Ask For It

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Ask For It

ISBN 9781419919138

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Ask For It Copyright © 2008 Gail Faulkner

Edited by Mary Moran.

Photography and cover art by Les Byerley & Syneca.

Electronic book Publication November 2008

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Ask For It

Gail Faulkner

Chaper One

Tor hadn’t planned on killing anyone today, but a male at the back was earning himself a future measured in minutes. Bastard was trying to talk to her. What the eternal bells was she doing in his audience hall? Bastard had better not touch her.

Soft leather shifted on massive thighs as his body tightened with tension. Vicious claws extended to grip the throne arms then disappeared. She did this, forced him to think about controlling his reactions. Low in his gut possessive want flared up. It was more than lust. It was need he couldn’t escape and couldn’t endure forever.

Tall for a pure humanoid, her perfectly proportioned body drew male eyes no matter how simply she dressed. It was probably impossible to disguise the firm muscles giving her sleek curves. Tor wouldn’t mind if she tried though. The simple dress highlighted natural beauty instead of concealing it. Tilted silver-gray eyes shadowed by lush lashes gave her glance mystery.

Elegant bone structure created perfect features. It was just unnecessary overkill that each feature also embodied whatever it took to rouse a male libido. Eyes slightly larger than average gave her innocent appeal that naturally made a male speculate what it’d take to turn those silver eyes sultry. Sculpted cheekbones under delicate smooth skin, distinctly humanoid nose above lush lips made any view of her profile fascinating to a Leonor male. Long neck above gently sloped shoulders naturally led the eye down to the perfection of her body.

Tor hated that. She was built for sex. Her consistent choice of simple dress and no further adornment proved she fought the impression, but erotic allure wafted around her. Not normal sex one thought of when looking at a beautiful female. No. With her it was edgy and dark. Something about her natural grace of movement, her casual coordination and fluid muscle control made it easy to imagine her body straining under a much larger Leonor.

Tor didn’t want the male behind her imagining another moment. Not right there in front of him. She’d entered his domain, and in this building he didn’t have to watch her captivate another.

“Why is the Beloved of my Brother standing in line to speak with me?” Tor questioned his vizier, ignoring the two males arguing their dispute before him.

“She insisted, my lord,” Karloff, high vizier, bowed as he responded.

“Unacceptable,” Tor snapped.

Thick muscles bunched as he rose from the throne. Well over seven feet tall, the dark-ruffed Leonor king was an imposing figure as he loped off the dais.

Offense rippled through him, but it couldn’t come close to his strongest response as he neared the woman. She drew him with such power. His eyes never left her from the moment he realized she was in his lair. He didn’t even try to politely glance away. Now the back of his neck burned as he covered the distance separating them.

“Beloved of my Brother,” High King Tor greeted Princess Sahara.

Tor inhaled while reaching for her slim hand. Subtle scents washed through him, her scent. Complex but as elusive as the woman, he always had the fleeting impression of moonrise when she neared him, as if that event had a scent.

Expecting her to do it didn’t make it easier to allow her to pull out of his grasp. Consciously letting his displeasure show in his eyes was a defense. He couldn’t let her see anything else in him as she dipped a knee in greeting. The normal emotionless acknowledgement from a Leonor warrior was beyond him with her and always had been.

“My lord,” Sahara responded.

“What insult is this that you stand in line to speak with your brother-in-law as if I have refused you entrance to the family lair?” Tor growled.

She would ascribe his harsh tone to the subject of his question, not the real reason. She’d pulled away from him. She always pulled away from him. Except for that short time, little desert flower eluded his touch at every opportunity. Tor cut off the memory he could not afford.

“Ex-brother-in-law,” she corrected softly. “I am simply waiting to speak with the king like everyone else. No insult intended, my lord.”

“Widow of my brother does not make you an ex-anything. Come,” he directed, capturing her wrist in a light hold. “We will speak in private.”

“Oh, but all these people are waiting to see you. I don’t want to interrupt,” she protested with a frown as he tugged her out of line and toward a side door. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

“You should have considered that before getting in line instead of contacting me directly,” Tor responded tightly. “Life is not fair. They will come back or find a local magistrate to deal with the issue.”

He couldn’t cross the wide audience hall fast enough without dragging her. He was tempted to pick her up, but that would become complicated when he refused to put her down. Tor wasn’t delusional enough to think he’d stop touching her if he managed to get her in his arms again.

“My lord, please. I require no special privileges,” Sahara insisted, and stopped walking, tugging on her wrist in his hold.

Tor turned to face her. He didn’t let go. “Special privileges are yours and you will attempt to receive them graciously. My brother’s widow will have every privilege I can bestow on her. What do you think my example tells the general population about how to care for the widows and orphans in their families? Eternal bells, woman. Do I have to explain this to you in public?”

“Ah, I didn’t think of that,” Sahara mumbled with a guilty glance at the crowded room and stopped resisting.

“No, you didn’t. Your only thought was being difficult,” Tor accused in poorly suppressed irritation.

The only reason she bought his flimsy excuse was because she was an out-worlder. A beautiful, fascinating smooth-skin who shattered his composure just that easily by appearing. Looking at her was all it took. His balls tightened, his cock threatened to swell and he was left feeling like a rutting fool with no control.

In truth, no warrior would neglect his female family members. There were so few females to begin with. The further restriction of specific biological compatibilities required to allow reproduction ensured every male in the line protected his brother’s wife with his own life as well. A concept Sahara fought from the first.

The first out-worlder compatible with a Leonor line, she was a unique and priceless treasure. Something else she didn’t appreciate in the least. She was a symbol of hope to many who had not found a match.

Why a generation of a previously robust family would suddenly fail to find one single match on planet was unknown. Whole lines disappeared in this fashion. A killer with no regard for high-born or commoner, it stalked families for years as it denied them the future. The situation was becoming critical, its impact would soon change his society’s way of life if an answer were not found.

Prickly little desert flower seemed oblivious to how important she was to his world. She represented a future just when the planet’s scientists had almost given up. She fought that attention at every turn. Being a world’s surprising hope for the future was probably intimidating, Tor acknowledged, but ignoring that fact didn’t make it go away.

Whatever brought her to the palace, Tor knew he was going to bless it then curse it. Simply touching her soft skin sent a flash of piercing pleasure through him. It rocked him every time with the rush of an addict getting his fix.

In truth, she was the soul-destroying substance of choice to him. For her, he’d considered breaking almost every law and custom of his people. Not because she asked it of him, it was much worse than that. To posses her, he’d considered things that were unthinkable. He wasn’t proud of it, but the only way to control it was to be honest, at least with himself.

He was the male who had rescued her from a heap of rubble, the one she now avoided at all costs. Refusing assistance, he’d carried her across a supposedly impassable mountain range. Their escape from her bloody moon had not been a sure thing, but he’d not allowed her out of his care. Now she would not voluntarily touch him.

Privately, he was fiercely glad she would not tolerate the Leonor custom of adult male family members casually giving her pleasure. With his two brothers she accepted a hug and kiss hello, but no more of the Leonor family openness with sexuality. Tor was honest enough to know he would not permit the practice. Something they would not understand and he couldn’t fully explain. She changed him.

Sometimes it felt as if finding Sahara had been the birth of a very old soul within. A soul who threw off the thousands of years of evolution his species had fought so hard to achieve. His response to her, to everything that involved her was as old as the claw marks designating caves his ancestors once lived in.

He understood the harsh aggressiveness of an age when a male marked his territory, displaying his strength by the depth of his mark. Sahara forced him to control his predator instincts in ways he’d never considered before. Normal, everyday life changed, morphed into a past when males competed for everything but fought to the death to claim a mate.

It was wise for desert flower to maintain a cautious distance from him as if he were a disease she might catch. She had to sense the darkness that gnawed at him.

So whatever brought her here gave him the excuse to hold her soft flesh in his paw again. Pathetic as that was, he’d take any opportunity.

Whatever brought her here also forced him to endure watching her back away from him as soon as he let her go. It would require stoic silence as she found ways to avoid touching him, looking at him, being in the same room with him.

The killing-someone-today issue was looking probable. The idiot who’d distressed her enough to come seeking an audience from him was on a very short list of unfortunates. Being the outlet for his frustration when she told him her problem was likely not a survivable position.

First, he had to get through the pleasure-torture part. Alone in a room with her was pleasure and torture. He prayed to the Goddess for strength to respect little desert flower’s space. If he had any sense he’d avoid being alone with her at all costs. He had no sense around her, none.

Damn, he needed his head clubbed, repeatedly. Both of them. At some point he’d have to accept her disdain and stop wanting what he’d never have again. Stop needing with the obsessive greed of a substance addict. A warrior could not live like this forever.

The anteroom door clicked shut. Tor braced mentally to take the next hit. As expected, she tugged her wrist out of his hold. Reluctantly he let her do it but took two steps farther into the room, keeping his back to her so she wouldn’t see any trace of response when he faced her.

“Please, may we sit?” she suggested, smiling sweetly as he turned.

What the fuck could her problem be? She’d smiled. Looked him directly in the eye and smiled as if she wanted to smile. This could become exceedingly difficult if Sahara thought she needed to charm him. The difficult part would be after, when he did whatever it was she wanted and she quit being charming. He would endure it. Widow of a warrior placed her out of any male’s reach unless she chose him.

Sahara could accomplish charming him with a brush of her hand down his ruff. She should know that. It’d worked for her in the past. The common practice of sitting across his lap while dining with his family and allowing him to feed her would probably get her any damn thing she wanted.

Tor headed to a couch. She would not sit with him, but in case she thought it would help her cause, he’d give her the opportunity. Royal custom required she remain standing until he sat and invited her to do the same. Tor relaxed on the overstuffed couch that was really more of a reclining bed. Large furniture that was comfortable for sprawling was necessary to his people.

“Please sit, Beloved.” He purposely used the shorted version of her title. She didn’t stiffen as expected.

Graceful little desert flower floated to the other end of his lounger and perched on the edge. Tor regarded her from beneath heavy lids. The situation was more serious than he’d first suspected. Now he was reluctant to ask what she needed. There was only one thing he could think of that would bring her into his lair and onto the same piece of furniture he occupied.

The tip of his long tail casually wrapped around her slender ankle, the tuft of black fur at the end lightly caressing her foot. She still didn’t move away. Tor consciously relaxed the tightening of his gut. Touching her with his sensitive tail would have done it anyway, but this time dread threatened to stiffen his body.

What would drive her to these lengths after years of ensuring he kept to a certain distance? He didn’t relish the prospect of denying her what he was beginning to suspect she wanted. The one request he could not grant her was freedom to return to her home. At last report it was still a dangerously unstable society, but that had little to do with it. He simply could not allow her to slip away.