By the Horned Goddess, he’d yet to have his fill of Corinne’s nipples.
Mykh set her down on the bed and began to strip, eyeing them hungrily.
At some point, he’d ripped off the silken rope that traced her hips and yoni, so that his tongue could lash her harder. Another instant had seen him tear that scrap of lace away from her chest so he could find her sweet spots without any distraction. Now the ridiculous black cloth was reduced to little more than a belt.
She had beautiful breasts, high and firm, elegantly shaped to fill a man’s mouth and hands, while he suckled on her equally perfect pink nipples. They weren’t as blatant as her sister’s pair, which Jarred so admired. But Mykh had always preferred females whose delicate frame belied their internal fires, like a tigress’s refined ferocity. The Tasting Room had taught him that Corinne’s passions ran hot and wild under that fragile exterior.
His clothes couldn’t come off fast enough.
Corinne flung an arm up over her head and opened one eye slowly. “Mykhayl,” she began and stopped. Both eyes opened wide to stare at his rod, freed now from his breeches and throbbing with eagerness. She swallowed and her tongue traced her lips as her eyes clung to him.
“What think you, sorceress?” His rod grew larger yet under her gaze. He stroked it slowly, lengthening and polishing it with the dew that rose eagerly from the tip. A pulse beat madly in her throat and her breasts grew rosier still. “Will it satisfy you tonight?”
“Yes,” she breathed and shivered. Her eyes shot to his face, then away. He growled happily.
“I, ah, Mykhayl,” she tried again.
“Sorceress,” he answered and knelt between her legs. He spread them wide and considered her for a moment, then rubbed his thumb through her yoni’s petals.
She gasped and jerked as another crest glided across her. She was so swollen and sensitive now that the slightest touch triggered rapture.
He sniffed his thumb, started to taste it, then stopped. A High King did not depend upon a sorceress’s nectar. Instead he painted her mouth with her musk.
“Mykhayl!” She jerked away in shock.
“Taste yourself, sorceress. Swirl your tongue and find the elixir of life,” he rumbled. She shivered and hesitated, her lips clamped shut. “Must I invoke your oath, sorceress?”
“No,” she snarled and obeyed him, her eyes closed. He watched her little pink tongue creep out and delicately trace her mouth, then retire behind her pearly teeth. She swallowed, eyes lowered so she could focus more on the task he demanded.
He fondled her breast, admiring how it swelled to fit his hand. “Again,” he growled. “Do it again that I may reward your breasts for your obedience.”
“Okay,” she said softly and licked her lower lip. His two hands echoed the movement and she arched into the caress.
“Again.” She obeyed him more quickly this time and he rewarded her promptly, admiring how the answering jolt ran from her breasts to her core. “Again—and bring your knees up that I may see you more clearly.”
“Again?” But she did as he asked. He savored the sight of the dew flowing from her petals onto her thighs and how her hips writhed.
“Wrap your arms around your legs to keep them spread,” he said hoarsely and plucked her nipples. She gasped and jerked, then moaned again when he repeated the caress, building her hunger even as her nipples lengthened and swelled. She rocked from side to side against the soft ebony furs, her hips circling restlessly while she fought to keep her knees raised.
Mykh pushed her breasts up and dropped his head to meet them. He took her nipples into the hot cavern of his mouth and suckled them hard. She screamed and arched under him, pleasing him by her speedy tumble into ecstasy.
He spent considerable time exploring her delight at that path. Suckling, laving, squeezing all sent her into rapture. She writhed under him but rose to meet every pull, sobbing his name repeatedly. “Mykhayl, please, oh no, Mykhayl . . .”
He brushed his rod’s fat tip against her, testing how much control he still held over himself. She moaned and pushed herself against it. “Please Mykhayl, fill me.”
Discipline’s last vestiges fled at the sound of her hoarse plea. He set his rod against her and she shifted to meet him. He sank into her like a great sword entering the scabbard built for it.
“By the Horned Goddess!” Mykh shouted and caught her by the shoulders. He locked his arms around her so that he was buried to the hilt. He growled and ground his pelvis against her, enjoying how her nipples caressed his chest and her woman’s pelt rubbed his loins. He gasped for breath and his sweat glided onto her satin skin.
Then he froze when Corinne wrapped her legs around him and pulled him deeper yet. “Oh yes, Mykhayl,” she moaned, arching under him. And his body slammed against her in response.
He rode her hard, fighting to stave off his ecstasy. She battled him desperately with muscles clenched around him, inside and out. She keened her hunger and he grunted his need, while the sound of his fat balls pounding against her cleft measured their urgency.
“Now, sorceress, now!” he roared when he caught her jewel with a rough finger. She screamed and convulsed, sending him into rapture. His flood boiled out from the deepest wellspring in his body, sending tidal waves raging up his spine. It continued on and on out of his balls into his rod and her cavern, overflowing until the hot musky liquor coated both of their private pelts, while he was yet pumping into her.
He collapsed onto her, spent and shaking as his body shuddered again and again. Her little hand trembled as it pushed the damp locks of hair off his face, then slid up the nape of his neck to hold him. His rod twitched inside her.
By the gods, she was the hottest bed partner he’d known.
He took her thrice more, lashing them both into rapture, before he found sleep.
Corinne roused slowly, woken by the unfamiliar warmth of a large masculine body nearby. It took her a few moments to recognize the heat source occupying much of the bed as the cause of her aching muscles. When she did remember the evening’s events, she hastily slid as far away as she could. Crazy as it sounded and felt, she was in the High King’s bed, awaiting his next use of her. Heck, she’d even begged him for more.
She turned her head to see him better. Auburn hair spilled across his face, hiding his expression. His magnificent body was on full display as he slept, covers tossed carelessly aside. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, arms corded with muscles . . . Hell, even his ribs were plated with muscles.
Old scars shone silver under the single lamp. She recognized the slash across his thigh, the missing fingertip, and more. She’d experienced all of them with him while she wrote her books, those romantic fantasies that had turned all too real.
She turned her eyes away from the two deep scars on his upper arm, the lingering traces of the ice serpent’s bite, and the Gray Sorceress’s whip marks covering his back. What else had that bitch done to him? He’d seemed almost nervous a few times in the Tasting Room.
She had a lot to pay for, having sterilized him, and she wondered what he meant to do next. His treatment of her so far had been intense but not harmful, unlike her ex-husband Dylan, whose attentions were always risky and usually terrifying.
Would Jarred Varrain behave more like Mykhayl or Dylan? At least Celeste was a fighter, so hopefully she’d survive until Corinne found a way to rescue her. It’d have to be some kind of magical solution though.
Magic. Who’d have thought that magic really existed? Still, if there was one thing she knew for sure, it was that this world reeked of magic and it would take dragon magic to cross worlds. Corinne had understood and written about most of Torhtremer’s magic, except dragon magic. Maybe she could learn and use that style well enough to help her sister.
Assuming she really could work magic. Crazy idea but it was that or somehow con Khyber into helping her, which had as much chance as persuading the sun to rise in the west.
She pondered the various forms of magic she’
d learned while writing about this world. She knew all the major forms and most of the minor forms: the white sorcerers’ magic, the Gray Sorceress’s magic, and the wizards’ magic. She could even provide a detailed description of the strengths and weaknesses of the Dark Warrior’s magic.
But she’d only glimpsed dragon magic when it blazed onto her books’ pages, bypassing her brain. How could she hope to wield it—or understand those who carried it inside them, like Mykhayl? And Mykhayl was so very much a Dragonheart, with all of a dragon’s fire raging in his sexual appetite. She’d probably carry the marks of a night in his bed, spent satisfying that fire, for days or weeks.
She was bruised and sore but intensely aware of him. Her fingers itched to explore those magnificent muscles. Every breath he took sent a warm gust across her skin until her lungs rose and fell in unison with him.
A large hand abruptly clamped around her wrist. She squeaked and stared into his narrowed golden eyes.
“What are you thinking of, sorceress?” His voice was a low growl in the night’s silence.
“Uh, nothing,” Corinne managed. How could she tell him that she’d been wondering whether his buns would feel as tight as they looked?
“Liar,” he remarked and pulled her closer. She went without protest, quivering as goose bumps rose on her skin and her breasts tightened and firmed in eager anticipation. Dammit, why was she letting him see what effect he had on her?
“Your thoughts, sorceress,” he demanded softly. She gasped when he carelessly thumbed one nipple, watching her face the entire time.
“Nothing you’d be interested in,” Corinne stammered. She had to learn how to think with her head, not her cunt, when he handled her like that. Yeah, right.
“You watch me too closely, sorceress. Do you think to cast a spell with your eyes?”
“Of course not!” Well, she had considered trying some of the Gray Sorceress’s magic but that felt too unclean to be used, even if she could work magic.
“Hypocrite,” he growled and she jumped. “Do you think I’d let you master me so easily?”
“No! Mykhayl, please listen to me: I don’t do magic.”
He snorted, clearly unimpressed. But it’s hard to make a convincing argument when your heart starts drumming like a rock opera as soon a certain man touches you.
“Tell me exactly what you were pondering while you studied me.” His hand left her aching breasts to glide over her belly. She sucked in a breath, shaken by the heat that leaped ahead of his touch to lance into her vagina. “Speak.”
“It wasn’t important. Truly.” She shook with the need to feel his fingers travel lower.
He studied her dubiously then shrugged. “Perhaps not, but there’s no need to take the chance. Roll over that I may explore your backside and you cannot pierce me with a single glance.”
Oh damn, now what does he have in mind? She rolled over onto her stomach, well aware that she dripped with eagerness to find out. Perhaps there are some advantages to letting a sex scene go where it wants and not where your brain suggests.
He skimmed his hands over her back, learning her quickly. She shuddered when he set his mouth to her in licks and little nips that mapped her trigger points, while building her arousal. She trembled and twisted under him, then turned her head to look at him.
“Mykhayl, please,” she started to ask.
“No!” He smacked her rump smartly. She jumped in surprise, realizing that he’d just managed to turn her on more, and closed her eyes. He kissed the junction of her neck and shoulder, easily finding the spot where a single touch set her shuddering. She moaned long and low, while her nipples rubbed against the black bearskin.
“On your knees,” he growled and lifted her hips. She obeyed willingly and he stuffed silk and brocade pillows under her hips to keep her ass high in the air. “Now drop your shoulders to the bed, but keep your face turned away from me.”
She shook as she assumed the position demanded. Had the Gray Sorceress worked silent spells, using just her eyes? But that wasn’t important now when his body dipped the bed, signaling his cock’s approach. She’d consider later why he was so wary of her in the bedroom.
He knelt between her legs and gripped her hips hard.
“By the Horned Goddess, you look like a tigress ready to be mated.” His hands shook slightly as he rubbed his cock against her. “My woman,” he growled and thrust into her.
She cried out as her hips pushed back against him, his cock so deep in her that he seemed to touch her heart. She stared off to the side, wishing that she could see him. Suddenly a mirror sprang into place, small but perfectly positioned to show him.
Mykhayl’s face was harsh with hunger and a fierce concentration as he knelt behind her. She shivered, watching his cock’s immense length glide out until only the fat tip remained hidden.
Mist gathered deep within the mirror and condensed into a view of the throne room, both thrones somehow alive and alert. The Tiger Throne’s blue eyes snapped open when Corinne whimpered in frustration.
“Mine,” Mykhayl growled and thrust again, the mirror showing how his every magnificent muscle worked to carry him into her. “I will not gaze into your eyes,” he groaned and rode her hard and fast, every motion matched by her body.
She stopped thinking altogether as her ch’i burst into blazing life along passion’s meridians. He grunted and growled with every thrust and she answered him in the same language, as befitted the other half of the mating drive. She grew more and more excited, pushing herself back at him, but climax stayed just beyond reach as he pounded into her. She began to beg, desperate to feel his seed flood into her again.
Khyber’s golden eyes longingly watched the Tiger Throne from deep within the mirror.
Still Mykhayl drove into Corinne. She circled her hips, trying to find the little difference that would bring release. Abruptly his cock found a new point deep inside her and she convulsed in ecstasy, while current after current rolled up her spine and through her body.
The Tiger Throne’s eyes closed and the mirror disappeared.
“Mykhayl!” Corinne shrieked as she came again and again, shuddering. He yowled like a beast and climaxed as she reached her third peak. He was still pumping her full of his cream when she collapsed into unconsciousness.
Corinne’s sleep became restless after Mykhayl left the bed, which was still damp from their usage. She flung out a hand then a leg in search of reassurance. She rolled into a ball, trying to find comfort, but instead found the old ordeal in her dreams.
She was in a bed. Her marriage bed.
Dylan stood above her, his blue eyes smiling as always. Black eyes watched from somewhere distant, stern and forbidding above a harsh nose and cruel mouth.
The Dark Warrior.
Oh no! She tried to wake up but the black eyes turned colder and the nightmare rolled on inexorably.
“Jes’ relax, dahlin’,” Dylan slurred. “I’ll jes’ pickup a lil’ ol’ bottle of bourbon an’ be righ’ back.”
She shook her head violently and tried to object. But the damn gag choked her, even larger in the dream than it had been in real life.
“Yo’ll be fine,” Dylan insisted, clumsily patting her breast. She flinched away but the ropes held her immobile. “Yo’ sure you don’ wan’ any bourbon? Or gin, p’haps?”
She shook her head again and her heart hammered against her ribs.
“Well, al’righ’ then.” Dylan stumbled out of the room. She heard his beloved Porsche roar into life then depart with a growl and splash of gravel. She could usually hear him reach the main road in that damn car and sometimes at the liquor store if the night was quiet. If she was lucky, he wouldn’t play a game of chase with the police on the road or meet up with friends at the store. Was it more or less frightening to be a passenger when he played with the police?
But luck had never favored her marriage much . . .
Hours later but an instant in the dream’s logic, the sun peeped through the curtai
ns. She gnawed the ropes, frantic to reach the phone. Just one finger free for speed dial and Celeste would rescue her. Celeste, the big sister, who’d looked after her from the beginning. Who’d explained that Daddy wasn’t ever coming back and it really, truly wasn’t Corinne’s fault for being a bad girl. Who’d fixed dinner and helped with homework when Mama was too drunk to so much as crawl home. Who’d been maid of honor at the picture-perfect society wedding . . . and kept her mouth shut about Dylan after only once pungently expressing her opinion.
Celeste . . .
The black eyes came closer and the cruel mouth smiled triumphantly.
“Wake up!” The deep voice did not come from the dream.
She awoke screaming, pounding her fists against the man holding her. She stared up into Mykhayl’s face then burst into tears.
“Hush now, little sorceress,” he soothed, pulling her into his arms and rocking her. “Hush.”
She buried her face against his broad chest and sobbed, sending a flood of saltwater down his torso. He continued to croon to her, nonsense syllables that combined with the steady heartbeat under her cheek to soothe her. She was ridiculously glad that Mykhayl had been well-trained by his mother and sisters to handle feminine hysterics.
The crying slowed and she hiccupped, trying to stop. Her lashes were stuck together so that she saw rainbows when she tried to open her eyes. Her hands gripped his shoulders as if he were the Rock of Gibraltar.
“Poor little sorceress,” he murmured and kissed the top of her head. “Such a long time sporting with a dragon . . .”
She sniffled and tried to gather her wits so she could seize the excuse he offered. She’d rather blame tears on carnal games than a humiliating episode in a disastrous marriage. Blowing her nose was the first necessity for regaining control.
He closed her fingers around a small bit of silk. She gulped inelegantly but blew vigorously.
He nuzzled her hair and she froze when his mouth traveled toward her face. Even with dragonfire in his veins, it had to be almost dawn and an end to a very long night. Surely he couldn’t still be interested?
Captive Dreams Page 6