by E G Manetti
Lucius’ shaft is hard and pounding. Teasing Lilian at midday had the desired effect but left him erect and wanting. Wanting that he will not wait to satisfy. Pushing her legs from his waist, he allows but a moment for Lilian to find her feet, her dazed expression and flushing skin as much an aphrodisiac as the taste of her skin, the texture of her breasts. Pulling her to the nearest chair, he turns her to face it. “Grasp the arms.”
Her startled gasp makes his sex jerk. Her graceful obedience as she bends to grab the arms makes him swell. His fingers find the skirt’s fasteners, releasing it to fall to the floor. Socraide’s sword. She is lovely. Long, elegant legs, the firm globes of her ass veiled by black lace, the flare of her hips marked by the raven wing tattoo of Adelaide’s mark, the slender waist encircled in gold, the graceful line of her back. Sliding one hand between her thighs, he finds the lace soaked, pulled tight against her swollen flesh. He need not wait. Dropping his trousers and briefs in one motion, Lucius kicks them aside, eager to take his pleasure and feel Lilian surrender to him.
Milord’s fingers slide between her legs, pressing against the lace covering her aching cleft, her sex clenching against the scorching touch. She wants more. It is all she can do to contain her protest when he releases her. The rustle of expensive fabric alerts her that he has discarded his trousers. She can feel the heat of his form as he stands close but not touching. She looks back over her shoulder, her breath catching. Milord’s eyes are heavy with passion, his shaft, long and stiff, stands straight against the hard planes of his stomach. A bead of moisture forms at the tip and longing shudders through her. Milord’s lips curve. “Face the chair. Close your eyes.”
The darkness behind her lids is dark gold flecked with red, faint echoes of the fading sun. Milord’s fingers stroke her spine and she arches into the touch. His lips follow, creating a path of molten desire to the base of her spine. Teeth catch the edge of lace and tug, dragging it free of her hips and down her legs as fingers tease thighs and then calves. When they reach her ankles, she steps free, widening her stance, inviting milord and exulting in the wash of cool air against her exposed flesh.
Teeth nibble across one buttock, rising to her waist. The heat of milord presses against her back, the length of his erection into the tender crevice between tight mounds. Milord’s mouth feathers along her shoulders, his hands cupping her breasts, pinching and rolling the tender peaks, until the red sparkles behind her lids become a scarlet wash. The bra releases and her breasts hang free. Milord’s breath is ragged against her neck, the soft puffs no warmer than her heated flesh.
The jewel at the apex of her thighs aches, demanding contact it is denied. “Milord! Please!”
Milord shifts, his shaft pulling free and then gliding between her legs, pressing against her slick folds in taunting contact that makes her sex pulse and that tiny bundle of nerves swell. The tip of milord’s shaft breaches her opening, and muscles clench, seeking to draw it deeper. His hands on her hips, he holds her motionless, entering her with deliberation, stretching her, filling her, making her feel every inch until he is fully encased.
It is bliss. It is torment. Too much and not enough.
With a sharp sound milord moves, withdrawing and then returning, igniting nerve endings, taking her to the edge of bliss and holding her there. Retreating. Clenching one the hard, thick shaft, she seeks to release the mounting pressure, to find the ecstasy but a breath out of reach. Milord pulls back and surges forward. Again and again. His thrusts gain force and urgency that is almost but not enough.
“I beg milord. Please!”
Milord’s hand slides forward, and a finger presses against her straining jewel as he buries himself deep within her. She is all but there, teetering on the edge. Milord withdraws and then slams forward, hard fingers pinching and plucking her jewel. With a cry she reaches the edge and flies over it, sailing through clouds of bliss.
»◊«
Milord nibbles her shoulder, luring her from her somnolent state. “Lilian, how will Fletcher fare? I would know.”
Gathering her shattered senses, Lilian forces aside the allure of milord’s mouth. She must concentrate. Eleventh bell chimes. Dark of night is not far distant. On the morrow, Fletcher engages in the moon races. She anticipated milord’s will and is prepared. Turning in his embrace to meet his dark eyes, she says, “Third position is the most probable, milord.”
Milord’s eyes widen and his lips curve. “Third?”
“Yes, milord.” Although she finds it uncomfortable, milord prefers she provide a result without clarification. His surprised pleasure makes her discomfort worthwhile.
“Are you certain?”
It is a game. Milord knows the answer, but she will play to please them both. Using her most pedantic tone, honed when as a fifteen-year-old among scholars she was often dismissed, she says, “As milord is aware, certainty in moon racing is impossible. There is a fifty-three-point-four percent probability that Master Fletcher will command the third position. Of the other positions, only two exceed a thirty percent probability, fifth and second.”
“It is naught much more than even odds.”
Her smile will not be contained. “It is Master Fletcher. He has four seasons in the races and trains to traverse the beaconless expanse. He is not reckless, but he will risk.”
Milord’s eyes brighten. “Third then.”
Milord’s lips press to hers. When he withdraws, the smile is gone, his expression somber. “Moon-race day has proven a fortunate day for Fletcher. It has not proven so for you.”
Lilian’s first moon race within the cartel was marred by a malicious associate who tossed a thick pink drink on Lilian, forcing her to forgo much of the race to repair her appearance. It also cost her the cleansing fees for her suit and the replacement of a silk top. The prior season, the now deceased Fenrir stole her and nearly killed her with the excessive administration of sedatives and stimulants.
Milord’s thumb traces her bottom lip. “I regret you will not enjoy the race, but you will remain within Katleen’s house under guard, as will Katleen and the seer.”
Her confinement is expected. Her mother and sister are well guarded and there is no bounty on their lives. “If milord pleases, why must Maman and Katleen be so restricted?”
Milord’s knuckles brush her temples, his gaze intent. “All you care about will be held close for the next three days until your bond proves, lest they be used as lures.”
This day. “Milord?”
“The price has reached ten million. Trevelyan’s sources have yielded that prize hunters are engaged on the promise of shelter from a powerful warrior.”
That the prize hunters would be tempted by such a sum is not a shock. That yet another powerful warrior wishes her demise is terrifying. Lilian has barely survived Sebastian and Fenrir. The odds do not favor a third such success. Lilian grips milord’s shoulders, fear sealing her throat.
Milord rolls to his back, pulling her close. “Trevelyan and Aristides agree there is no warrior. It is but a well-constructed fable. Nonetheless, it is believable and dangerous. You and your family will remain secure during the races.”
Lilian nods against milord’s chest, knowing from experience that the militia will be focused on moon-race security that day and other areas will be neglected.
Milord’s hands stroke her back. “The men of your consortium will be guarded within the quarters, while the women join you and your guards at Katleen’s house. Keeper Waiman will augment the Serengeti guards. And not just for the morrow. Until the new year, all you love will be kept safe.”
Could she will it, Lilian would remain as she is, secure in milord’s arms, until the final bells of her bond were past.
Milord’s lips feather across her cheek. “Dark of night is gone. It is time you return home to your rest.”
20. Prize
Hunters
Serengeti protégés are the elite of the associates, chosen for both demonstrated excellence in commerce disciplines
and untarnished honor. Although the term of the protégé contract is at the discretion of the seigneur or monsignor, it can be no fewer than three years. If in five years the protégé fails to demonstrate the commerce judgment needed for advancement, the protégé is converted to the status of an associate with five years’ tenure at the cartel.
To ensure that the protégé receives the full benefit of the contract, seigneurs and monsignors may not mentor more than one protégé at a time. ~ excerpt from The Serengeti Group Articles of Commerce, the cartel agreement.
Sevenday 150, Day 4
Verity watches the black-masked figure with naught but a thorn defend herself against two demons armed with short swords. The black shadow is fleet and clever, taking full advantage of the obstacles presented by the pillars and benches of the stone courtyard. Next to her, Rebecca and Clarice appear unconcerned, engaged in a discussion of ankle boots versus pumps for their post-bond cartel wear.
For a moment it appears the demons will prevail, and then Lilian sends the demon with bright red curls tumbling. In the next breath, the auburn-haired assailant has a thorn at her throat.
Laughing and cheering, Rebecca, Tabitha, and Clarice congratulate Lilian. For all she is within Lilian’s consortium, Verity has not shared all their trials, and at moments like this the knowledge she is separate is sharp. Lilian meets her eyes, a rare smile gracing her countenance. Pulling away from the others, she tucks her thorn in the sheath, saying, “What think you? Will the prize hunters be as devious as Katleen and my mother?”
Startled, and warmed to be included, Verity replies, “Mayhap more so. But then you will not be so gentle. Katleen’s tumble was well designed to ensure she struck neither pillar nor bench.”
Lilian’s smile flickers as she glances at the girl rubbing her sore bottom. “She learns well. In another year, she will be able to avoid those objects without aid.”
Hooking her mask to her belt, Lilian turns to the weapons cabinet, where Lady Helena is storing the swords. A restored antique, it is the only furniture in the barren courtyard. “Maman, what will you? I would cleanse, but the acolytes prepare a morning meal.”
Closing the cabinet, the seer says, “Cleanse and then a meal. As you have the day at home, we should plant the herb garden.”
Herb garden? Verity searches her recall and has a vision of a small kitchen garden sodden in the rains after the battle of Serengeti. Although she knows plants are grown, her life experience consists of narrow, dark chambers in the slums where she was born, the dormitory of her academic training, and the solitary chamber in the Serengeti Associates’ Quarters. That Lilian grows the greens for her table is a strange notion. Before she can ask, Lilian turns for the stairs with Rebecca on her heels while Tabitha and Clarice turn for the back of the house and the passage to the kitchens. Verity follows Lilian into the entryway, then stops by Stefan while Lilian continues to the second storey. Peering at the security monitor, Verity finds naught at the house’s exterior but the traffic customary for the early bell.
The handsome guard is not one to start a conversation, but he is talkative where security-privilege permits. Wondering if he has greater knowledge of the household, she says, “Greens, they grow them?”
His eyes on the monitor, Stefan replies, “Lilian insists on fresh greens with every meal. It benefits teeth and digestion and overall well-being. When the rains come they are few and wilted, but I prefer them to the green tablets the Serengeti medics provide.”
Well familiar with the tasteless, thumb-sized tablets that were mandatory during her academic training, Verity nods. “I doubt not the value. I prefer the fresh herbs and vegetables available in the quarters to those tablets. It is only that I have trouble imagining Adelaide’s Thorn and Sinead’s Seer digging in the dirt.”
Stefan’s jaw tightens. “It surprised me. I offered aid and she asked if I knew a weed from an herb. I admitted I did not, and she shook her head and said it was better that I knew a pistol from a rifle.” Sucking in a breath, he adds, “Flavia took charge of the garden when we returned from Fortuna. Until then, Lilian liked her naught. Afterward, they were well together. I was Lilian’s guard for a year and knew not how much she detests digging in the dirt.”
“She was raised a warrior. It is beneath her.”
Turning with a frown, Stefan says, “She considers naught beneath her. She hates dirt beneath her nails. It will not halt her from climbing into a harness to retract and deploy the courtyard covers, scrub the steps, or the kitchen.”
“Peace.” Verity holds up her hands. “I have naught but admiration for her. I have never owned a garden or worked one. I was but curious.”
»◊«
The Associates’ Quarters’ dining hall is empty but for Chrys, Douglas, two militia guards, and three kitchen servitors clearing away the debris of the morning meal. The few associates whose duties keep them at the cartel through dark of night and the early bells of the day are abed. All others departed a half bell gone. Pushing aside his empty plate, Douglas says, “The servitors are hovering by the door. We are delaying their duties.”
Looking around, Chrys sees that all the tables have been cleared, as has the serving center. Only theirs is left to tend. Rising, Chrys shoulders his slate satchel. “The salon? With a guard, my chamber will be overcrowded.”
Nodding, Douglas grabs his satchel. “It will be a long morning until the moon races start. There is only so much I can accomplish with my slate.”
“I have Vistrite-cutting specifications to review. For all I am dedicated to the synthetic variants, Master Simon insists I be competent in Vistrite technologistics.”
Douglas nods. “It remains the greatest source of cartel wealth, and as protégé you will need to support all aspects of cartel technologistics.”
“You echo Master Simon, and I do not disagree,” Chrys says as they enter the salon and claim the seating area near the wall reviewer. When the moon race starts, every associate and servitor in the quarters will arrive to view it. “Mercium and Stellarite may increase the Nightingale’s speed, but it is a half ton of Vistrite that will enable all else, including her navigation, communications, environmental systems, and weapons.”
With a grunt of approval, the senior guard scans the chamber. Chrys’ chosen location offers excellent line of sight for the windows and entrances as well as the best view of the reviewer. Igniting their slates, Chrys and Douglas attend to commerce.
»◊«
Freshly showered, Lilian descends the stairs, noting two guards on duty, one of Serengeti and the other of Sinead’s Shrine. Empty plates on one of the benches built into the staircases attest to their morning meal. Gathering their plates, she crosses into the courtyard, noting that the second set of guards has settled into position in the second-storey gallery that runs the length of the back of the house and overlooks the neglected gardens. Like the two guards on the door, they are armed with fire-rifles as well as pistols. The third set of guards will be conducting one of Seigneur Trevelyan’s mandated patrols of the empty chambers.
In the kitchen, Maman and Keeper Waiman are discussing the moon-race odds with Tabitha and Stefan, while Clarice and Rebecca are peering at Katleen’s slate, debating their next move in The Warriors’ Expansion entertainment. She was beyond pleased when milord declared that Keeper Waiman was sufficient chaperone to permit Stefan to take the day’s duty. Placing the dishes for cleansing, Lilian examines the choices for her morning meal. The fruit and rolls that are her regular fare are augmented by eggs, smoked fish, and a lone sausage, all provided by Mr. Hidaka and milord’s generosity.
Wondering how Stefan missed the sausage, Lilian selects smoked fish, fruit, and a roll. Glancing up from her entertainment, Katleen pushes the tea carafe to the empty place waiting for Lilian. No sooner is she seated than Mr. Stefan claims the last sausage. Picking up her fork, Lilian asks, “Where is Verity?”
Mr. Stefan waives a hand as he swallows sausage. Mouth clear, he says, “With the patrol. She knows
not the layout of the house.”
A nudge against her ankle announces Gloribelle’s presence, the small creature’s eyes bright with expectation. “I suspect you have already had more than is good for you.”
“I gave her a half ration,” Katleen says. “I knew with so many in the house, she would be overfed.”
“It would be better not to feed her from the table,” Lilian replies, knowing it is futile.
Katleen rolls her eyes but says naught, returning to the entertainment.
Her meal finished, Tabitha rises, clearing her place as well as Maman’s and Waiman’s while the two prelates retire to Maman’s chamber. Joining Lilian, Tabitha asks about the plans for the herb garden.
“The location was once the kitchen herb garden, but now we plant salad greens, peppers, and onions as well as herbs,” Lilian explains. “Anything that needs little attention and is hardy enough to flourish through the dry season and into the rains.”
“No strawberries?”
“They require too much space and produce for but a few sevendays. Every planted inch must be kept clear of weeds and productive year-round.”
Meal finished, Mr. Stefan calls to Tabitha, “We should check on the guard stations. Seigneur Thorvald commands quarter-period intervals.”
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes in Katleen’s manner, Lilian rises. With guards stationed at the front and back of the house, and another set on constant patrol, she cannot imagine what Stefan and Tabitha must check. The house is large, but not that large. “Katleen, I am going to start in the garden. Join me when the dishes are tended.”