Unchained, the Dark Forgotten (2010) (27 page)

There was something oddly innocent about that, and it charmed him.

She leaned her weight against his chest, forcing him to fall back a step. Retreat signaled a change of tactics. She swerved, pushing him against the wall. His shoulders thumped against the hard surface.

“Take off your shirt,” she said, her words half whisper, half growl.

“La, madam,” he murmured into her ear. “Do you mean to strip me of my virtue?”

She looked up through her lashes, her eyes sharp and hungry. “First things first, boy. Shirt. Off.”

The challenge was too much. “The devil I will. You’ll have to work for it.”

“You’ll pay for that.” Grasping the hem of his T-shirt, she started to pull it up his stomach.

“Not so fast.”

He grabbed her by the waist, lifting her feet from the floor as if she were no more than a naughty child. In response, she wrapped her legs around his middle, holding on with the strength in her thighs. The motion turned them in a half circle, knocking over a floor lamp that fell with a clatter. Neither of them stopped to assess the damage.

Ashe pulled the shirt off over his head. By that point, he had to cooperate and raise his arms or she’d tear the shirt. Possibly with her teeth. Besides, the feel of her against his bare skin was too enticing to resist. She waved the garment for a moment like a victory flag, then let it arc to the floor.

“I always get my way eventually.” Releasing her grip on his waist, she braced herself on his shoulders and slithered down his front until her feet touched the floor. The movement made him wish for that wall to brace himself against. Friction was exquisite torture. All of a sudden, his knees were not at their most reliable.

Her hand cupped the front of his jeans just for a moment, a quick, possessive gesture. Reynard caught his breath.
Blood and thunder, if I don’t hurry this along, I won’t last beyond the opening pleasantries.

Roaming up her ribs, his hands could find only flesh beneath the top she wore. He felt a brief pang of disappointment—he had fancied an encounter with one of those frilly bras he’d seen in modern magazines—but warm female breast quickly occupied his attention. He circled her nipples with his thumbs, bringing a groan from her throat. Her hands raked through his hair, then fell to his shoulders, then slowly ran down his arms, caressing him until she cupped his own hands where he touched her.

She turned, pulling him down and falling onto the couch in one graceful motion. The fabric that covered it was a deep green, her bare arms ivory against it. Reynard knelt, straddling her legs, knocking throw cushions to the floor as he settled. Ashe was on her back, underneath him, as he’d fantasized so many times.

Only this time, there was no Castle to throttle that desire. The pounding in his loins was as raw and real as it had been in his youth. The scent of her skin filled his nose, his lungs, seeping into his blood like a drug. A flush of desire was creeping over her, turning the ivory to rose. He could feel the warmth of it, and he heated in turn.

Her eyes widened with appreciation of the tattoos that crawled over his chest.

“These are so funky,” she said, tracing them lightly with her nails. The butterfly touch made him shiver, hardening his own nipples into pale peaks. Her hand moved to a scar that curled from his shoulder down to his chest. “What’s this?”

The impulse to talk was fading fast. “The sword thrust that sent me home to England.”

“And here.” She ran her fingers over his abdomen. “There should be a scar here, from last fall, but there’s no mark. That ax wound was deep.”

Reynard began to play with the waistband of her pants, hoping to lure her back to the task at hand. “I have scars only from before I became a guardsman. The rest heal completely, given time.”

“That’s right. You’ve got superpowers of recovery. That should come in handy tonight.”

Tonight
. It might be all they had, but he would make her remember it. Reynard pulled up the hem of her shirt and pressed his lips to the soft flesh just above her navel, tasting it, nuzzling his way upward between the arcs of her rib cage.

Seeming suddenly impatient, she peeled the peach-colored tank top over her head, revealing small, firm breasts. Her nipples were the delicate pink of seashells. He took one greedily, using his tongue to bring it to a peak. She arched into him.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, kissing the hollow of her collarbone, the soft spot just below her ear. He used his hands and his mouth to make her breath come quickly, short gasps of need that made the back of his own neck prickle.

“It’s all good,” she whispered.

“But all women have a key,” he murmured into her ear. “A secret wish that unlocks them every time.”

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s not pretty.”

Ashe writhed as he pulled down her stretchy slacks, tossing them to the floor. He nearly fell to the floor right along with them.

“Bloody hell.”

She was wearing nothing underneath, not even the usual triangle of hair. His imagination hadn’t predicted that one, but it was sure to be included in any future scripts.

“That would be
your
key, would it?” she said slyly. “Or perhaps calling it the lock would be more anatomically correct.”

Reynard cleared his throat, but there would be no more talking as her fingers found his zipper and slid it carefully open, giving him blessed relief. Her breasts rose in a quick inhale as he shed the rest of his clothes.

“Sweet Hecate, no wonder they locked you up.”

“You have no idea,” he said, keeping the irony out of his tone.

She shifted, welcoming him into her arms. The sensation of touching skin to skin, the complete freedom of nakedness, filled every sense. She was smooth and lean, long legs wrapping around his waist. It had been so long since he had felt anything like this, the physical world began to blur. Nothing was left but the painful, throbbing need to possess.

“I can’t wait,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Then don’t.”

“It will be rough.”

“Perfect.” Her gaze was unfocused. “Completely perfect. Don’t hold back.”

She shifted again, her hand guiding him as he pushed inside. The hot tightness of her made him cry out. A growl came from her throat. Sharp nails dug into his shoulders, the pain only increasing his desire. He moved inside her carefully, biting his lip, doing everything he could to slow down and give her some chance at pleasure. Her muscles clenched around him, the delicious agony of it turning his vision to starbursts.

Then rhythm took over, each thrust making her gasp and the couch moan. He heard the sounds, but they had no meaning. All he could feel was the gathering storm, and the hot wetness surrounding him. Quickening pulses spasmed deep inside her as his rhythm broke and he began to pound, taking her too hard and too soon.

But he could tell she needed the raw frenzy of their joining as much as he did.

“Oh, Goddess!” Ashe cried.

He felt the release like a bolt of lightning, blanking every nerve in exquisite torment. It felt like it went on and on, making up for an eternity of denial.

Ending too soon.

He gripped the couch, arm muscles quivering. There was no room to collapse, not without smothering Ashe or tumbling to the floor. They were both breathing hard, sticky with sweat. She looked startled, like he’d done something remarkable.
Maybe not all my skills are lost?

“Do you sleep on this couch?” he demanded, his voice hoarse with panting.

Her hair had come loose, scattering around her in a ragged, tawny sun. She shook her head mutely.

Carefully, he found his feet, making sure his legs could still support him. “Show me your bed and I’ll do that properly.”

Ashe frowned. “But you did it just right.”

“Of course I did. And now I know what you like. A tiger to your tigress.”

“Hot damn,” she muttered.

Taking her had only kindled his need. Her flushed cheeks and swollen lips turned the flame into a blaze. He pulled her up and into a deep, hungry kiss.

This time, she melted in his arms like sorbet left in the sun.
Ah, yes
. He cupped the cheeks of her firm bottom, the feel of the warm flesh starting the heaviness in his belly all over again. He felt himself hardening already.

Immortality had its advantages.

She broke away, catching his hand. “This way.”

He registered nothing of how they got there. It was growing dark, lights glowing here and there on clocks and appliances. There were noises in other parts of the house—voices, doors closing—but it only served to enhance a sense of stolen privacy.

Halfway down the hall, Ashe stopped, her grip on his biceps rough. He let her shove him into the cold, rough plaster of the wall.

“How hard are you willing to play?” she demanded.

“How hard do you need it?”

She took his mouth, then the flesh of his shoulder in her teeth, biting down. Pain and pleasure shot through him like shards of light. Unbearable, and yet the throbbing in his groin flared into an ache. He grabbed her around the ribs, picking her up. Her tongue traced the side of his neck, her hair falling around them in a silky curtain.

“Take me,” she whispered. “Let me fight you.”

“I’ll win.”

“Make me forget everything but you.”

“With pleasure.”

H
ours later, Ashe lay beside Reynard, sore and exhausted. She was on her stomach; he was on his side, one arm curved around her. A blanket covered them. The top sheet was a poly-cotton shred-fest somewhere on the floor. She thought they’d broken a lamp, but she wouldn’t be sure until she got up. It was pitch-black in the room.

She felt quiet, content. Spent. Rage—about her life, her mistakes, her destiny, and the fact she had been alone for so long—had burned away. After they had bitten and wrestled and pinned each other down, Reynard took her with all the tenderness she’d never wanted before. Incredibly, he made her feel she deserved it. Although it might be his only chance at a night of passion, he had made it about her.

Rough and gentle, he had delivered them both, delighted in them both. That was better than oblivion. That salty-sweet combination was, as he had put it, her key. He was the first lover to discover her private need for both.

Roberto hadn’t. It was something she barely understood herself.

Ashe listened to his steady breathing. He was drifting in and out of sleep, as tired as she was. Reynard had given her everything she asked without judgment, and yet she had no sense that he was in any way deprived. He had taken his fill of pleasure, too. Reynard had strength to spare. Strength enough to master her—and to care for her.

He was everything she’d ever wanted in a lover.

She rolled onto her side, her back curling into him. His breath gusted across her neck, warming her skin. A faint snore said he was lights-out. The sound of it made her smile. It was kind of cute.

It’s been too long.
For the first time since Roberto had died, she was able to float in the after-bliss of lovemaking feeling whole, clean, and cherished. Worthy of love.

It wasn’t a question of falling in love. That was something softer, something that came only when this first piece had fallen into place. On some deep, biological level he had earned the right to be with her. More than that, he had taken her. Every cell. Every pulse of her heart.

Ashe felt slightly awestruck, even as her eyelids drifted closed.

Boredom was the largest difference between being held a prisoner in the Castle, and being held a prisoner in one of the Castle’s cells. Miru- kai could not complain that he was mistreated. Mac had shut down the old cells that were no more than caves with doors. By contrast, the room where he had put Miru-kai was small but clean, the stone walls whitewashed to take away some of the gloom. There was a shelf with a thin mattress and a dark blue blanket neatly folded at the foot. Not princely, but palatial compared to what it might have been.

Still, it was a lockup. A grate of iron bars striped the white stone. The door was made of iron bars. Magic would not work in a room lined with cold iron. He saw no one but the occasional guard with his jingling ring of keys. There was absolutely nothing to do.

Boredom was an ingenious form of torture. He’d begun to listen for the guards’ footsteps as a means of passing the time. Miru-kai lay on the mattress, his hands folded across his stomach, and tried to relax. He was used to the bustle of his encampment. It was literally too quiet to sleep. All part of the complimentary torture service.

Miru-kai opened his eyes and stared at the stone ceiling. He could count the blocks of stone, but he had to save some excitement for later. He slipped off the bed and stood at the barred door, careful not to touch the irritating iron. He could see out, but there was nothing there but corridors of stone, the same view as anywhere in the Castle.

I shouldn’t be here. None of the fey should be here.
Fairykind knew how to repair the earth the humans plundered, but the humans knew how to make the earth yield crops. Once, the two species had worked side by side—or so Miru-kai had been told. That was before his time, before the bulk of his people had retreated to the Summerland, closing the gates behind them and leaving their brethren to struggle on alone.

I could have been dancing in dew circles if my venerated parents had gotten off their royal backsides and left with the rest
. Instead, he was stuck here, dealing with the dregs of the Castle.

Footfalls echoed in the corridor. Miru- kai drew nearer the bars. The heavy silk of his clothing rustled as he moved, reminding him he was a prince and not just a prisoner.

His visitor was Mac, his large form backlit by the flickering torches.