by Anne Marsh
With a growl, he backed her toward the wall, bracing her against the slick surface of the stone. “I’ve waited hours to do this,” he said darkly. “Scenting your heat. Knowing you were wet for me. Waiting.”
“Hold on,” she protested—she had to see the back of him. There was no visible mark on his front.
“Do you want to wait more,” he asked, “or do you want what I can give you now, femi?”
Her voice failed her. His fingers found her nipples, stroking until bright pulses of pleasure built behind her half-closed eyes. He was taking charge. Taking control.
“I’m not waiting,” he said, and his words made her sex cream more. He was going to give her pleasure, make her enjoy this whether she was ready or not. “I’m going to see to you now,” he promised.
See to her. Even as her brain protested the arrogance of his words, her body tightened in welcome.
“Up.” His hand stroked the hard shelf behind her, sweeping the small pots to one side. “I’m going to have you here. Make you wetter.” His dark eyes explored her face. “I’m going to find out what your cream tastes like.”
She couldn’t let him take charge like this.
Desperately, she fought back with every erotic weapon in her arsenal, her fingers dancing up the thick length of him, nails scraping delicately over his slick head. The width of him, the uncontained power, took her breath away. The raw play of muscle and masculine power as he shifted in her embrace. His body flexed and stretched in a feline undulation that had her groaning with pleasure as the heated, hard length of him thrust against her drenched sex.
“You undo me,” he said in a low voice. His whispered word extinguished the flarestick, plunging the room into darkness except for the faint glow of his eyes.
His eyes. She raised a hand to touch them, but his lids fluttered down, concealing the curious glow until she was aware of only the dark, powerful shadow surging deliciously below her. She touched his hair, her fingers moving over the long length, brushing it against his body, then exploring his shoulders, delighting in his smooth, warm skin. But when her hands found the chiseled planes of his abdomen and traveled downward, he groaned. “No. This is for you.”
She didn’t have a problem with that, she decided. How long had it been since someone had wanted to take care of her? She leaned backward into the large hands that ran down her spine, soothing and agitating the burn inside her. One hand kneaded her ass, while the other slipped between her thighs. The smooth, slick rub of her outer lips almost pushed her over into orgasm as they parted beneath his questing fingers.
“Open,” he demanded, gently pushing her thighs farther apart. And then his fingers swept inward to find and rub the very core of her.
She bucked against the sweet probing of his fingers until she spasmed wildly.
“You liked that.” His voice was a throaty hum against her skin.
She had. She’d never felt such intense pleasure. Her hands fisted in his hair, dragging his head down to her breasts. “More,” she demanded. He’d said that this was for her; she hoped he meant it.
With a masculine chuckle that made her toes curl against the grimy silk of her once-white robe, he obliged, drawing a breast into the hot, greedy cave of his mouth. His tongue flicked mercilessly, flaying her nipple with pleasure and drawing the sweet nubbin into a tight, aching pucker that begged for more. More pleasure. More caresses.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Just like that.” He knew precisely where to touch, how to coax the flames of passion higher and higher still, until she thought she’d combust, her thighs clenching on either side of him.
She’d never been so greedy, but his eyes told her he found her hunger sexy and he was more than willing to do what she needed, using his finger with wicked skill. Almost mindless with the hot strokes of pleasure, she ran her hands down his back, over his buttocks. With the orgasm that roared through her came sweeping clarity.
There was no thief mark on him.
***
Who the hell was he?
He’d misled her. Lierr had not sent him. He had none of the Master’s scars on his perfect body.
In the stifling darkness of their refuge, Jafar was a larger, blacker shadow against the rock-blocked entrance. Instead of retreating now that she’d found release, he pressed boldly, rubbing small, certain circles around her still-pulsing clit. Coaxing. Promising. Pressing firmly with his palm, he gently pinched the straining bud until new quivers built beneath his fingertips and shuddered into being in the dust-filled darkness of the alcove.
No. Not again.
“My femi,” he whispered, and Miu knew he did not
stay by her side because the doorway was blocked with tons of banshee-induced rock and rubble. No. He sounded as if he remained for other, more primitive reasons. Fear trickled through her. This was casual sex. Nothing important. Right? So why did he sound so possessive?
She recalled his finger, pushing its way deep inside her body, her own mindless reaction. How long would it take for her memories of that thick finger spreading her, exploring her, to fade? How could she have let herself become so distracted from her real purpose here?
As if to remind her, the scrying bowl in her pack vibrated demandingly, shattering the sensual spell Jafar had cast on her.
“Off,” she said, pushing frantically at his shoulders.
Jafar cursed low and long, lowering her until her feet touched the floor. Hastily, she donned the virgin’s robe again.
Wet and clenched tight with fresh desire, her sex broadcast a determined message of its own. Fortunately, her mind now remembered what was at stake here.
She’d never had a partner like her merck. He was sweet and greedy and domineering—and she wanted to jump his bones and finish what they’d started. Even knowing that he’d lied to her didn’t cool her heat. She hid her face in her hands and groaned.
“We’re never going to get out of here this way.” She was trying like hell to put a note of authority in her voice. “Why don’t you start digging over there?” With a shaky hand, she indicated the blocked entranceway.
As soon as Jafar was occupied moving blocks of stone, Miu grabbed the scrying bowl from her bag. Sweat gleamed on his shoulders, beading in the enticing hollows and planes of his hard chest. Distracting. And enticing. The muscles in his arms corded as he turned his attention to shifting the debris that blocked the entrance to their refuge. Working single-mindedly to free them from their prison, he was even more attractive than before, but the Master was calling.
And in the scrying bowl was her chance to confirm that Jafar was not a fellow thief and to learn who had sent him after her. Chances were good, even if he didn’t belong to the Master, the Master would know to whom he did belong.
Because the merck had her twisted in knots. There. She’d been honest with herself—and the truth scared her. How in the hell had he gotten to her so fast?
In her hands, the bowl warmed and she quickly shifted it behind a large funerary urn that had fallen on its side. She’d have to hope that the noise of the shifting rocks would mask a whispered conversation.
The Master’s face swam into sight above the bowl. “Miu?” he snapped. Damn. His cold irritation almost froze her—and the temperature in their prison was sweltering. It was never wise to irritate the Master.
“I’m here,” she said. “You rang. I answered.”
“Report,” he said. “Have you gotten the necklace?” Had his eyes softened? An illusion. She examined his face, looking for clues. Some emotion was flickering in his eyes, but for all she knew, that could have been the effects of last night’s dinner come back to haunt him. She’d wondered before if he felt something for her besides pride in a student well trained, but there was just no telling. The Master showed nothing. Gave away nothing.
“Complications. I need more time.” He’d originally given her only one week to reach the temple, steal the necklace, and bring it back to him. It would take three days just to make the return trip; th
ere was no way she’d get back in time. And, since he had her sister, he would undoubtedly make an example of her. Panic surged and Miu fought it back.
“You did not expect complications?” His tone was mocking, but he was listening. Maybe she could convince him.
“Not this sort.” She made sure she kept her eyes fixed firmly on his, showing no weakness. “You sent others in after me,” she accused.
“Of course.” He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and nodded for her to continue.
“One of them was a banshee. She screamed the place down around my ears.” She didn’t want to push her luck by pointing out that one of his flunkies had jeopardized the entire operation; she figured the Master would be able to connect those dots all by himself. He hadn’t clawed his way to the head of a wide-flung network of thieves by being stupid.
“Did she?” He might have been discussing the weather. Across the room Jafar’s head swung slowly toward her. For a moment, she thought his features took on a distinctly feline cast and then the impression was gone.
“She did. Took out one of your other thieves as well. Burst his eardrums. Stupid, really. The noise of the massive rockslide she started—well, let’s just say that the Guardians would have to be really, really deaf not to have heard this one. And here we are—trapped and waiting for them.”
This time, the Master winced. “Right,” he said. “She shouldn’t have done that.”
“Give me an extension.”
“I do have a policy,” Lierr replied, casually inspecting his fingers, “of not granting extensions. You work with what you’ve got. Get back here in four days and”—he shrugged—“you’ll still have a sister. I could let you choose.” The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Pick the part of her you’d like to keep intact. ”
Panic threatened to choke her. “Hurt her,” she threatened, “and I won’t come back at all. No necklace.” She smiled sweetly. “You can torture me to death from where you are, but you still won’t have the necklace. How many of us did you send down here? The three on my heels are toast. And the Guardians are doubtless racing here right now. I’m your last shot.”
This time, the Master’s smile was overtly cruel. “You’ve still got just four days. Four days for your sister to live. Your choice.”
“What about the merck?” Now was the time to find out for certain whether or not the Master had sent Jafar.
“The merck?” Something in the Master’s voice made her pause. “You’re not alone?” His dark eyes seemed to bore into her surroundings from the hazy aura above the bowl, even though she knew the mazhyk had its limits and he could no more see her prison than she could his elegant set of rooms.
“No. I’ve got company. One of yours?” His eyes sharpened. Next moment, it felt like she’d been hit by a speeding daemon. The bowl bounced, cracking on the stone floor as Jafar knocked it from her hands.
***
Miu smelled of despair, fear seeping from her body like some rank perfume. Her hands had cupped a small metal bowl, above which an image had formed.
Why had she been frightened of the person to whom she was speaking? Nothing—no one—scared his Miu. He hadn’t realized until now that he admired that quality in her. She’d go toe to toe with him even if she knew who he was.
What he was.
She had to be communicating with the master thief, the male she called the Master. Stalking across the room had been an easy call to make, as had been knocking the bowl onto the hard floor. Clearly spellbound, the bowl neither shattered nor spilled, a wavering image slowly reforming over the charmed water.
“What are you doing?” she screeched, grabbing for the bowl. Luckily for him, his arms were longer. Wrapping one hard arm around her waist to pin her in place, he easily grabbed the bowl first.
“Who’s in the bowl?” The bespelled water remained firmly inside the bowl, even when he tipped the container upside down.
She scowled. “It’s mine. Give it back.”
Not likely. Not until he knew with whom she was trying to communicate and why. Every sense he had screamed this was an important clue in unraveling the puzzle that was his Miu—he was hardly going to hand it back over. For the first time, he felt like he was really getting somewhere.
“Manners,” he said calmly, not betraying his sudden inner turmoil. She growled what sounded suspiciously like a curse. Hunkering down on the floor, he cupped the metal bowl between his hands. The metal warmed, its liquid surface stirring. As the aura sharpened again, cursing filled the room.
Male cursing.
Unfamiliar jealousy ate at him: she was supposed to turn to him. Instead, she was relying on some unseen stranger who was little more than a useless astral projection in a bowl of dirty water. Jafar was a Guardian; protecting was second nature to him. So why did he suddenly feel so unsure of himself? He didn’t get the sense that she trusted this other male—but she didn’t distrust him, either. Which made the unseen male a threat.
Competition.
“Miu? What the hell just happened?” The bowl vibrated with outrage.
Lifting the bowl, Jafar kept his face concealed. No point in tipping his hand—not yet. His companion’s ignorance about who—and what—he was worked to his advantage.
“No,” he said when Miu reached for the bowl. His low growl made it clear that he would not be crossed in this. Cursing, she backed against the far wall, rummaging in that damn bag of hers. Probably looking for one of that impressive collection of knives she’d been toting about.
He wasn’t a fool. He’d lifted the lot and disposed of them before they’d entered the tunnel. She hadn’t even noticed.
“Who is that?” snapped the man in the bowl.
“What are you to her?” The male in the bowl was handsome, Jafar decided, gritting his teeth. Women would like his looks. Pale skin. Dark hair clubbed back from fine cheekbones. The man looked like a bloody prince, but had the lethal intensity of a paid assassin.
“Give the bowl back to Miu,” the male demanded.
Jafar shook his head slowly. “First, I want answers. I want a name. Yours.”
A mocking smile crossed the man’s lips. “She calls me Master. You may do so as well.” Jafar called no one, not even the Amun Ra, master. His pledge was to the Valley, to the task of guarding against incursions from the Qaf dwellers. That might mean acknowledging the Amun Ra as the titular head of his pride, loosely directing the actions of the Guardians and mediating between them and the outside world, but it did not mean blind obedience. Only a sort of casual deference. And a vow of honor.
“No?” The man’s voice turned sharply cold. “I do not share my name with outsiders.”
“Make an exception.” Jafar examined the man’s face for signs of weakness and found none. Unless Miu herself was a weakness—after all, he was fast discovering that she was his weakness.
“Who are you?” The male countered with a question of his own.
Across the room, Miu’s head swiveled. Uh-oh, he thought. Now he was in trouble.
“Consider me an independent contractor,” he suggested.
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.
The male regarded him thoughtfully. No indication of what he was thinking crossed his impassive face. “You don’t appear to be a Guardian,” he said at last. “No bars. No marks. Although the build is right and I wasn’t aware of any other—interested parties. I suppose you could be from Qaf,” he offered, “although then, quite frankly, I’m surprised that you’ve left Miu alive. Still, there is something about your eyes. I wouldn’t rule it out.”
Jafar clenched his fists against an urge to destroy the bowl. Miu’s eyes widened. Qaf? she mouthed silently.
“Does she even know why you really sent her here?” He had to ask, even if it condemned Miu. He had to find out as much as he could so he could stop the stream of uninvited intruders into the temple.
“Enough.” The Master shrugged. “I told her just enough. As I did the others.”
“Do we have a deal?” Miu came up beside him, leaning over his shoulder. This time, he let her.
“A deal?” The Master eyed her. “No. Nothing’s changed. And I am going to suggest that you rethink your choice of companion. The banshee may have been a miscalculation on my part. This merck of yours is a similar misstep on yours. If he’s not with me and he’s not with the Guardians—then who is he with?”
***
“You said you were a merck.”
The accusation hung in the air between them long after the bowl had gone silent and dark.
“You said you were here to protect me,” Miu continued. They’d been shifting rocks for what seemed like hours. The bottom half of her ridiculous robe had been sacrificed to make more dust masks; motes of dust thickened the air, visible even in the dying glow of the flarestick. Pretty soon she’d be relying on her own eyes.
He didn’t say anything.
The monotony of the work had given her ample time to contemplate his lie and to come up with a plan to ditch him. While she was stacking the smaller stones, she’d noticed an air shaft in one corner, a shaft that appeared to go straight down to the burial chambers below. But getting into it—without being followed by the merck—would take some planning. Along with one of her disposable spells and a whole lot of luck. Carefully, she palmed the knockout spell.
Stun the merck and dive for the tunnel. Once in, she was home safe. With his broad shoulders, he’d never fit through the opening; even she would have to wiggle. Discreetly, she gave the elaborately carved grate covering the shaft a good tug. Loose enough. Presumably, the shaft was there to provide air for the stale confines of the catacombs.
She’d have to move the urns in front of the grate and slide it out of the grooves, get in, and then slide the whole lot back into place—with a good reinforcement spell—before her merck realized what she was up to.