of Johns from the water in the scrybowl to hover above it as a two-way viz. Good.

Johns grunted. “Got lucky last night, eh? Meet me at the Thespian Club in a half septhour for breakfast. Got news of an . . . upcoming project.”

Through their bond, Del felt Raz’s excitement. “I’ll be there,” he said.

Del drank her caff. It burned her tongue. After she set the mug on a coaster on the wooden nightstand, she rolled from the bedsponge and headed into the waterfall room, washing briskly and keeping her mind blank and her emotions tamped down. Raz had his life, and he’d shared a lot of it with her. She shouldn’t expect to be included in everything he did. She hadn’t included
him
in much, so she had no cause for complaint.

Raz joined her in the waterfall, grinning as he resoaped her body. “Good idea. We don’t have much time to spare.”

“We?”

His expression stilled, eyes cooled. “You don’t want to see the Thespian Club, breakfast there?”

She hated feeling stupid and female, but it had to be said. “I thought you didn’t want me to come.”

He caught her fingers, slipped soap into them, and brought her hand to his chest. Del rubbed, he felt good. His hands feathered through her hair, he tipped her head up and kissed her on the lips, then broke away. “Del, we’re going to spend time with each other, right? That means coming with me to the Thespian Club, where I often eat breakfast and stay around to talk and be with others of my ilk.” He turned around. “Now scrub my back.” As she did, he glanced over his shoulder at her, his eyes serious. “And that means
you
invite me to participate in activities with you. You’ve been the evasive one.”

Happiness flooded her, but she didn’t show how delighted she was. She nodded. “Fine, but I don’t belong to a social club.”

He shrugged. “Plenty of things to do in Druida.”

 

 

T
hey took the glider to the Thespian Club. The humidity was high
today and Del could feel her hair curling tighter and shrugged. She’d look like a fuzzy dandelion. It had taken both Raz and her to mend her clothes—they both had mending spells but hers worked on leather better—and both trous and shirt had tinting spells on them so now she wore an ice blue shirt and dark blue slacks. And boots with ventilation spells. Her feet wouldn’t get hot, they’d be protected, and they wouldn’t stink if she and Raz got naked again. All worth the price.

The Thespian Club was on a tree-lined street that would have shade all day, the building was old, well-maintained red brick. As soon as she passed through the double smoky-glass doors, the atmosphere of
theater
wrapped around her. Not quite the same as a real theater, with the addition of outsiders—audience—but all the drama and unique emanations of actors.

Hand in hand they walked through a comfortably shabby lounge to a back room. There was an unexpectedly elegant dining room, complete with white tablecloths and softleaves and fancy silverware settings . . . for actors to practice with, she understood from an idle thought of Raz’s. Both for actors who came from less privileged backgrounds as well as for certain obscure plays.

The carpet was a faded red with a muted design in other colors that had once been bright.

Johns scowled when he saw her; he’d obviously expected Raz to come alone. But he rose when they approached the round table and held a chair for her. “Pleased to meet you again, GrandLady D’Elecampane.”

“Thanks.” Del sat. “Call me Del.”

“I’m famished,” Raz said, smiling at both of them as he sat. He looked up at the waiter. “I’ll have the scrambled eggs with porcine strips and a flat muffin.” He took Del’s hand, twined fingers with hers, and set their hands on the table for all to see, including Johns. “Order something you can’t get on the trail.” He grinned. “Something lavish, since it’s Johns’ treat.”

It only took a glance at the menu. “I’ll have the poached eggs in sauce on a flat muffin with spinach and porcine slices.”

“Raz—” Johns began, glanced at the waiter, and said, “My usual.”

After the waiter strode away, without even glancing at Johns, Raz said, “One look at Del shows anyone that she can be trusted implicitly. She won’t say a word about any secrets.”

There was a note in his voice that snagged her. She frowned at him. “What secrets do you think I’m keeping that you’re not happy about?”

“And she’s very direct, doesn’t play games.” Raz spoke to Johns, but stared at her. “Secrets with T’Blackthorn.”

Del blinked. “I don’t have any secrets with Straif.”

“It seemed to me that you do. I pick up nuances, Del.”

She straightened her spine, sat stiffly. “Straif’s son has been shown my HouseHeart since my Heir is too young to access it. I only have a house, not a Residence, but the HeartStones need tending.”

Johns’ eyes widened; he leaned back in his chair, as if not wanting any part of a lovers’ disagreement.

Raz’s turn to flush. He inclined his head, then raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. A stream of understanding and comfort came from him, an apology, and she relaxed. He turned to Johns. “And Del is one of the most trustworthy people I know.” His brows rose. “In fact, I trust her more than I do you.” He flashed a grin. “Because she and I won’t ever be competing for a part.”

Del sniffed, shuddered. “You couldn’t get me on stage.” She nodded to Johns. “You’re an excellent actor, too.”

Johns’ expression was torn between pride and wariness. He shook his head, lifted his hands. “All right, all right.”

They were served their food and ate a few minutes before Johns leaned over and said, “Amberose definitely has written a new play and was circulating it, looking for interest. Lily Fescue was approached, but when she lost some pages in that theft you had at your theater, Amberose’s agent was none too pleased and revoked Lily’s offer.”

He caught Raz’s gaze and the two men stared at each other. Johns chewed and swallowed before saying, “There are two male leads. Wide-ranging emotion, good character arcs.”

Raz’s pulse spiked under Del’s fingers.

Johns forked a couple of mouthfuls of eggs into his mouth before saying, “I’ve seen the script, Raz. The parts could’ve been written for us.” He grinned. “Maybe they were, got the feeling Amberose is up to date on what’s happening in the theater. A part for your villain, Rieng Galangal, too, one where he starts out evil and is redeemed. He’ll love that. This could really make us,
shoot us to the top
. We’d be good with the material.”

“Yes. We’d play off each other well. Which is what I will tell Amberose’s agent if he approaches me.”

Sighing, Johns said, “Me, too. But if there’d been only one part . . .”

“Understood,” Raz said. He glanced around the room. Johns narrowed his eyes and slid them to both sides, checking out the other diners.

Del shrugged. “No one’s paying attention to our conversation.”

Raz sipped his caff and said, “Did Lily say which actresses Amberose sent the script to?”

“Nah,” Johns said. He poured another cup of caff and stirred sweet into it. “And I asked.” He raised an eyebrow. “Lily likes me better than you. I’ve been smoother with her.”

“She got a script before you or I did,” Raz said. “Amberose must want her more.” He stabbed at a porcine strip and crunched.

Johns shook his head. “Lily’s a good actor but . . .”

“Yes, negative. I feel that, too. I’d much rather have Trillia and she’d jump at the chance,” Raz said. “Did you wring any more information from Lily? Like who might produce? What Family? What theater?”

“No. But I think more than one is interested. Amberose’s plays always sell very well. She’s made actors’ careers before.”

“Good job, Johns.”

A corner of Johns’ mouth quirked. “Thanks.”

“What of the story?” Del asked.

Raz chuckled and squeezed her hand, then turned back to his food. “Story’s not as important as the character for us.”

Del thought of Amberose and frowned. “Is it dark and grim? Amberose likes dark and grim, and that’s not what I like to watch, whether she sells out or not.” Especially when she was on the road, but she’d decided to minimize references to that for a while.

Johns was shaking his head. “Not dark and grim. The story has it all: mystery, twists, humor, romance.” He gestured with a large hand. “I’m not good with words, but Amberose is. I was dazzled.” He winked at Del. “The roughly handsome big and tough guy gets the girl.” He turned to Raz. “But there is hope for the slender, elegant, smooth guy.”

“I’m not slender,” Raz said.

“Relatively slender,” Johns said.

“Leanly muscular,” Del said, and Raz grinned wickedly at her, dipped his head. “Thank you.”

Pushing away his plate, Johns sighed. “Problem is, I saw Lily’s copy before she gave it back, and the whole deal seems to have gone under since then.” Again he waved a hand. “Various rumors about that.”

“It’s the artistic control thing,” Raz murmured. “People might be having second thoughts.”

Johns nodded. “Understand that. T’Spindle wouldn’t front the gilt for it if the whole thing wasn’t in his hands; nobody else I can think of, either. Wouldn’t let Amberose pick the actors, even if we are perfect for it.”