Ghostland (22 page)

She made his heart and soul sing, made him feel masculine, powerful, complete. “Aisling,” he whispered, wanting her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his centuries of existence, knowing all he’d ever have were what precious memories he made with her.

Eyelashes lifted to reveal eyes filled with unfathomable emotion, and he lost what little control remained. He thrust, panted, shuddered in ecstasy as he came—and nearly cried when the heated release only left him craving her more intensely.

Zurael sank into the water and pulled Aisling against his chest. His mouth pressed against her ear, his tongue traced the delicate shell then fucked into the sensitive canal as his fingers found her clit.

“Please,” she said, clinging to him, rubbing her mound against his hand, wanting release from the tight coil of need.

He should draw it out, reduce her to helplessness as she’d reduced him, but the danger was too great. A tilt of her head and their lips would be close, nearly touching, and the temptation to do the forbidden too great to resist.

He found her plump folds and shoved his fingers into her slit. Retreated. Repeated it over and over again, his palm striking the naked head of her clit until the water was sloshing violently and she was keening, slumping, limp with the pleasure he’d given her.

Zurael turned her in his arms, kissed her neck, her shoulders. He murmured words of satisfaction as he stroked her breasts, her belly, cuddled her until both of them recovered from the first rush of passion. Then he picked up a translucent bead of soap and crushed it between his fingers, worked the lather in his hands before applying it to her silky skin.

The way she melted against him, went boneless as he bathed her, was deeply satisfying. He lingered, saved her hair for last. And the intimacy of washing it, combing through it with his fingers, was nearly his undoing, even though he knew it didn’t mean the same thing to humans as it did to the Djinn.

After the soap had dissolved as if it were never present, Aisling turned and rose to her knees. “My turn.”

Zurael’s cock hardened at the sight of her breasts, the nipples begging for his touch. Memories of the pleasure she’d given him, when he stepped into the tub and she knelt before him, left him struggling against the urge to stand.

She reached behind him and slowly freed his braid. Waves of incredible sensation rippled through him as she combed through his hair with her fingers.

When she started to pick up a light blue bead, he nudged her hand to a translucent one. She crushed it between her fingers and he gave himself over to her care, moaned as she stroked his chest and teased the small nipples before grasping his cock.

Zurael allowed her to bathe him as thoroughly as he’d bathed her. He willingly turned his back to her and tilted his head so she could wash his hair, touch him in ways he’d never allowed a female to.

It gentled him for a while, chased away thoughts of dominance, of punishing her for her earlier disobedience—even as it filled him with the need to possess her completely, in every way. His cock throbbed, leaked, was more than ready to provide the lubricant necessary to work its way into the virgin orifice he’d traced earlier.

Zurael turned and captured her hands in one of his, saw need in her eyes, a vulnerable tenderness that made his heart and soul weep. “Aisling,” he whispered, pulling her to him, enjoying the press of her breasts against his chest, the way she trembled in reaction to the desire between them.

He held her, ran his hands over her as he kissed her neck, her shoulders, her ears. He built the fire between them until she was clinging to him, then turned her, put her on her knees and urged her to lean over, to grasp the edge of the tub.

She spread her thighs willingly, and the sight of her parted folds nearly distracted him from his purpose. Thoughts of pushing through wet lower lips, of being gripped by the tight muscles of her sheath, made him take himself in hand to stop from moving closer and impaling her with his cock.

He tightened his fingers, let a hint of pain clear the lust so he could concentrate on preparing the way to even greater pleasure. She pressed backward when he palmed her buttock, but when he grazed the rosette of her back entrance she tried to escape his touch, whispered, “
no
,” as she’d done other times, the word lacking resolve.

“Yes,” he said, moving closer, sliding his penis between her thighs, coating it with the arousal he found there as he rubbed over her swollen labia and clit.

She whimpered in response, tried to cant her hips so he’d find her hot opening. His hands on her buttocks kept her from doing it; his thumbs exploring the crevice between the silky cheeks reinforced his intention to take her there.

When she was shivering with need, he reached for the light blue bead he’d kept her from selecting earlier. It crushed easily between his fingers. The lubricating oil warmed immediately, tingled briefly as it penetrated skin in search of nerve endings.

Aisling jerked when he applied it to the tight pucker of her anus. She tensed, but within seconds she was panting lightly, responding to his commands as he stretched and prepared her, tempted her with the press of his cock head against her opening.

Lust flooded Aisling. Colors exploded on the insides of her eyelids.

Her cunt clenched and her skin slickened with sweat as she pressed backward, and took him into her forbidden entrance as slowly as she’d taken him into her mouth.

His tortured breathing echoed her own. His words of praise and husky pleas filled her with the desire to please him.

She moaned when he was all the way in, felt as though every nerve ending called his name, demanded she move, pull away from him—but not so far he would escape.

Pain and pleasure blended into indescribable ecstasy as she yielded to dark cravings. And he rewarded her with guttural cries and the hot wash of seed, with shuddering release.

They bathed again, sharing the soap generated by the last of the beads. And as he’d done once before, he used demon heat to speed the drying process as he brushed her hair and then his own before they left the bathroom.

Aisling pulled the sheet back, prepared to slide beneath it. He stilled her with a hand to her wrist, a carnal reminder. “You disobeyed me earlier. I told you not to touch me.”

Dark lust and erotic fear chased away the deep contentedness, the desire to cuddle and sleep.

She licked her lips. It was a provocative reminder of just how she’d disobeyed him, by taking him in her mouth. It was a subtle challenge for him to deliver the punishment he’d promised.

Molten eyes darkened, narrowed. Before she could do more than gasp, razor-sharp talons slashed the sheet she was holding, left only a long strip of fabric between fingers that shook slightly.

He released her wrist and took the cloth from her hand. “Get on the bed, Aisling.”

The command in his voice, the knowledge of what he intended, made her shiver and ache, gave birth to a hidden fantasy as she did as he ordered. His face tightened as he read her desire, scented the arousal rushing to coat her inner thighs, her flushed folds.

Aisling was acutely aware of the cool sheet against her heated skin as he bound her wrists and secured them to the bedpost. It was a symbolic admission of how helpless she was against him. A gesture forcing her to admit how much she liked having him above her, straddling her so his rigid cock and heavy testicles rubbed against her abdomen as he looked down at her with possessiveness in his eyes.

“Zurael,” she whispered, unable to think past his name, past the masculine satisfaction edged with desire she saw in his face.

She cried out when he lowered his head and took a nipple between his lips, tortured her as she’d tortured him—with teasing swirls and licks, light touches when she craved the fierce suction of his mouth.

He tormented her until she writhed and thrashed and pleaded. And then he kissed downward, pinned her splayed thighs to the bed with ruthless hands, pleasured her with his mouth and tongue—taking her to the edge of release over and over again—but didn’t let her come until he thrust his cock into her channel and made her scream.

Ten

AISLING woke to incredible warmth and feelings of profound security. The first was reality, the second illusion, though she didn’t try to banish it. Instead she allowed herself to savor the heat of Zurael’s skin as he held her in his arms, his hand cupping her breast, his chest against her back. She allowed herself to linger in a fantasy where she was safe, loved. Complete in a way she hadn’t known she could be until he was in her life.

An ache formed in her chest. Her heart and mind warned her of the foolishness of weaving images of the future with him in it. And yet her labia grew slick and parted as memories of the night rushed in—the carnal pleasure he’d shown her and the things she’d allowed him to do to her.

A shiver went through her. She snuggled more deeply into Zurael’s sleeping embrace, welcomed the feel of the erection pressed against her buttocks. She understood dominance and submission, accepted it as the natural order of things when it came to the domesticated animals she’d grown up tending or the wild ones she’d observed. But when it came to humans, gifted and normal alike, she’d always equated it with weak and strong, with loss of power and the helplessness of being at another’s mercy.

Zurael had shown her differently. But in the process he’d peeled away some of her protective armor, made her crave something she might not ever find with another man—with a human.

Her world had always been insular, limited but made safer by those limits. There’d been Aziel, her family, the people Geneva trusted. There’d been long days of physical work. Evenings spent reading or exploring the spiritlands with Aziel.

Sometimes there were dreams of having a home, a husband, children, of living in a place where she wasn’t feared, hated, looked at with suspicion and hostility. But more often there were nightmares of militiamen driving them from the farm. And underneath dreams and nightmares alike was a simple reality she greeted each morning: She had little control over her future, so she needed to make the most of each day.

Masculine lips against her shoulder pulled Aisling from her musings. She moaned when Zurael’s hand left her breast and slid downward over her abdomen, before slipping between thighs she parted willingly for him.

“You’re remembering the night,” he said, his voice husky with satisfaction as his fingers bathed in her arousal, then went to her stiffened clit.

“Yes,” she whispered, need for him rising to a flash point with his touch, his attention.

Words Zurael had never spoken to any female fought to escape as Aisling pressed against him in subtle offering and sweet submission. He wanted to demand that she acknowledge his dominance, wanted to hear her say she belonged to him in all ways and always would.

The very strength of his desire to possess her so thoroughly revealed how dangerous she was to him, had his heart and his mind urging him to erect an emotional barrier.

There was no future with her. He couldn’t remain in her world. She couldn’t enter his.

Fear sliced through him like an angel’s icy sword. He had yet to ensure she would be safe from the Djinn.

“Aisling,” he said, desperate to keep her safe. Unable to fight the feelings she engendered in him, the need that was more than physical, though he knew only the physical could be satisfied.

She edged upward, whispered his name as her hot, wet cunt lips kissed the tip of his penis. He shuddered and let her engulf him in the fiery heat of her tight channel, gave up the uncertainty of the future in favor of the ecstasy to be found in the present.

 

 

AFTERWARD they showered and dressed. Aisling went to the kitchen, and Zurael found himself once again lounging in the doorway, watching her as she prepared their breakfast.

Her movements were smooth, assured, pleasing in a way that surprised him. Until Aisling, he’d never given much thought to the effort behind the meals served him. They were prepared by servants, served by servants, the remains taken away by servants, all at his command.

Even by the standards of the poorest Djinn, the meals Aisling made were meager, and yet . . . His chest filled with emotions he didn’t want to identify as he watched her combine the leftovers of the previous night with what she had available. He knew he’d prefer a meal made by her hands to the most extravagant feast presented to him by servants.

Aziel joined them for the meal. He chirped and chattered in between bites, then stood on his hind legs and stared into Aisling’s face when the plate she’d placed on the chair seat was clean.

Her laughter made Zurael smile. The simple joy she took in teasing the ferret about becoming fat and lazy as she slid the last bite of food from her plate to his, made Zurael want to take her into his arms and press his lips to hers in a joining of souls.

“Do you know what he says?” Zurael asked, his curiosity about Aisling’s pet renewed.

She hesitated slightly. “Only in the spiritlands. And only if he chooses it.”

“He was there the night you summoned me.”

“Yes. Sometimes he goes with me.” She stood and gathered their dishes, her unbound hair becoming a curtain hiding her face from him.

He let the conversation drop, not wanting to admit to her that he no longer felt even an ember of the fury and rage he’d experienced when she’d whispered his name on the spirit winds and commanded his presence. Not wanting to admit he trusted her as no Djinn should ever trust a human.

Zurael followed her into the kitchen and stopped behind her as she washed the plates and silverware. Her body vibrated subtly against his, telling him without words how much she craved the physical contact.

She moaned when he cupped her breasts, whispered his name as he stroked and pet her, nuzzled the silky fineness of her hair and luxuriated in the feel of it against his chest.