Lucien's Khamsin (10 page)

“Let’s say you find me virile and sexy and altogether attractive.”

Those pale green eyes were delving into her soul and she was caught by them—intrigued by the golden flecks that seemed to swirl through the irises.

“Let’s say,” he purred, his voice low and sultry, “that your body is stirred by the nearness of mine.”

She did not flinch when he lifted his hand and laid the backs of his fingers against her cheek. There was no rush of intense pleasure as there had been before.

“No,” he said. “But if I turn my hand so my palm rests against your flesh, you will absorb the testosterone and it will speed like lightning to your womb.”

His words were far more intoxicating than any potent wine and spoken with such gentleness, such seductive volume, they were doing strange things to her lower belly.

“If you were to allow it,” he said and his voice was a mere whisper of sound as it fanned across her heated face. “I would pick you up in my arms and carry you to our bed.”

Khamsin’s breath was ragged—coming quickly and her breasts were aching from the pressure of her hands against them.

“With infinite care, I would remove your gown and let my eyes wander over the beauty of your naked body.”

Her knees felt weak and had he not been pressed so close to her, she suspected she would have sagged against the wall.

“I would very gently—and with the greatest respect—trail my fingers down your arm from shoulder to wrist, down your side from just beneath your armpit to the flange of your hip, along the top of your thigh from the crease of your pelvis to the rise of your knee.”

She could almost feel that spectral touch easing down her flesh.

“I would run my nails under your knee and into the sweet hollow where the skin is so soft.”

Khamsin whimpered. She was unaware that her fingers were moving against his chest hair or that he had moved back just far enough for her to pluck at a wiry stand.

He lowered his mouth to her ear and his words caused her to shiver as they wound their way through the auditory canal and reached into the pit of her womb.

“I would mold my hands lovingly, gently over the globes of your breasts, my naked leg hooked over yours and I would be just close enough for you to feel the heat of my staff against your thigh.”

Completely oblivious to the fact she had spread her hands along his waist and was now holding him, Khamsin closed her eyes as his enthralling words slithered through her mind.

“I would run my thumbs over your nipples, pluck softly at those turgid peaks, worrying them with just enough friction to cause shivers to ripple along your spine.”

Her hands moved to his back of their own accord so that she was holding him against her, her palms flat against his flesh.

“Then I would replace those fingers with my warm, moist mouth and suckle you reverently, laving those erect nubs with my tongue.”

His right hand now cupped her shoulder, lightly squeezing. Very slowly, he insinuated his right knee between her legs, pushing hers apart.

“I would trail kisses over your breasts and down your chest, spiraling my tongue into that sweet concavity of your navel. With the utmost care, I would worship you as I pressed my face into the curls at the juncture of your thighs.”

Khamsin sucked in a breath and spread her hands upward, grasping at the strong muscles of his upper back.

“Very gently, very delicately I would press the tip of my tongue against your clitoris and taste the nectar that oozes from that sweet nub. I would put my thumb to the hood and move it back so I could lave the surface of the little bud.”

“No,” she whispered, her hands clutching at him.

“I would slide my tongue down your nether lips and flick it against the opening to taste the starchy dewlets that hover there.”

“Please,” she begged, and the word was nothing more than a breath against his neck.

“Delving inside you with the very tip of my hot, moist tongue for just a brief moment, I would replace that small muscle with this.”

His hand left her shoulder and moved slowly, insinuatingly down her arm, across the flare of her hip and when he cupped her sex through the obstruction of the fabric of her gown, she groaned.

“Don’t do this to me,” she said.

“What am I doing, wench?” he asked softly.

“You are mesmerizing me,” she protested.

“No, I am not,” he told her. “I am fondling you with nothing but my words and this strong hand.”

She could feel the heat of his palm through the fabric as he was holding her between the legs. One finger—she knew it was the middle one—tapped lightly at her opening as though bidding to be allowed inside.

“You are using your power to break down my defenses,” she challenged.

“No,” he said, drawing out the denial. “I am merely allowing you to understand what I would do for you, to you, if you would but allow it. I am giving you free will to accept or deny me, wench. It is your choice. The only coercion is the warmth of my flesh through the restriction of your clothing.”

Khamsin opened her eyes and found his hot gaze locked on her face. There was possessiveness running rampant in that look and despite his gentle words, she knew he would never allow her to gain her freedom of him. He had claimed her and she would be his.

“But only when you desire it,” he said and stepped back, breaking her hold on him. He took another step back so that now their bodies were no longer in contact.

The removal of his palm from between her legs, the weight of his body pressing into hers, his soft breath against her face, made Khamsin ache from the heaviness of her breasts to the throbbing that had enveloped her lower body.

“Only when you desire it,” he whispered and turned his back on her. “I will never force you.”

“Please!” she heard herself say and quickly covered her mouth as though she could snatch the word back.

He looked around but did not turn to face her. “Please, what?”

Her eyes pleaded with him but she said nothing. She felt like a whore and tears gathered.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “You aren’t ready yet, wench.”

She watched him walk away—never turning to look at her as he left the room. The door closed behind his exit with a finality that brought a gasp to Khamsin’s lips. She slumped down the wall, her hand still tight against her lips, until she was squatting on the floor. A keening sound of surrender pushed from her constricted throat and she let the tears fall.

Chapter Seven

Petros frowned when he saw Lucien coming toward him. There was a bitter cast to the prince’s lips that did not set well for whoever had caused the mulish expression.

“What did she do?” the Lord of Security asked.

Lucien’s brows drew together. “Who?”

“The special one.”

Lucien surprised Petros by smiling broadly. “Nothing yet but give her a day—or less—and she’ll do whatever I bid.”

“It’s nice to have such power, eh?” Petros asked with a grunt.

“I’m not using my power,” Lucien said. “I’m merely offering her the use of my body.”

Petros’ left eyebrow rose. “Oh, really? You still haven’t taken her?”

Lucien shook his head and stuck his hands into the pockets of his leather britches.

“How’s your head?”

“It hurts but not as bad. I can handle it.”

Lucien looked toward the pens. “Have you seen to the conditions?”

“Aye and I have set two of the women to sewing a few new garments until the herders come back with more clothing.” He scratched his cheek. “I am very sorry I let the situation slip past me, Luc, and so is Tina.”

“She has other priorities, but that,” Lucien said, nudging his chin toward the pens, “is our sustenance. We need to take better care of it.”

“And we will,” Petros vowed.

“Walk with me?” Lucien asked.

The two men who had been friends since they were toddlers were comfortable with one another and had no need to carry on conversation when they were together. They were content to be in one another’s company, knowing if something needed discussing, the issue would arise in its own time.

Thralls were stationed throughout the inner bailey and patrolled the perimeter of the battlements. Torches flared high above, lighting the night sky where bats swooped and owls screeched as they winged their way over Modartha.

“Sibylline finally showed her face this eve,” Lucien remarked as they made their way to the corral.

Petros glanced at his companion. “And?”

“She admitted sending the wench to me.”

“Um-hmm,” Petros said. “We figured as much.”

“The question is why.”

The horses were dozing but one woke instantly and tossed its black head in greeting. It nickered softly and trotted over to where the men stood.

Lucien reached through the fence to pat the beautiful creature’s sleek nose. “Would you like to go for a ride, Fiach?” he asked, allowing the steed to nuzzle his face.

As though the creature understood and was giving its answer, it bobbed its head.

Lucien turned to Petros. “You coming?”

“Do you think I’d let you go alone?” Petros growled. He put two fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle.

Each of the dozing horses inside the corral woke, lifting their heads in unison. A big roan left the rest of them and came over to the fence.

“I take it you don’t want to bother with a saddle,” Petros complained as Lucien pushed the restraining bar up on the gate and led Fiach out of the corral, his fingers wrapped in the silky mane.

“I need to ride something, my friend,” Lucien said, taking a handful of Fiach’s thick black mane and vaulting onto the steed’s broad back. “And I want nothing between my cock and my beast but this thin strip of leather at my crotch.”

“Disgusting pervert,” Petros grumbled. He led his mount out then slipped the bar back in place. He stepped back and swung himself up on the beast.

The thralls on guard at the portcullis were accustomed to their prince riding out of an evening. They were already working the pulley that raised the ten-inch-thick iron bars with their jagged, sharp teeth.

Standing at the window of Lucien’s room, Khamsin saw him and Lord Petros galloping down the plank bridge that led from the keep and across a steep gorge. The sound of those heavy hooves striking the wood echoed back to her and she thought she heard Lucien laugh.

“
Can you feel the wind rushing through my hair, wench?
”

She wasn’t surprised when the spectral voice spoke to her in her mind. She closed her eyes and could almost feel the kiss of a light breeze against her face.

“
I’d rather be riding you.
”

“I’m sure you would,” she said aloud and wrapped her arms around her for there was a night chill coming in through the open window.

“
Can you feel the friction between my thighs?
”

Aye
, she thought, she could. There was a hardness pressing there and she knew he was allowing her to feel the same awareness he felt. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the sensation.

“
Tomorrow night I’ll take you with me.
”

She felt him pulling away from her and knew a moment of regret. The withdrawal of his presence left the room cold and lonely.

* * * * *

Lucien slowed his mount as he and Petros neared Lake Alcina. The moon rode high overhead and shone down upon the still, dark waters of the wide lake. A loon sang its lonely song to the skies and a flutter of wings nearby spooked the horses and made them sidestep. Reaching down to pat Fiach’s neck, Lucien soothed the animal, speaking quietly to it in the old tongue, calming the skittish beast.

“There are shadows about,” Petros remarked as he slid from his big roan.

“I feel them,” Lucien agreed. He threw a leg over Fiach’s head and dismounted. “They’ll stay where they are.”

“You never know.”

Lucien trailed behind his steed as the black ambled to the water’s rim and lowered its head to lap at the cool water. He squatted down beside the horse and scooped up a handful to refresh him.

Petros kept watch, his nerves on edge. His hand strayed to the hilt of the dagger strapped to his thigh and lingered there.

“If Stavros’ men were lurking about, we’d sense it, Pet,” Lucien said quietly. “Those are humans.”

“Angry humans,” Petros corrected. “I can feel their hatred like a wet blanket over my shoulders.”

“Aye, but they won’t attack us. They are afraid.”

“I’ll send the herders out tomorrow to gather them up.”

Lucien shook his head. “They are diseased, my friend. Can’t you smell it?”

Petros lifted his chin and sniffed, his upper lip arching. “Aye, now that you mention it, I can. What the hell has gotten into me that I don’t pay more attention to the things around me of late?”

“You have other things on your mind, obviously.” Lucien stood, flung the water from his hand. “They are starving,” he told his friend. “One is near death.”