Jeweled (11 page)

Lifting her slightly, he rolled her onto the mattress and came down over her. Dipping his head to hers, he slowly rubbed his lips across her mouth. She shuddered beneath him and his cock pulsed in response.

 

 

Shivers that had nothing to do with the cold made goose bumps rise on her arms and legs. Anatol pressed his lips to hers and rubbed slowly, deliberately, like she was a luscious treat he was savoring. Her body responded to his kiss in a way it never had before, her nipples going hard and the area between her thighs becoming warm and aching in a pleasurable way. Her breathing coming faster, she gripped his shoulders and pressed her mouth more firmly to his, wanting more of the sensation.

He gave it to her, sliding his mouth more firmly over hers and forcing his tongue between her lips. It brushed up against hers with a jolt of eroticism that registered in parts of her body much farther south.

Hiking his knee up between her thighs, she rubbed against him like a cat wanting to be petted. For the first time in her sexual life, she wanted
more
from a man. She wanted to be touched, kissed, to be given pleasure and to give it in return. To experience a sexual climax.

Oh, she knew what orgasms were. She’d even achieved a couple stuttering and unfulfilling ones in the black of night with her sheets in a twist, her hand plunged between her thighs and her eyes squeezed shut. She’d wanted to know what they were and she’d been less than impressed.

But now, with her emotions running through her body as hard and as hot as her blood, she wondered if there could be more than what she’d forced her body to experience those few times. She wondered if maybe Anatol was the man to show her.

He nipped her bottom lip and slid his tongue back into her mouth. Experimentally, she explored his shoulders and upper arms, enjoying the flex and bulge of the build of a man who used his muscles on a regular basis. Ropy strength coiled in his body in a way that made her feel deliciously vulnerable and feminine. It wasn’t often that she was with a man who had a body like Anatol’s. Mostly they’d been Belai born and raised, pampered from birth, with soft limbs and even softer hands.

One of Anatol’s rough hands, calloused from swordplay, no doubt, covered her breast. She arched against him, pushing her hardened nipple into his palm. He shuddered against her and nipped her lip again, as he worked her nipple with his thumb and forefinger until she moaned deep in her throat.

“I want you, Anatol,” she breathed. “Please, don’t stop.”

“How many men have you been with?” he murmured against her lips.

She breathed out sharply, trying to form the ability to answer his question. “I don’t know. Too many to count.”

“Women?”

“Yes, I’ve been with women, too. Many.”

He eased his hand between her thighs and found her clit. Stroking it back and forth with just the right pressure, he growled into her ear. “I’m going to make you forget them all.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he pushed first one broad finger deep into her and then a second. Thrusting in and out, he rocked her back and forth on the bed. Pleasure rose up in her, a drowning rhythm that kept time with his hand.

“Does it feel good?” he murmured.

“Yes,” she breathed.

He thumbed her clit, working his fingers a little harder and faster. “Do you want my cock inside you?”

“Yes.” Her fingers found the bedclothes and fisted, holding on against the onslaught of sensation.

He shifted downward and covered her clit with his mouth, sucking it into his mouth and tonguing it as he thrust his fingers in and out of her in a rhythm that made her moan. The pleasure that had been welling up in her body crested, overflowed, crashed down in a wave over her. She cried out, her toes curling, her finger gripping the blankets and the muscles of her sex milking his pistoning fingers. It went on and on. She couldn’t think; she could only feel the sensation of her climax sapping all the worry and tension from her body. Her brain stopped and her body ruled. It was glorious and overwhelming.

“Anatol,” she breathed when it finally ebbed.

He remained between her thighs, licking her all over. His fingers explored every fold of her, petted her sensitive clit until she shivered and shuddered. “You are beautiful,” he breathed against her inner thigh. “When you come ...” he trailed off, his voice shaking.

“Come up here. Take me if you think so. I want you.”

He only shook his head and laved her slit, pushing his tongue deep inside her. The sight of his dark head between her pale thighs ignited something deep inside her again. He caressed her climax-sensitive clit with the pad of his finger and her back arched as she moaned. She was shameless in her desire for more, like a sponge long dried up and now thrown into the ocean. Again he pushed her into orgasm. When it was spent, all she could do was lay limp and exhausted on the bed.

He came down beside her and she rolled to her side, facing away from him. Inexplicable emotion welled in her, tears pricking her eyes until they hurt. She wouldn’t let them fall. She’d never cried in her whole life that she could remember. It had always been a point of pride for her. She made a dry sobbing sound, pushing the tears away. They wouldn’t go away.
Damn it, they wouldn’t go away.

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.” She couldn’t name the feelings she had now and didn’t know where they came from. They just assaulted her and she had no way to control them or beat them into submission. “I hate this. I hate it.”

“Just let it go, Evangeline. Cry. Scream. Do what you need to do with the emotion you have bottled up inside you. Go ahead. It’s all right.”

The tears came like a flood, breaking down the last of the walls she’d built up over so many years, washing away the bitterness and sadness that had forced her to build them in the first place. Her body shook as she sobbed in Anatol’s arms, letting it all go.

Anatol didn’t say anything. He was only a warm presence at her back, holding her tight as she cried, until all her tears were spent and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

 

Evangeline picked her way down the icy street with a basket of three-day-old bread clutched in one freezing hand. At least it wasn’t four-day-old bread. If it was soaked in a little water, it would be edible.

The wind whipped at her thin cloak and kissed her skin mercilessly. Hunger had become a constant companion. She dreamed of rivers of beef stew navigated by boats made from loaves of fresh, warm, flaky bread. No amount of this old stuff, which was all they could afford, ever seemed to fill her.

She remembered all those meals she used to pass up at Belai, afraid she’d ruin her dancer’s figure. She couldn’t believe she’d ever refused food—she never would again. In fact, she would never take anything for granted again—not food, not a warm bed or a cozy, soft coat. Certainly not safety.

It was amazing how a few weeks of hardship made one see so much clearer. All the petty, stupid things she used to care about—the proper dress to wear to a party, whom to sit next to at dinner for the greatest social advantage—all of it was crushed to dust. It had all disappeared during that first week when she’d seen heads roll, worried for her own head, and all her walls had come tumbling down.

She no longer lusted for spacious, cold apartments in Belai. Now all she wanted was a warm room, a full belly, and someone she trusted to share it with. That sounded like a fine life to her now, whereas a month ago she would have considered it squalor.

Was Anatol that person she could trust? Should they aspire to a cozy, warm rented apartment in a poor part of town? Rent cheap enough that they could afford firewood and fresh bread? Food in their cupboards? Warm water from the taps?

Sounded like heaven to her.

Trudging past a narrow alley, she heard a low sobbing. Stopping, she went back, straining to hear the soft sound. It was coming from a ways down, near a pile of rubbish at the back of a cookshop’s rear door.

Normally she would have lingered a moment, waiting to make sure it was safe to step into the concealed area. The alleys of the city of Milzyr were no longer anything anyone could call safe. However she had her magick and her magick could feel the despair coming from the sobbing individual—genuine grief and hopelessness. This was no trap.

So she secured her grip on her bread basket and stepped into snow that went as high as her calf. Wincing from the cold, she made her way to the huddled shape. It was small, and the sobbing childish.

Kneeling down, she set her basket on the snow. “Are you all right?” she asked the dirty bundle of fabric.

The material shifted and a small, feminine face came into view. The girl was perhaps seven or eight. “My parents are dead. I don’t know what to do or where to go.” Her eyes were hollow and haunted. Her speech was educated. A nobleman’s daughter, perhaps. Many of them had been orphaned as a result of the beheadings. The rabble was happy to kill off the parents, but they didn’t know what to do with the offspring. Oftentimes they were turned out into the streets to find their own way.

Evangeline sighed, glancing away and licking her lips. Sweet Joshui, what could she do for this child? She and Anatol couldn’t even take care of themselves. The girl gazed longingly at the bread basket. Well, at least she could offer that much.

Evangeline held the basket out to her. “Go ahead.”

The girl snatched up a piece of bread and tried to stuff the whole thing in her mouth, but it was very hard, of course, and she ended up having to suck on the end of it, then gnaw on it when it was soft enough to bite.

Evangeline let her eat for a while, though her feet were growing numb in the snow. “How many nights have you spent on your own?”

“I don’t know. Many. I can’t remember now.” The girl spoke between bites. “My parents were taken by some of the rioters. I hid under the bed when they came. Once the men were gone, I snuck out.”

“That was smart. The men probably went back to ransack your house. They would have found you there.” And there was no telling what would have happened to the child then. Not all the young girls were fortunate enough to simply be turned out as penniless orphans into the street. Not when ransacking men found them. Females always seemed to have to endure the most violence.

Of course, there was no telling what would happen to her now, either. Nothing good, if she stayed out here on the streets. She couldn’t leave her. Evangeline could only think of one place to take the girl, though it was hardly ideal.

She stood. “Come with me. I know a place where you can get warm and have a meal that’s much better than that old bread.”

The girl stared up at her with dark mistrust in her eyes. Ah, they learned so quickly. That was good—it was a credit to the child. In this brave new world mistrust would serve her well.

Evangeline smiled and tasted the air for an emotion that wasn’t suspicion. “What’s your name?”

The child blinked. “Marta.”

Evangeline found a thread of calm from a patron of a local cookshop and traded a little bit of it for the girl’s mistrust. The patron would be confused for a moment, but he would live. It was important the girl trust her enough to come with her. The manipulation was for her own good. “Marta, I promise I won’t hurt you. You’re lost and I know what it is to be lost. I only want to help.” She stretched her hand out.

Marta hesitated a moment, then, clutching the bread in one hand, she took Evangeline’s hand and stood. “I trust you.”

“Good. Now come with me. It’s a long walk to where we need to go.”

They trudged through the treacherous streets, dodging mounds of snow and trying not to slip on the slick parts. Finally they reached the Temple of Dreams and she showed Marta inside. The interior was warm and smelled of spice. Immediately both she and Marta relaxed, taking deep breaths of air and allowing the comfort to seep past their clothes and into their bones. They stood shivering in the foyer and looking very out of place. Soft music played from one of the inner rooms. The large living room spread before them was thankfully empty of people.

Evangeline took in the furnishings with the eye of someone who had once known quality. The divans, chairs, tables, and fainting couches all smacked of money and good taste. She could not have decorated the room better herself.

A tall, thin woman with long, unbound black hair passed them, did a double take, and then approached. “This is no place for a child,” the woman chided Evangeline.

“Yes, I know that, but the streets are worse. Is Lilya here?”

The black-haired woman gave Evangeline a look up and down, taking in her dirty, threadbare clothes and the food basket. “Lilya is busy right now.”

The woman wore pride just as well as her lovely silk gown, but Evangeline wore her pride even better. Her jaw locked, she stepped forward and stared in challenge at the woman. “Get me Lilya.
Now
.”