Master of Crows (22 page)

Like her unbending formality in addressing him, this was Silhara’s barrier against her.

It fell when he opened the door.

Cool and damp from the air that seeped in through the gaps in the window frame, the chamber smelled of rain and spice, of old silk and the arousing scent unique to Neith’s master.  Standing at the threshold, she saw nothing in the chamber’s gloom beyond the vague outlines of a bed and table.

“Come in, Martise.”  Silhara’s voice was almost sibilant in the darkness as he tugged on her hand.  “There are no soul eaters here.”

No, she thought.  Only heart thieves.

She let him guide her into the room.  The floor was cushioned beneath her feet, and her shoe scraped over the pile of a rug.  Silhara released her hand and murmured a spell.  The coals in a brazier set in a far corner lit with a hiss.  Their fire brightened, illuminating the room in a warm amber glow.  The soft light revealed a sanctuary of worn splendor and scholarly clutter.  Rugs, frayed at the ends and worn to the fibers in patches, covered the floor and draped the stone walls, their once-bright colors faded by sun and time, their threads chewed by moths.  Haphazardly furnished, the room sported a table and chair piled high with scrolls and grimoires.  A large chest and the brazier stood on one side of the room, along with a magnificent, ornately decorated water pipe.  Near the balcony entrance, a large rumpled bed and a wash stand with basin and pitcher took up most of the space.

The door closed behind her with a decisive click.  Silhara’s eyes reflected pinpoints of firelight as he faced her.  His callused palms stroked her arms.  “The door is neither locked nor warded.”

He’d been forthright in his need for her.  No flowery words or gentle coaxing.  He’d seduced her with his bluntness and now with his reassurance he wouldn’t stop her if she chose to leave.  It was wholly symbolic.  He could force her to stay with little effort, even with the door wide open.

Martise swept a finger across his lips, their tantalizing softness a temptation to capture them in a kiss.  There was time enough for that and more.  She wanted to savor these moments, this intimacy with the man reviled by Conclave and loved by their spy.

His tongue flicked out, tasted her fingertips.  He stood still beneath her questing touch, his only reaction to her wandering hands a tightening of his grip on her arms.  She caressed his jaw and neck, exploring the shallow dip between his shoulder and clavicle before moving over the broad planes of his chest.  His small nipples made points beneath his shirt when she rubbed her thumbs over their sensitive tips.

He was sublime under her hands, a study in wiry strength and smooth skin, smoky heat and virility.  She scrutinized his hard face, made more austere by the play of shadows along his jaw and aquiline nose.

“I don’t mind if you make it darker.”  She found it difficult to meet his gaze.  He wasn’t Balian.  Silhara of Neith had more character in his little finger than Balian did in his entire body, but she offered the suggestion just the same.  He’d chosen her over a
houri
blessed with an uncommon beauty, yet she wanted to be sure he understood that even in the softer, more flattering light emitted by the brazier’s hot coals, she was still plain, unassuming Martise.

He stared down his nose at her in a way that made her blush.  “You have a clever way of insulting me, Martise.”

She drew in a sharp breath.  “No, that isn’t my intention.  I only…”

He placed a finger over her lips.  She held her breath when he clasped one of her hands, slid it down his chest and over his taut stomach before curving her fingers over the bulge in his trews.  They both moaned when she rubbed her palm gently over his hard shaft and stroked his bollocks with her fingers.  He was hot in her hands, a tempting combination of hard and soft.

“I know what I see,” he breathed into her ear and thrust against her palm.  “Know what I hold.  This is what you do to me.”

She would have fallen had he not held her up with an arm wrapped around her back.  She sought his mouth, touched her lips to his.  He opened to her seeking tongue, allowing her to delve inside and stroke his mouth.  His tongue twined with hers, giving back as much as he took.  He tasted better than summer wine, better than the first harvest fruits of spring.

The kiss deepened, a mating of tongues that mimicked the  slow thrust of his hips.  His hands wandered over her body, sliding down her back, cupping her buttocks.  They left trails of fire in their wake, and Martise moaned in his mouth.

   His fingers worked the ties of her tunic, tugging until he grew frustrated and pulled away from her.  In the half-light, his sharp cheekbones were flushed, and his mouth swollen from her kiss.  “I’ve a mind to see all of you, Martise, and not much patience to wait.  How badly do you want to save this garb?”

If she wasn’t down to this and her newly sewn skirt and tunic, she’d help him rip it off her.  Instead, she smiled and blushed and unlaced ties with impressive speed.  The skirt fell to the floor.  Her shoes skidded to a corner, and Silhara helped her pull the tunic over her head.  She was left standing covered only by her unbound hair and warm fire glow.

She didn’t think it possible, but his eyes darkened even more.  He lifted a lock of her hair and brushed it over her shoulder, revealing her breast and the gentle curve of her waist.  He said nothing, but his gaze, black and smoldering as it traveled from the top of her head to her toes, spoke volumes.  She glanced at the front of his trousers, saw the curve of his erection pressed hard against the fabric.

In a show of courage, she swept the rest of her hair back, giving him full view of her.  She raised her hands, palms up.  “Sorry,” she teased.  “No third breast.”

He blinked, then laughed at her reminder of their encounter in the stillroom.  She grinned, pleased she’d once again made him laugh outright, even now in this moment of intense intimacy.  His laughter changed to a seductive smile.  Martise caught her breath when he closed the small gap between them.  His fingers traced a path over her collarbones, lingered at the hollow of her throat before sketching a line between her breasts.  Her nipples drew tight in anticipation of his touch.

“I’m more impressed with quality than quantity.”  At that, even his smile faded.  He circled the outline of each breast with his fingers, finally cupping them in his hands.  She arched into his warm palms.  “You are beautiful beyond measure,” he whispered against her mouth.

This kiss was unlike the one they just shared.  Fiercer, harder, it demanded she yield to his desire, slake the need coursing through him.  He caressed her breasts, sliding the rough pads of his thumbs across her nipples over and over, until she writhed in his arms and moaned into his mouth.  He delved into her mouth, sucking on her tongue.  His hands left her breasts, tracked the curve of her waist and slid over her hips to pull her hard against him. She whimpered as his cock rocked against her cunnus.  A wave of heat spiraled out from the center of her body.  She wanted him inside her, needed him naked against her.

Her hands clawed at his shirt as she kissed him.  They broke apart, panting.  “How badly do you want to save this shirt?” she asked.

Silhara grinned and whipped the shirt over his head, again treating her to the sight of his chest and stomach.  The breeches followed, and he stood before her, burnished in gold and amber.   He was sleek and taut, darkened by the sun and muscled by the demands of the grove.  The proof of his desire for her rose from the nest of dark curls between his legs.

“Like what you see?”

“Oh yes,” she sighed and fell into a feverish sea when he crushed her against him, skin against skin.

He played havoc with her senses and her body.  Hands and tongue, the silky brush of his hair against her nipples, a long finger sliding deep into her wet cunnus, the low, harsh groans emanating from his throat.  His cock pressed along the inside of her thigh, and she parted her legs, eager to bring him close.

“The bed,” she whispered between hard kisses.

“Is too far away.”  He bent, sucked a nipple in his mouth and drove her to madness with the play of his tongue across its tip.

Her knees gave way a second time, and this time he followed her down to the rug, stroking and learning her contours with his tongue until she stretched out beneath him.  Despite the cool, rain-laden air in the room, she was sweltering.  Sweat trickled between her breasts, and he licked it away before plying his mouth to each breast.

She groaned, so aroused by his seductive touch, she squirmed across the carpet.  Silhara held her down, navigating a path across her midriff, pausing to dip his tongue in the shallow pool of her navel.  When he reached her thighs, he stopped.

“Open for me, Martise.”  His tongue swept his lower lip in a lascivious motion.  “I crave the taste of you.”

Somewhere, in the part of her mind still capable of thought, she wondered if half the countryside could hear her cries and moans.  Silhara tortured her with his tongue, his fingers, seeking the heart of her passion, sucking gently on the spot that made her mewl and buck against him.

He only quickened his pace when her back arched off the floor.  The heat concentrated between her thighs, under Silhara’s stroking mouth, and spread throughout her body.  Blood coursed through her veins, hot and bubbling.  Her fingers dug into his sweat-slick shoulders, and her legs convulsed.  She cried out as sensation burst within her, and she crooned his name.

Shattered by her climax, she could only pant when he suddenly loomed over her, arms braced on either side of her head.  Black hair shrouded her in a silken curtain.  Silhara’s mouth glistened, and his eyes blazed.  His voice was guttural, hoarse.  “The door is still unlocked.”

She stared at him, stunned.  Even now, with his lips glistening from her orgasm and his cock thrusting gently against her cunnus, he offered her the chance to stop and douse the fire between them.

She ran her hands over his quivering arms, the sculpted biceps and muscular forearms. One hand spread over his hip while the other wrapped around his cock.  It pulsed in her grip.  A trickle of his seed wet her fingers, and she circled the tip, coating the smooth head. He inhaled sharply.

“And the bed is still too far away,” she said, pulling him down to her.  Her legs rose, slid over his hips until her ankles locked at his back and anchored him.

It was all the coaxing he needed.  He mounted her, sinking deep on a low moan until his bollocks rested against the curve of her bottom.  Martise echoed his sounds, savoring the swell of him within her, the slide and stretching, the flex of inner muscles as she gripped his cock and tightened.  He filled her as if he’d been made for her, touching every sensitive spot until she thought she would burn beneath him.

He set a rapid pace, taking her hard enough to scoot her across the rug with his thrusts.  Martise held on, hips lifting to bring him deeper.  Her teeth clicked against his in a savage kiss, and she tasted blood.

He broke the kiss.  "Say my name, Martise."

He snarled the command, but she wasn't afraid.  His hips rocked against hers, and she was impaled on his cock, reveling in his fierce possession.  For a few brief hours, he was as much hers as she was his, and she could tell him how much he meant to her in a softly spoken name.

     Every desire, every craving, every forbidden wish—she infused into her voice.  “Silhara.”

He gasped, a tortured sound, and his eyes rolled back.  Martise clutched him to her as he shuddered, felt the sudden pulse of his shaft, his release followed by a wet heat as he came inside her.

He hunched over her, chest heaving as he strove to breathe.  She clasped his hips with her legs to maintain their connection, reluctant to give him up.  He slowly lowered his weight onto her, careful not to crush her.

His hair fell in front of his eyes, and she pushed it away with gentle fingers.  His eyes were closed, and his breathing slowed to a steady rhythm.

“Is the door still unlocked?” she teased.

He didn’t open his eyes, but rolled to his side, bringing her with him.  His hand swept over her hip and cupped her buttocks to pull her closer.  “Yes.  And the bed is definitely too far away.”

Martise caressed his arm, delighting in the feel of him pressed against her from shoulder to ankle.  They were both slippery with sweat.  She chuckled, then winced at the stinging pain blossoming on her lower back.  She reached back and touched the spot.  “Ouch!”

He eyed her, surprised by her exclamation.  “What’s wrong?”

She hissed as the stinging grew more intense.  “Kurman carpets aren’t nearly as soft as they’re touted.”

He shifted so she rested atop him and levered himself to look over her shoulder.  When he lay back, he wore a sheepish smile.  “You’ve an impressive rug burn back there.”

Her eyes widened.  “Truly?  I never felt it happening.”

His smile turned smug.  “Didn’t you?”  He swatted her lightly on the bottom, careful to avoid her abrasion.  “Lie down on the unreachable bed.  I’ve an unguent that will ease the sting and help it heal.”

He slid slowly out of her as she lifted herself off him, leaving behind a pearlescent trickle on her thigh.  She knocked her knees together.  “The linens. If I rest there now…”

He rose and stared at her with a mix of annoyance and amusement.  “Martise, that bed and all its linens will be utterly destroyed by morning.”

A pleasurable heat suffused her.  He wasn’t through with her.  She smiled.  Good.  She wasn’t through with him either.  Even now, with her thighs wet with his seed and her insides still throbbing, she ached for him.  Wanted him inside her, in her mouth, taking and giving.

He padded to the chest by the bed and opened the lid.  The slow burn of desire washed her skin as she watched him.  Long legs and small, taut buttocks were complimented by a slim waist and wide shoulders.  The look he shot her over his shoulder let her know he’d caught her admiring his nude body.  “Are you going to stand there all day?”

She shuffled to the bed and stretched out on her stomach.  The frame creaked under his weight when he sat down on the edge and placed a small jar on the table holding the basin.  Martise rested her head on her folded arms.