Into His Command (11 page)

“Dammit.” He panted it against my neck, continuing to pound me like a locomotive.
“Dammit…take it…all of me…yes…”

I scored my nails back up, trailing them along his spine, as his strokes finally began
to slow. But at the moment I thought he’d pull free, he curled his lips against my
ear and directed, “Hang on,
astremé
.”

I obeyed. Was glad I did. I was suddenly airborne, lifted from the window seat with
his sex still inside me, then carried into one of the larger bedrooms. Somewhere between
the two points, he kicked off his pants completely, making him naked as me when turning
to sit on the bed. Without any pause, he lay completely back with me on top of him.

I didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

He grabbed the comforter, folding it around us. “Well,” I murmured. “You
are
full of hidden talents.”

Normally, that would’ve earned me a one-liner in return. I wasn’t surprised when none
came. Still wasn’t when leaning up a little, to find myself inches above his solemn
stare. With quiet strokes, he brushed my hair off my face.

“How are you?” he whispered. “Was that…good for you?”

I was
so
tempted to giggle. I’d been exposed to modern culture in very small bits over the
last six years, but was aware of the trite pillow talk line. Samsyn had be too, though
nothing on his face hinted at anything besides sincerity—and concern. As if he truly
worried whether he’d delivered the goods.

“Syn,” I chastised. “Really?” I shifted a little as his scowl deepened. “Okay,
your
turn for honesty. Have you ever had any complaints?”

His brows jerked. “Do you really want to talk about my previous…ex­periences?”

Now I did laugh. “The question was rhetorical.”

“And you are breathtaking.”

A blush took over my face as he thumbed more hair off my sweat-dampened cheek. “And
you
call
me
the hopeless subject changer?”

“The subject never changed for me.” His hands glided down my neck. Spread over my
collar bones. Trailed back in, between my breasts. “Look at that. You blush all the
way to your nipples.”

The twin subjects of his statement became the trembling victims of his gentle pinches,
hardening against the broad plane of his chest. I lifted a little, giving him better
access, letting him watch exactly what that did to my skin, my breaths…my self-control.

“Does this answer your question?” I managed to sigh.

His teeth snuck out over his lower lip as he brushed my tips with his thumbs, on his
way to framing my waist in his huge, dominant grip. “And what…question would that
be?”

I lifted a hand to bat his chest but it fell to his skin instead, helpless, as he
lifted me up, holding my intimate lips just at the tip of his newly pulsing penis.
“The one about it being good.”

He dug his hold in tighter. Stared up at me with those eyes, blue as a panther sneaking
up on its prey.

“Oh, it was good.”

I tugged at my own bottom lip now, raising up to brace my grip on his biceps. “Damn
straight it was.”

“Now it shall be better than good.”

I tried to grin. “If you say so, Your Highness.”

He bared his teeth. Released a hiss as he let me lower a little more. His hips jerked.
His cock thrummed. “I say so.”

Our gazes twined again. I paused, just for one moment, to memorize everything just
as it was. The power I felt, rising up over him, his massive body flattened beneath
mine. But the helplessness too, feeling the decree beneath his grip, the control of
everything my sex did to his. The balance of it. The rightness of it.

The rightness of him.

I needed it all again. My blood trumpeted with it. My lungs throbbed, grasping at
it. My body clenched, craving it.

“Ride me, Brooke.”

I lowered a gaze, beseeching. “Show me how?”

And he did. With steady, surging strokes and mounting, magnificent passion…until we
groaned together again, climaxing in white-hot need, before collapsing in each other’s
arms, sated, sweaty, exhausted, entangled…

Connected.

If only for a few more perfect hours.

‡

“D
id you even
bother with a fucking condom?”

I’d had better wakeup calls. Ones that were a lot less confusing, for sure. Certainly
ones that didn’t jerk me from a dead slumber into bolting straight up, gasping at
my bare-ass body, then covering it with a comforter as unfamiliar to me as a designer
ball gown. Not that the cover couldn’t be Maria Von Trapp-ed into such a thing. I
curled curious fingers into the mint green satin covering my breasts, wondering what
aliens had absconded with me in the middle of the night and dumped me into this strange
bed.

That was when I shifted my legs.

Sore on the inside.

Sticky on the outside.

Ohhhh, hell.

Samsyn.
Samsyn.

The moonlight—and his kisses. The shadows—and his touch. The window seat—and his passion.

And then in here—for even more.

As if summoned by my memories, the man himself growled. The sound filled the sitting
room, though was distinctly different than the passionate rumble he’d branded into
me last night. Razors of anger sliced it now.

“For Creator’s sake. Keep your voice down!”

“Right. Sorry,
arkami.
” The snorting punctuation instantly gave Jagger away. Silently, I jerked the covers
higher. Holy shit.
Jagger
. How had he gotten in? What had he seen? “My bad,” he snapped, “for thinking that
an entrance and egress recon, requested by
you
, would take me through an empty mansion. Should I have texted first, man? Made certain
you were finished with the morning fuck before I barged in? Let Brooke do her hair,
perhaps? Unhook her hand from around your dick?”

Heat drenched my face. From rage or shame, I couldn’t tell. Did it matter?

Two stomps from the other room, shaking the walls as only Syn could, were oddly soothing.

“Be careful where you tread, man.” His snarl, just as violent, was like another swipe
of aloe on my burn.

“Because
you
were?” Jagger retorted.

“It is none of your business, Jag.”

“It is
all
of my business.” Another set of raging steps, faster than Syn’s but just as virulent.
“You specifically asked for her on the tactical team you bade me to assemble for this—the
team you put
me
in charge of. It is my job to be clear about the preparedness, physical and mental,
of every member of that team.
You
are not good for her readiness on either of those levels. On
any
damn level.”

The whoosh of Samsyn’s spin made the leaves flutter on the potted palms inside the
bedroom’s door. “I am your
prince
!”

“Then haul out the guillotine and chop my fucking head off.” Jag’s clenched emphasis
was so clear, I could practically see his locked teeth through the wall. But he finished
with a resigned sigh. “You
are
my prince—but you are also my friend. Right or wrong, that designation bears priority
to me.” There was a rustle, denoting he’d sat or leaned somewhere. “We have known
each other for a long time, Syn. I know all the burdens you bear, the old
and
the new.”

I swallowed heavily. Sensed Samsyn doing the same. “Yes,” he finally grated. “You
do.”

“None of it has been easy for you. Even as second to the throne, the weight on your
shoulders is immense. It is not a crime not to wish yourself burdened with the care
of a regular woman, as well.”

Knotted stomach. Fisting hands. And I had no idea why. Every word Jag spoke was true.
I’d known it all before now—but hearing it spoken was like peeling the scab on a wound.
It hurt. For stupid reasons.

“Who the hell said I wanted a regular woman?”

Let the bleeding begin.

“Not
who
,” Jagger clarified. “
What
.” He exhaled with audible heaviness. “The heart of the girl in that bed.” A stretch
of uncomfortable silence. Another. I silently yearned—and dreaded—for Samsyn to say
something. He didn’t. “She is half in love with you, Syn. You are probably the only
person who doesn’t see it. Or perhaps does not want to see it?”

My breath stuck in my throat like a ball of Asuman porridge. Spread an ache through
me, tight and torturous, as Samsyn’s reply took forever to come.

When it did…

“Fuck.”

I buried my face into the thick satin, muffling my broken sob.

“So how do you wish to handle this?”

Jagger’s question, like he addressed some kind of tactical detail, jerked my self-pity
to an end. My heartache turned to rage—enough of it to swing out of bed, dragging
the sheet along. I jabbed it around me, covering enough to be decent. The rest of
Jag’s respect, I’d have to earn on my own—and damn well planned on doing so.

I would
not
be a “this” to be “handled”. Nor the pathetic “girl in the bed”. And no, I wasn’t
even the desperate thing who’d taken up fight training merely as a way of gaining
Samsyn Cimarron’s attention. Not anymore.

Never again.

My steps lengthened. Strengthened.

In a way, perhaps many, I had to thank Jagger for this. The epiphany might have never
hit without him barging on us. But hearing the pity in his voice as he spoke of me,
like I was some groupie taking up guitar just because it was what my idol played,
flared a giant match inside. In the flickering shadows behind me was the desperate
girl I’d once been. In the blazing light in front of me was the woman I now would
be.

A woman who sure as hell didn’t need Samsyn Cimarron’s validation anymore. Or Jagger
Foxx’s, for that matter.

Easier said than done.

Especially when stepping into a sun-drenched room, dressed in nothing but a sheet,
to face the warrior who’d drilled me on the training mat for the last three years—and
the one who’d drilled me in the rotunda last night.

“Mr. Foxx,” I intoned. “And Your Highness. Good morning.”

“
Bon sabah
.” They mumbled it in unison, discomfort stamped on their faces. Made it a hell of
a lot easier to disguise the wince on mine while crossing back over to the rotunda.
The center glass pane was still smeared with handprints: mine and Samsyn’s. Half the
seat cushion flopped to the floor—practically pointing the way to my discarded clothes.

I didn’t look back, despite the weight of their stares on my back, as I stooped and
gathered my bra and top in one hand, panties and pants in the other. Without a word,
I turned and paced back into the bedroom.

Closed the door slowly, letting its click resound through the stillness on my side—and
theirs.

Sat back down on the bed.

And let a million tremors take over.

Shit.
Shit
.

So sometimes my temper overcommitted before my body could catch up. Or my heart. The
heart that’d been wrenched in a thousand directions just from being in the same room
again with Syn. That knew, in its deepest fibers and darkest corners, it had been
just as tense for him too.

Until my memory backtracked by five more minutes. Made me cringe all over again at
the words he’d spat.
Who the hell said I wanted a regular woman
?

And who the hell gave me the right to indulge one
moment’s
worth of being hurt by that? Hadn’t we let ourselves give in to last night because
of
that
tacit agreement? That by freeing ourselves from redefining things because of sex,
we could just give in to desire? That freedom was what made everything so damn amazing?

“Amazing.” By voicing it, I thought to dilute its power. A match was always strongest
at first flare.

Unless it had kindling to catch.

Kindling…like the way Syn’s kisses had flooded my soul. Like the way his touch had
launched my arousal to the stars. Like the way his body had consumed me until I forgot
what existence was without it.

Just all that.

Just the fact that I loved him now more than ever.

And because of that…had to let him go.

I looked down at my hand. Forced it to uncurl from the pillow into which it had coiled.
Fiercely pushed up, regaining my footing.

“Knock it off. Get your shit together, Valen.”

I dropped the sheet. Picked up my panties.

Had only gotten them over my ankles—when Syn walked in.

‡