“Do you do this with all of your novices?”
“Sculpt them? No.” She returned to the statue, rising up on her toes and flicking at its hair. Tiny metal strands wisped beneath her touch. Her Gift pulsed, deep and strong, and the statue changed in a single, fluid movement—standing in profile to Alejandro, arms crossed over its chest, jaw set.
“Allow them to bed you afterward.” Make them love you.
Her hand stilled. The serpents on her arms seemed to coil. “I said nothing of a bed.”
If no bed, then what? Was he waiting for a quick fuck? All of this frustration for . . . what? Nothing but a barbaric tumble.
Anger knotted in his gut, his throat. “Then the floor will do.”
“It often does.” Her smile was sharpened steel. “And this is what matters to you? This is why you have followed my direction—so that when it is over and you are a full-fledged Guardian, you can fuck me on the floor?”
He wanted to say yes. He couldn’t. The silence stretched between them. She turned back to the statue, but didn’t touch it.
And she didn’t use her Gift.
The knots in his throat frayed when he realized why. No matter how strong a Guardian’s shields were, the use of a Gift carried emotions. She’d never hidden her anger from him. Only her vulnerability.
And he was suddenly certain he’d hurt her. He hadn’t known he could do that.
He never wanted to again.
“Forgive me,” he said, and though he’d said it to her before, this was the first time he’d meant it. He struggled to relax, to find the pose that she’d put him in. “I have been fighting to understand you. I am ashamed that I almost let myself be beaten.”
“By what?”
“My desire for you.” It was difficult to admit when he had no declaration that she desired him in return. “It overpowers me.”
He did not expect her laughter, but it rang out then. He stiffened.
She shook her head. “I laugh at myself, not at you. I forget that you are young. You do not always seem so to me. Your silences are deeper than Michael’s, and you smile less, too.”
Her brow creased as she spoke, her voice full of a question. Perhaps she could not fathom a quiet man, any more than he could his fascination for a brash woman.
He returned her gaze, unsmiling.
Her eyes grew bright, glowing brilliantly green. “If you wish to understand me, you must understand this: I am old.
I fight the same battle against my need for you; I’ve just had more practice.”
She touched the statue. Her Gift was a gentle pulse, but this time he felt the heat beneath it. Heat that seemed to wrap around his shaft and encourage the flesh to swell.
“And I will not . . . bed . . . a Guardian who is not properly trained. I cannot lie quiet with a man I must always protect. Perhaps I will worry that his life will be taken, for nothing is certain—but if he does not have a chance of walking away from an encounter with a demon, I will not give him my heart.”
His own thudded painfully against his ribs.
“And I must fight my hunger now,” she continued, her hand running down the bronze chest, “because if I took you on the floor, I would not be able to cut your legs off tomorrow. I could not train you as you need to be trained. And so I bury it, and I wait.” Her fingers explored a metal flank. “Some days it is not buried as deeply as others.”
Her Gift stroked over his flesh. His cock responded, rising like a burning brand against his lower abdomen. Irena moved aside, revealing the front of the statue. With shock, he saw the thick erection she’d formed from its flaccid member.
Her fingers slipped up the cleft of the statue’s buttocks; her Gift lifted its erection to match his.
Holy Mother of God. He almost protested when she ran the tip of her forefinger up the length of straining flesh.
But its flesh did not strain; his did. The statue was only his reflection. He clenched his jaw and bore the exquisite ache of another pulse of her Gift, ripe with her need.
Why did she do this now? So that he would learn to fight his need and the effect of her Gift? To bury it as she did?
Never.
He gripped the base of his shaft. His cock felt as heavy as heated iron. On the next pulse of her Gift, he stroked his way up.
Irena froze, her gaze locked on his hand. After a long moment, she looked at his face.
He knew his challenge was written there. He would not allow her to teach him this lesson. He refused to learn to bury his need. If she used her Gift, he would move his hand. If she stopped, he would not.
Her lips curved. “You will regret it.”
“So be it.”
She turned her back to him, and for a second he was light-headed with the rush of anticipation—then discomfort brought him crashing down.
Dear God, he hadn’t thought this through. Rarely had he touched himself this way. Not since he’d been young, and never in front of someone. Now he was utterly aware that he stood on flagrant display, and that when he spent, she would witness the crude emission of seed.
But Irena did not appear uncomfortable. No, she walked toward him, a small pot in her hand. When she lifted the lid, the scent of almond filled the air.
“Oil,” she told him. “To make it easier.”
He’d only just fathomed her meaning when she tipped the pot, spilling the silky liquid over his shaft and his fist. Alejandro sucked in a breath; his hips jerked toward her. Dear God, the sensation was incredible. He slid up through his fingers and had to clench his teeth against a shout.
“Better, yes?”
He gave a harsh laugh. “Better.”
He did not recognize his voice, the low growl of pained pleasure it had become. And when he stroked his cock again, unprompted by surprise or her Gift, he did not recognize any of himself.
She gave him a wry smile. “I have learned the difficult way. Some of my bed-partners were more eager than skilled.”
Her bed-partners? As if she’d struck him, he recoiled and stared at her in disbelief. She would mention them now? Good God. He knew she wasn’t a virgin, as his wife had been. He’d taken other lovers during his century in Caelum, and hadn’t been the first for any of them. But none of them had flung their former bed-partners in his face, either.
Irena’s smile vanished. Without a word, she returned to the statue and poured the remaining oil over the bronze penis.
Her expression was hard when she looked at Alejandro again. Holding his gaze, she backed up against the statue’s thighs and bent over, her braids swinging forward. Her hands went to the waist of her breeches. She nodded at his fist, motionless around his cock.
“Will you begin this? And we will have fucking today, after all.”
His disbelief swelled. She would not do that.
But she would, he realized. She would. And with every stroke of his hand, she’d make the statue penetrate her.
His disbelief was shattered, replaced by desperation. “You cannot, Irena.”
“I said you will regret it.”
But this had not been her meaning then. He’d altered the game between them when he’d rejected her frank words—and rejected so much of her life. And he knew she would not back down. But he could not, either. If he did, whatever admiration she’d felt for him, whatever desire she’d buried . . . it would all be destroyed.
If he hadn’t already destroyed it.
His heart constricted painfully. Her bed-partners did not matter so much. And the only thing he should have taken from her words was the knowledge that they hadn’t all prepared her properly. That she’d used oil with other lovers didn’t matter—only that she’d had to use it.
“No,” he said hoarsely. “That statue is my reflection—and a fucking is not what I would give you.”
Her expression didn’t change, but he sensed the battle within her. Finally, Irena straightened and rested her back against the statue’s chest.
“What would you do, Olek?”
Relief rushed through him. He could barely speak, but he managed, “If I stood where it does now, I would first kiss your neck.”
She raised her arms, linking her hands behind the statue’s neck. “Then I wait for you.”
His heart kicked up into his throat. He hadn’t given a thought to his awkward display since she’d poured the oil over him, but now the discomfort hit again. He’d left himself no choice, however.
He tentatively moved his hand, and Irena’s Gift swept over him, carrying the faint taste of her lingering anger and hurt. His gaze snapped to her face as the statue lowered its head. Her lips parted. Pleasure rose through her psychic scent, but not from the touch of that bronze mouth—she’d focused on his hand. Her tongue moistened her lips when he pumped his fist again.
Dear God. Watching him aroused her. He had to pause and realign his thoughts, and realization broke over him: He could please her this way.
His discomfort receded. His next stroke was bold, and he rolled his hips into it.
“Your breasts, Irena. I would fill my hands with them.” And discover whether they were soft or as firm as the rest of her.
He envied the bronze fingers sliding beneath her tunic. The linen rucked up at her waist, exposing the pale skin of her stomach. Covered by her tunic, the hands moved higher.
Irena arched her back. “They are cold.”
Alejandro bit off his frustrated groan. He’d directed the statue, but it was Irena who made its fingers circle her nipples and tug softly. Was that what she liked—would she want him to do the same? His palm heated the slippery oil, and he lightened his grip, trying to hold back the need lancing through him in hot streaks—trying to learn everything he could from the little he could see.
And he vowed that she would find her release before he did.
“I would kneel behind you. And I would taste every inch of your skin.”
Irena dragged in a breath, and her Gift pulsed a deep, heavy beat. The statue sank to its knees, its lips tracing the long, lean muscles of her back.
Alejandro swallowed his jealousy. He would do the same, one day. For now, he watched its hands. Irena kept them on her breasts, kneading, pinching. Her eyelids had half lowered, and her eyes shone in a brilliant green crescent.
“I would suck your nipples into my mouth,” he said. “Or I would turn you as I knelt, and lick between your thighs.”
Her soft moan had him stroking faster, then easing back.
“But not now.” No, he did not want that metal tongue on her. Only his. “Now, I would stand and slide my hand between your thighs.”
Anticipation pounded through her Gift like a heartbeat. Bronze fingers splayed across her stomach, then slipped beneath the waistband of her breeches.
“Irena.”
The hand stopped. She met his gaze.
“Do you need the oil?”
Her lips curved. “No. I have not since my mouth took yours in Caelum.”
God. Her words stoked his need, and he fought the urge to thrust hard into his fist.
A spark of anger flickered through her psychic scent. “That pleases you?”
“Yes.” He would not apologize for taking satisfaction in her arousal. “I have accepted your lovers, but by all that is holy, I will be the best of them.”
He waited, but although the spark of anger smoldered, it didn’t ignite. A brief struggle between admiration and resistance rumbled through her psyche. Then her desire burned hot again, as if she’d thrown those emotions into the flame and let them feed it.
He breathed a prayer of gratitude before continuing, “And if you do not need the oil, I would know that you were ready to take my fingers. Are you?”
In answer, she made the hand slide deeper beneath her breeches. And it was torture. He heard the brush of metal against her soft curls, then the liquid slide of aroused flesh. Irena tensed. Her psychic scent filled with aching pleasure. She clenched her fingers around the bronze forearm pressed against her stomach, her breath coming in gasps.
His legs trembled with the need to sink to his knees and taste her. He made himself watch, to see her rhythm—when she went faster, when she slowed. His hand burned the length of his cock. The warm fragrance of almond infused his every inhalation.
Irena’s breath hitched. She rose up on her toes, poised and shaking. Her orgasm slammed through her psychic scent like the strike of a hammer against glass, shattering into bright, sharp slices.
With heaving chest, she sagged back against the statue. “Again,” Alejandro demanded.
She shook her head. “You. Now. Both hands.”
He cupped his sac, pulled at his shaft. This pleased her, so he intended to draw it out—but he imagined the clasp of her slick heat, her strong thighs wrapping around his waist. He pushed the image away, too late. Tension twisted through his spine, into his cock. His hips jerked as he erupted into his hand.
He felt the color in his face as she strode toward him. He vanished his seed, unsettled by his loss of control—and by the need that still raged through him. The challenge he’d issued and the release he’d found had not been enough. It would never, he feared, be enough.
She reached for his hand. Her fingers pressed into his palm, the oil rolling against the tips of her fingernails. Without her Gift, he no longer sensed her emotions, but he could see his release pleased her, too. She looked up at him, her mouth in a faint curve.
“We have not learned today what we should have, Olek.”
Perhaps not. But he found he could not regret it. “I thought the lesson was satisfactory.” Even if it had not taken them as far as he wished.
“I could not tell.” She let go of his hand. “Next time, you will be as open to me as I was to you.”
His shields down and his emotions bare? Uncertainty crawled through his stomach. He did not know if he could. Stroking himself in front of the entire Guardian corps seemed less daunting a challenge.
Yet if Irena needed it . . .
“I will try.” He lifted his hand to the narrow braids dancing beside her cheek. He’d used them to his advantage while they’d sparred, grabbing handfuls to hold her or throw her—but he’d never touched them like this. Despite their coarse appearance, they were silken ropes beneath his fingers.
With a frustrated sigh, Irena pulled away. Her white mantle appeared on her shoulders.
“We are leaving?” With some relief, he formed his clothes.
“I am. I go hunting.” She put the hood up. “I am a woman of deep hungers, Olek—but my hunger for you is too close to the surface, and a metal hand will not satisfy it.”
“You will be satisfied. One day.” He was hungry, too. And if she was leaving to bury her need, he did no harm to say, “Next time, it will not be my hands, but my mouth. I will push your legs apart and taste you, and I will not stop even if you beg.”
Her eyes glowed before she looked to the door. “I will be gone three or four days. You may return to Caelum during my absence, or find a city to visit. With your shields up,” she stressed.
Now he did feel regret, for that would be three or four days away from her. Perhaps it showed; she stopped in front of him and raised a palm to his cheek.
“When you win your fight to understand me, perhaps you will tell me why, after all of these years, it is you.” Her face hardened. Her hand slid from his cheek to his hair and fisted. She yanked him closer, until his eyes were level with hers, and he saw the pain she caused was deliberate. “You, with your way of looking down upon me, and with your raw pride. A part of me would like to destroy you. Rip you apart, so that I never imagine how you see me from your great height. Each time you wonder how it is possible that you feel anything for me, I pray I never regret the day I did not fight my own feelings for a man such as you.”
It was not his pride scraped raw, but his heart. He had not fought his feelings for her, but he had questioned them. And in doing so, gave insult. Hoarsely, he said, “Why do you not destroy me?”
Her expression opene
d, softened. “Because I can hardly think of anything without wondering what your opinion is, and I take as much pleasure in your agreements as your arguments. Every weapon and sculpture I create, I want to show you. I look forward to our quiet moments and our battles. And there is the hunger, which even now I fight. There is no part of you I do not want, no part I will leave untouched.” Her fingers loosened and slid down to cup the back of his neck. “And, because I am old, I know this feeling is rare—so there is no part of you I do not fear losing.”
She never had to fear that. “You could not lose me now. And I will never give you cause to regret.”
Irena nodded, but he saw her vulnerability in the way she turned her face away from him. And despite his questions, he was not so oblivious to the answers.
As both human and Guardian, he had only lived in spurts. Parts of his childhood. The initial dance with lovers. His first weeks of marriage. The intrigues of the court. The birth of his children, and the short time he’d had with them. But here, with Irena, he did not exist more in one moment than in another. Every moment, he lived.
He left the forge with her, watched her wings form. Watched her rise into the dark clouds spitting their icy rain.
Watched until he couldn’t see her anymore.
“You are boiling.”
At the sound of Khavi’s voice, Alejandro shook off memory’s hold, and glanced up. Steam rose in a column over his head.
“The statue excites you?” She gave him a look that he might have given a ten-eyed dancing goat.
“I was thinking of another statue.”
Her expression cleared. “A good memory?”
“Yes.” What did it say of a man that his best memories were more than four hundred years old?
He’d felt so much then. Even moments of calm, of contentment, had been deep—his emotions had never remained on the surface. Their strength had surprised him, and he’d fought them, fought her. He despised fighting with Irena now, even though it dredged the depths he’d felt then, and for a moment . . . being with her was good. But then he remembered the bargain with the demon, and his failure. And how empty he was when the fight was done.
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